There's traffic in the sky, and it don't slow down.
10.01.03 - 8:42 a.m. Last night felt vaugely unnatural, like an illfitting suit, and this morning feels like a curse. I whinge to the Recording Angel of the Eighth hour as I slop about in the shower: "Why-o-why must I get up this morning!?" The Recording Angel looks at me over the rims of its gold spectacles. "what, you want maybe the alternative?" I look up at it hopefully, thinking maybe it means to pull the covers over my head and sleep for another six hours. No such luck. These goddamn angels-- so severe! I mutter mournfully out of the tub and put some clothes on. Put on Jack Johnson-- Tomorrow Morning. Lust falling head-over-heels over Need, over Need to Go to Work. At least the Hoi-polloi angels give me something to grouse about. because, Morning aside, it really is a lovely day.
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