the detachment stands to

I stepped into the day with hope, and now that it is evening my spirits have sunk with the drunken sun - hereafter I drink to the flush moon and the flagging tide.

That black sentence laid alone on the face of a page for more than a span as the man who typed it stared off, stared away, his fingers perched just above the grimy keys he poked when he wrote it - ten bleary lookouts, jaded by vigil, turning themselves yellow with slow smoke, weary, awaiting BMNT.