The Eleventh Hour
The clock ticks quietly overhead as my blankets unfurl at the behest of my feet kicking them away. The early morning smell of stuffy sheets replaced with the unusual airiness that is a still room. Rolling over, I note the hour. 10:40 AM. Bleh. I dismiss the frabjous feelings of calling out or just not appearing, but I am duty-bound to approach. Looking out the window, I see the planet. The trees torn by the wind, the watery slosh of the ocean against the shore in more and more violent tsunamis. I was late once, and it took out my apartment, so in the interest of not house-hunting again, I get out of bed. I suppose it's necessary. I've considered not going several times. Like, the people of this world used to simply deal with the clock-work-like destruction, why not let them deal with it again? It's not my fault they got used to me saving them. But then I remember the things I sacrifice. The chance to get a coffee at my favorite shop. The chance to play games with functioni...