I can't blame the fact that I'm now running late on my oversleeping yesterday. I can blame it on Turner Classic Movies for showing a goatload of old film noir movies. It's not my fault that I couldn't stop watching! They wanted me to watch! They made me watch! Now the gibbous moon, at zenith, is beginning to vanish into the brightening sky. I'll have nowhere to hide! The darkness deserts me and I will be caught! How will I ever get to sleep when I know they could come after me at any time? I know I shouldn't have done it- I knew even while I was doing it, but I couldn't help myself. Why didn't anyone stop me? It's their fault. They knew I was crazy. They should have been watching me. Now it's too late! I'll never let them take me alive!
Each day now goes down bruised by an orange blur that burns the hanging haze. The streams are sluggish, the field paths dusty and edged by brown swaths of parched grass. The nearby woods are sultry, their bramble-bordered grassy glades dry and crackling underfoot. Night arrives without the song of crickets, and the louder, buzzing insects which will make the late August air hum and vibrate have not yet arrived. July evenings are silent, the branches of the pines drooping into heavy air utterly still, the birds all gone to roost. The empty, darkly radiant street sends its heat toward the welcome stars.