2 A.M The Changing Perception of an Unsung Hour.

Everything seems so big when you are small. I remember thinking the year six pupils looked eight feet tall when I was in kindergarten. Cars used to be something you could get lost in, not something you get stuck in. Women used to be gross. So did coffee, booze and fish.

Nightmare Fuel

Then time runs its clammy and wandering hand over each inch of you and everything changes. Coffee and booze roll into volatile crutches that keep you smiling at the boss you are making rich, women become a psychopathic preoccupation, fish are still kinda nasty.

The world is only your perception of it, your reality. And 2 A.M is another one of those little bitches that went from one to the other.

Then.

This is Also A New Kids On The Block Song. 

The Song Of A Goddamned Generation

You are eight years old. You lay awake in your Pjs, thinking and wondering if Jason can come to Pizza Hut on Saturday. It is all you can eat and he promised he would sneak some out for you. 

You remember seeing ten o'clock and what a glorious moment it was. But this is different, this is a real moment. This is world-shaping, this is life-changing, this is it. This is the Berlin wall being torn to ribbons, this is man planting his Air-Jordan on the moon, this is Elvis shaking his hips to a camera. This is you, present and sentient in a time you never have been. This is the only time this hour has existed and it may never exist again.

You see he hand tick over, with only one eye hanging out into the hall. You are now an adult and everything is different. You put crayon to paper and make a plan for your whole life.

Now.

Just a Worker Bee, Working on Being Rat-Shit Tomorrow. 

You are on beer number, is it fifteen? Shit. Jeesus. You look out of one eye at Facebook, devoid of worthy opponents. You start the great Wikipedia trawl of misery. How old where your favourite authors, ah, erhh, I mean, accountants when they hit the big-time. Mostly depressingly young.

You don't look at the clock any more, time vanishes because you aren't sentient enough to appreciate it. That is, excepting your wake up time of seven fucking thirty when you can cram yourself into ill-fitting clothing and go and lift stuff upstairs all day to a thankless cunt of a clientele.

You put fingers to keyboard and make a plan for the next month.

NP.