One quarter of an hour to six in the morning and it's just me and an empty bottle of hydrogen dioxide. Non-biodegradable, phallically stretch blown polyethylene terephthalate incites zero guilt, liberal, vogue or basic human. Misanthropic, sub-proletarian sensibility interprets environmentalism as a last ditch bid to save self over habitat since terrestrial spheroids are exceedingly difficult to demolish. Humanity's no Death Star. The recent demise of my mobile computing device renders time operose in keeping with its inverse proportion to activity. That is to say I have a lot of time and not a whole lot of shit to do. Abandoned by technology I'm depressingly cognizant of how little I write. This temporary computing device proves ill suited for creative expression and inevitable chagrin. I'm no Vonnegut. Seven minutes to six in the morning. Meh.
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