The time 2:30 kills me. Two thirty in the afternoon is a point of no return. If something significant hasn't been initiated or isn't underway by 2:29 pm, then the moment that minute ticks over the day is condemned to nonproductivity. Next thing it's three thirty, then five, then seven, nine, and damn, the day's as good as done—all that's left is to try again tomorrow. It amazes me that people get things done. How do they do it? How do they tether the seconds and stop them from whisking away in a moment of idle breeze? How?
Two thirty in the morning is the time of waking in the dead—the boundary between what seems night and what may just be early morning, if I'm being honest with myself. It's silent, save for the scratching of rats inside the roof (or really heavy-duty mice—the kind that would bite the edge off a Crown Lynn plate just because they know it's your favourite). The things need to stop trying to chew their way into my house. Let me be.