The Violet Hour

April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring . . .

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back

Turn upwards from the desk

At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives

Homeward

T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

April is the cruelest month.  It is 8 minutes till midnight.

I am on call.

I have 10 clinic notes to type.

I have spent the last 5 hours on my arse triaging hotel crisis betwixt patient and ER calls.

I have a mock presentation tomorrow for my national presentation in two weeks.  For which I am completely unprepared.  I have not read my slides.  I have not timed my slides.  I am not prepared to answer questions about my analysis.  All my mentors are going to EAT ME ALIVE tomorrow at 4:30 pm.

I have the worst clinic of the entire week tomorrow and a three hour required conference tomorrow night.

It is not the violet hour, that perfect hour before night and after sunset.  That hour of magic and mist.

It is the ebony hour, the night hour that stives

Inward

or

Downward

or just down.

I am so tired.  I am going to make coffee now.