Yeah, I know, a lot What I mean, and I know, bitterly, few of you care about, is... ...why the **** do I only really want to write when I'm just about to sleep? I wanted to clock out at 4:00. I just daydreamed about the mythos for an hour and then got up to write. I suppose, lackluster as it is, this is the announcment. It's started. It's very momentous, as a few of you will know. It's been a long conception. My toes are numb. Here, a few paragraphs of into for you. I hope you can go buy them some day, as a start to something much more. There was darkness. Then, there was light. A man sitting in a dully black sedan opened his eyes. He wasn’t really waking up, for he hadn’t been sleeping, but he had been dreaming. He pushed him self into a proper sitting posture from the sprawled position he had gradually slumped into over the night. Frugally, it acted as his morning stretch as well. He looked to the right first, reassuring himself that the small tavern that existed last night still did. He turned to the left, ducking his head to avoid the direct glare of the ever brightening sun in the windshield glass, and regarded the street. Still there, still black, still dusted with gravel and cigarette butts. An unconscious association lit in his head, and he, in reaction, lit a cigarette, drawn from a crumpled pack on the dash. They were unfiltered, old school and didn’t leave behind anything. They were a crude metaphor of the man. Wooooooo I'm writing in Surpip in this chapter. Ahhh, nepotism.