it's been 348 days.

I have 17 days left in my Porchester Square apartment. 17 days to pack up all my belongings and ship them home. 17 days to the beginning of all ends.

I look at the room which I have called home for the past academic year, and with the changes implemented around me, or shall I say, the re-establishment of the old, it seems too surreal, too unnatural, that everything is as it was exactly a year ago. As of now, intangibles no longer count for anything.

Stressed out from work, I only have appetite for the irrelevant and the obscure. Junk food has lost all its former lustre and appeal. (Or so I say.)

I think I'm officially depressed.