"Warms my heart", I thought, "but you should have been here about eight hours ago".
Blissfully quiet morning. Back to Autumn, full buses and all.
Modafinil, you are tasty and useful, but it's still slightly creepy how seamlessly you patch that hole where the four more hours of sleep I should have had ought to be. Having one of those "someone's thought of this already...have they?" moments, thinking of a story idea where modafinil is actually a neurochemically-encoded incantation to the Elder Gods, designed by mad Tibetan antiLamas from the MKULTRA rejects pool. Oh, you get your wakefulness, alright, but only on loan. At some point in your mortal life, all those hours are called back, at a time when you really wish you weren't asleep. The safety of your physical body is at that point likely the least of your concerns; in fact, a quick death due to unconsciousness may be the most mercy one could hope for from the cold, precise machine that now has you and in truth knows neither mercy nor severity...
Tangent. Back to work.