A MATRIX OF DOTS, SOME OF WHICH ARE SCREAMING

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I knew I'd find something useful to do with that extra hour we got today. Or ten minutes of it, at least. This being a Sunday, I could always mope for 50 minutes. There's an art to good moping, you know. Cause like "mope" implies a kind of self-indulgent trivial version of staring into the void, as opposed to tumbling into a gaping black screaming pit of horror. It's a delicate line to walk, and takes a exquisite sense of pitch.

It's not as easy as it seems being a moper, even a dabbler at moping. Because people have little patience with moping, even those who practice it. Which, of course, is just more fodder for the moper. If I were forming a new band, I'd call it "Fodder For The Moper". And then we'd break up.