Time, and time again.

It was five thirty when I first thought about writing.

I'm scavenging the remnants of a previous meal from my personal pot when everyone walks in. It's that feeling of being caught, or more precisely disadvantageously exposed, that rings through my head.

Of course, I'd be as blazed as a Woodstock campfire and all I can think of is, "there's not enough for everyone!" Well fuck. I sit down on the kitchen island and slump over. 

But that was then. 

Now, after a five hour sleep, I will be resetting my sleep schedule.

Now for more systems planning.