An Exercise in Futility

Its overcast outside. Builder's bash at my neighbours house. I hear sledgehammers, non stop, incessant. The clanging reverberates through my house like a concrete gong.

As a result, my concentration flags. In front of me, two seven hundred page textbooks are open. Yellow and green post its poke through the pages like jagged shards of glass. As the threat of paper cut takes a new and much more disturbing meaning, I realise that I can no longer concentrate. I stand up. I look down at my books. I sit down. I look up at the portrait of Magneto on my wall.

And then, I give up.