The sun in the room dies like a fly; slow and twitching.
And the nothing happens very slowly. And the clothes still in the washing machine dry at about the same pace. And apathy and melancholy fight an heroic battle-to-the-death for your attention.
And alcohol receptors want to be fed and all you've done so far is give the hangover a slight dent. And your stomach performs tricks and eats itself like some sort of canabilistic clown.
And, quite clearly, you've been reading too much Raymond Chandler and listening to too much Tom Waits, at the same fucking time. And so you're lost in Santa Monica while stuck in Summer Hill.
And the Australians are about 3 for 300 odd at the close of play. But they got Ponting on the drive, caught at second slip. They'll be happy about that.
Boxing Day. It's all fun and games till someone runs out of goon.