over the top chunks of noir

The brat stopped crying around 2 am, just about the time of night I usually fix up my last bourbon, single barrel, neat. The damn thing wailed for hours every day, started just when the sun set. Maybe she cried for the loss of the light, the cold, grim truth of lonely death. Maybe she bore the yoke of our crumbling world. Probably, she was just hungry.

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The flashing red numbers told the story. Noon again, always and eternally noon. I hated those goddamn numbers, the repetition, the grim reminder of empty routine. Thralls to the cult of the running clock were whirring, no doubt, propelled on by their collective illness, the sick fascination with the progress of seconds, the slow drip of impending mortality.