ANTIGONE: The fields were wet. They were waiting for something to happen. The whole world was breathless, waiting. I can’t tell you what a roaring noise I seemed to make alone on the road. It bothered me that whatever was waiting, wasn’t waiting for me.
This exists in the in-between grey space where I’m not sure whether it’s still Sunday, because I’m still awake, or Monday, because that’s what the clock says. For all I know it could be Tuesday; I feel like I’ve been awake that long. Is it Wednesday yet? I’ll get back to you on that, hopefully.
In other news, it is much too late for critical thought. I’ll see you in the morning for something equally inane and incomprehensible but without the excuse.