It's remarkable that my peers are able to start their blogs with an idea of progression in terms of days elapsed. I can barely remember who I am. I have no money, house, friends or job. But I have my resubmissions. And a thimble of hope that I'll soon become a journalist.
This will do for now.
The only thing I can say with any objective lucidity is the sexual tension in our little cognition plaza remains omelette-thick. An unabating smog of silent moans, pheromones and piercing eye coitus.
Some have sought to take matters into their own hand(s). But that, I'm sure, will reveal itself in their respective blog.
Now back to resubs.