The morning is a unique experience. It’s not often that I see these first rays pierce the Officetels as if they could be made of something other than concrete. Till this point, they’ve reminded me of nothing more than the eventual tombstones of civilization. But today there’s something hopeful in the empty windows. The ultimate feeling, I suppose, is a sense of complete helplessness with regard to the monumental task of parsing reality -- frantically, hilariously overbearing reality -- into manageable morsels.

Uncharacteristic excitement precludes my usual curmudgeonly disposition towards all, and if I can attribute it to anything, it is only the alien weight choking my wrist, a reminder of the girl i had a non-conversation with before she promptly evaporated, leaving only her bracelet and an unhealthy fascination which is bound to be frustrated in the standard course of living.

There’s a deep golden light, and a healthy happy sort of drunk that only manifests after the second night. I can see the emerald mountains just framed by the infant sun, and its a sight which is exclusively available on rare and hallowed occasions. Would I could find myself awake and free at this time more often. Like all wonderful things, the feeling passes into obscurity, and might never have been but for these words.