I think I'm sick. It's the season all right. Wrapped up before age in a bright blue cloth. C'mon, it's the tired you speaking. You're not sick. You don't work at all. Get a grip, you just started. He said it'd get worse. Tell the truth, of course you're surviving. Of course you could give more. Of course you could sacrifice. Of course you're just pretending, you always do, so that you won't be left behind. Little miss sighing stooped over a paper pile. So don't you be afraid. It'll get worse all right. Enjoy every bit of it, why not? Mind masochist, we agreed.