Misadventures in the State of Semi-consciousness (and I'm not even a truck driver)!
It happened in the pre-dawn hours of a murky Thursday, one late October when weather predictions run gracefully free of the constraints of accuracy. The vile creature wandered listlessly about its tomb, dodging the drab strains of grey struggling through the clouds that morning as strident horns wailed '50s creature feature music somewhere in the sarcophagus of its addled brain. It opened a door, arctic clouds wafting lazily across its pale skin as it selected long dead flesh on which to feast! It performed some sacred rites of the living dead and enbibed the hot, dark liquid that gave the dead life, but to no avail: With a mournful bandshee wail of a prayer it staggered forth into the half-light of a day cold as a crypt, with only the pallor, cyan rags of Cintas to cover its gruesome, frigid skin. Hours! Long hours of wandering cold corridors, swinging implements of dirt-death and searching the graves of useful items past, but for what? Could zombies feel pain!? This one could, crawling up its legs to compete with the cold, tired, somewhere between half-alive, half-dead insomnia that hung like a yoke about its neck. There was the sense of others, trapped in the somber fog, of weariness, and of things needing to be cleaned out from under the stall doors.
At long last, having competed with a great albino beast at the Ford Dealership for a change of its own black fluid came the realization this could not long abide: This weather-deadened wanderer picked up its BlackBerry and cancelled all appointments for the evening to return once again to its tomb...To die, perchance to ressurect on the morn. Perhaps...
No, Galt-in-Da-Box didn't go back to Minnesota, just doubled back to work on a drab pre-Winter Indiana day when you never quite wake up.
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