On Tuesdays, the clock reads 6, on other days, I see 5

wake up wake up wake up. it's time to get up.
wait.
wake up wake up wake up.
Is it Thursday already. jeez, the time really flies when you're sleeping perchance to be dreaming.
I had a wonderful that where things fell up, apart, a wonderful picture where things were declared not to be things.
I had a wonderful.
And now it's time to wake up wake up wake up.

Breakfast in the morning, resetting the gastro clock for a day of doing dueling, doing doing, doing doo. Cleaning the clocks of the ghastly beasts who roam these parts, who flee when I sleep and leave me be. The inverted nightmare, a terror upon waking. (The light I am attempting to bring here? Maybe this strikes close to the heart).

And that leaves us in a pickle. A pickle of responsibility--how I loathe it. All of those prepositions and objects: for whom?, to whom?, about what? and anyway, isn't everything a contradiction, so why am I bound not to contradict myself when I contradict it. The simple fact is that there are no simple facts. My kingdom for the head of the next preposition who walks through--
--aha! guards!.
"My kingdom for the head of the next preposition who walks -xough that door." Ahh.
Delightful.

When you get back from wherever it is you went, find me well.

Good night.
Fidelis,
Don Quixote De La Mancha