One quarter of an hour to two in the morning and it’s just me and Alan Moore’s Watchmen. Twelve volumes of dystopian misanthropy previously written off unread as likely overrated mediocrity fractures precedent by paralleling its reputation. I’m no east. Since the permanent malfunction of my mobile computing device creation is slow going. The current location of my temporary computing solution is open and too expansive and leaves me feeling surveilled despite complete solitude. I never plained myself the picky sort but you learn something new to you but not to someone brighter every day like Neosporin is safe for use on external genitalia. That is to say ew. A little closer to two in the morning. Arbitrary measurements of “time” signal the end of a full orbit around the Devil Eye but it’s been happening for longer than homo-sapiens have squandered the Earth so I fail to see the big deal. It’s a poor excuse for destroying a person’s liver every thirty-first of December. I’m no lush. Five minutes to two in the morning. Absolut bullshit.
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