Purgatory

Yesterday, Poppy and I sat on the mezzanine between the Ground and First floors of the library- a rather odd spot with Sofas, swing-desks, plugs and- perhaps most incongruously for the library- mobile reception. People often Skype there. I think it's intended as a spot for some quiet relaxation between revisions sessions for those to lazy to travel all the way to the vending machines on the ground floor.
Poppy and I were trying to think of a descriptor for this spot to explain to a friend where we were: I suggested 'The In-Between Space'; Poppy opted for 'Purgatory', which I admit is better.

This descriptor also nicely describes my frame of mind with regards to my exam tomorrow: I am in limbo. I've reached full capacity in terms of what my brain can store, but there's still five hours before I can justifiably call it a night and my score on the sample paper I just did wasn't perfect (it was still ok). So, now we enter into that awful stage of revision (aren't they all awful?!) where the student languidly stares at various websites, cheat sheets, notes and sample questions, the brain reticent to absorb any new information, but of the solid opinion that no fun should be had in honour of the approaching exam. So solid is this opinion that the student no longer can derive any pleasure from music, nor film, nor television, nor even the humble novel. The mind will release no serotonin until the end of the paper the following day.

"But, lo,"

cries the student,

"this toil is fruitless! I gain no new aptitude from this labour!"

 and the brain steadfastly replies

"Suck it."