The second hour of the rotation has just come upon me, and I sit, writing to release what is within. I mourn the loss of one of my good noodle bowls which I managed to destroy during the cleaning process by allowing the vessel to succumb to the forces of gravity.
I am feeling apathy and some sort of resentment, though I am not sre why, nor at what this hostility is directed, I an concerned at the nature of its arrival, I ponder the arrival of such an intense feeling without accompanying precedent or context, I hope it is residual annoyance related to the death of the aforementioned plate.
The distaste for convention expressed by my circadian rhythms behoves that I lie awake while the mass lie in contravention to this. and I am tasked with finding ways to amuse my brain in a time where conventional amusement is unavailable by chronological constraint, and my creativity is stifled by lack of food and a good deal of lethargy
I shall retire now to make what I might of this night, sans noodle bowl, sans amusement