4:30 A.M.

Insomnia again. Nothig here but me in my shirt of burns, that smell of carbon and my dead sweat, this screen, and a few souls dancing before the grave.

There are drums in the distance at 4:30 A.M. No flights, no roads, no water parts with passage. The world is with End, despite this electricity.

The sun usually rises by now, this time of year. But I think a watched sun never rises. That should keep the ocean from boiling.

I will keep the ocean from boiling. And perhaps later, earlier, as the day sits in dark and approches noon, as the tension of holding the sun at bay burns the acid in my stomach up and through my eyes, I will walk out to the shore, in my shirt of dead wood and dead sweat, and find out what life is like on the bottom, where everything must be very, very heavy.

4:42 A.M. I still hold the sunrise at bay.

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