No-sun time is fun time.

I can't say enough about the things I believe in, because I'll never say a word. We all have our own fears, rational or otherwise, which we will forever believe in; until the day they claim us, unless some other malady, seen or unforseen takes us in the meantime. I am a product of my fears, the sleepless nights, the demon waiting to think, the conjuring of images which insist I speak to the night like some silent, auditory mirror. With no one in particular to bargain with, concessions are generally made at any cost, and not for the salvation of sanity, merely the product of the want of some sort of void to fall into. Designs on distraction, thoughts on uncertain rights formerly known as the peace and quiet of a restful night. I want to avoid the repeater, I hate the races, the crashes, the accidents, the certainty of the mundane negatives, and again the repetitions, and of nothing at all, I speak now of repeating nothing in particular. Here I am, all these years later, and the particulars have not, no, they never will change, just the details, if nothing else. 'My imagination has run off with my mind,' I like to say to the door, over and over again (the door repeats it to the floor, and usually I'll say it all over again once more). 'God, you're fucked.' It's usually when I answer myself that I find the gravity of the situation to be quite heavy.