Oh, what tormented soul, crushed between the desire to finish but lost in the pleasures of the moment.
The professor has been sitting at his desk for an eternity. A whole table filled with wax that once was part of erect candles, now facing their timely demise, a flaccid blob. Spread over the table, manuscripts, books, sheets of paper, notes, crumpled tissues and finally, beer bottles.
The scene of a fight.
Lounged against the back of his chair, the academic blankly stares in front of him, devastated by the consequences of a fight he endured and passively fought. One hand resting on the paper, fountain pen in hand, slowly spilling its ink over the notes. The other, firmly grasping another bottle of liquid gold, now devoid of its former glory. Quintessentially present but no life, no gas, just warm malty liquid.
The professor has desire. Nothing he longed for as much as to put his thoughts onto a paper, finally getting rid of the spirits that haunt his internal discussions. Relieving himself, academically, physically, spiritually. His magnum opus – at least until the next one. With no audience, still determined to outperform himself. The intrinsic drive to be one with the content, contribute, scream into the abyss that is the academic world. Who will hear him?
A fight.
But what has made the professor to be of such determination, such passion? Leading to a state of reflection some just look upon in awe? It was the same thing that now fights over the small space of his desk against the endless sheets of paper and ink. It is beer.
A simple brew, yet underestimated. It has made empires rise and fall, killed numerous but saved from the plague. Now it is haunting our dear professor. Not for the fermented sugars that numb synaptic connections, but for its diuretic characteristics. For you see, our professor is one of great magnitude, transcending fabric of society to follow his passion. But transcendence is a heavy burden on the shoulders of any mere human.
Alas, when the state of unburdening of human mediocrities has been done, the academic, intellectual flow within our dear professor starts. Lit by the numerous candles, he rambles and rushes through evidence, his own word and ideas. Rocking back and forth on his chair, grounding the wooden boards to dust. But you see, the beverage which oh so comfortably took some burdens is now expecting to be released, together with all that is has taken with it.
It is time for the professor to unburden the burdens. And so it happens that when the fountain pen hits the paper, ready to chisel words onto it for eternity, the professor ready to let his genius flow through his hands, must hurry to pay the price.
Returning onto his desk, the pen is dry. His mind, scattered. Beer bottles, empty.
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