diary of a hollywood mixtress

1. mornings are an estranged occurrence of crisp air, sparrow song and the wafting scent of fresh roasted coffee. the first light is ebullient, honest and pure. cockcrow's ambrosial chirp: full of hope, fruitfulness, and ambition. I am rarely up in time to meet the dawn, but am often still up to bid the sunup farewell as I wish for sweet dreams. infrequent freak instances allow for my intrusion upon daybreak (i.e. traffic court, rude awakening, or insomnia) and I always feel like I'm crashing someone's party. I'm a fish out of water amongst the early birds. my presence cacophanous in aurora's symphony. my aura emanating the stench of a nightstalker's crepuscular regurgitate. my poise loud with the pounding thud-bang of clubland, the hangovers anthem.

2. starting after the bar doors close to the unprivileged many (those who aren't permitted to stay and drink after-hours), two am this sunday, the clock's fat finger falls back with intent to feign extra sunlight. big brother's favor to diurnal subscribers. a minor speed bump in circadian rhythms, but human bodied worker bees get an extra hour to chime in on capitalism's mellifluous production, and the night owls score a false fifteen degrees of equatorial coordinate system fun-time. daylight savings is a sip of infinity on credit. father time: oh great linear minded indian giver, divider of eternity! sir chronos: master mincer of moment! 

what are YOU gonna do with this sixty-minute tease of time lapse... before THEY take it back?