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I'm writing again to escape. My words are the lockpicks, my life the prison. The books on my desk, papers spread out around me- manacles and irons restraining me from rest and socialization. I have rarely felt alone unless in the copious company of these assignments and commitments. Friends are around me, they smile at me, wave from the other side of my Berlin Wall, that I am so incessantly picking at with all the effectiveness of a toothbrush on concrete. But I keep one thing close; the notion that soon I will be done, and the weekend will bring frivolity and relaxation. And Friday afternoon, without fail, another manila envelope clamps itself to my leg and chains me to the desk. So I make these lockpicks and ready my toothbrush and prepare to tunnel to freedom.
"\\\"Discretion in speech is more than Eloquence\\\""
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