An afternoon of pumping awaits, but all I want is a warm, dry bed (mine has bloodstains on it) to rest the night. I have no idea what day it is today. Thick fog is everywhere - thicker in the hills than on the plain, but here nonetheless.

    The glass is falling hour by hour;
    The glass will fall forever.
    But if you break the bloody glass,
    You can't hold up the weather.

Serves me right for confusing blood and wine, obsessing over violence, calling out in the wilderness for a sign, a shock, an evenement to wake me up. I feel no more awake, no more alive, only numb, stiff, and more tired. How long to put this behind us? The air is cool and lank, nothing moves, the world is stuffy and stinks of diesel, like the crushed interior of the 306. Tough little bitch she was. Now a tangled mess of metal, thrusting no more. Ah, what it is to be still standing. Perhaps I shall catch a glimpse of reflected moonlight in the shattered safety glass.