The blue-green digits loom out of the non-total blackness. Please don’t let me see the hour change. Don’t let me see it happen. One thinks on in the darkness. 1 mutters things he’s not writing down and will lose into a cheap digital dictaphone. Une affectation. The playback will be all nothing. A wasted opportunity he won’t remember. A spider nestles in the pit where the carpet slightly rucks up at the base of the skirting board at the bottom of the wall. It’s observed but he won’t remember it. Like what will it do in the darkness. Nothing significant. Ascribing and importance and which leads to worry is not a lesson learned by anxious 1. Things seem important but he doesn’t take them seriously if ever. The spider is lost. The time has changed and the worrisome change missed like the spider. Gone. The worry is interaction. One doesn’t want involved. Doesn’t want to be found there mutely complicit with the progression and changing of the time; with the spider who might come out and find and meet him; with the people and things that otherwise make worry. Nihilistic bastard would be happy with nothing left alone but he wouldn’t. Poor fool should stop his moaning and be better. The dictaphone records mumbley noisy nothings of not what anyone would consider legible speech said as it was in that boring below quiet voice certain dark demands or forces upon one, in this case he. Hardly a boon to record; matters thereof and thererelated. More starts and ever.