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Rorschach's journal. May 21st. The club is dying. Dancers are swaying and turning, like condemned hanging from the gallows. Their hearts are trying to go on, but their minds and bodies are dead. It's 4 am. The club is bleeding sweat like an open wound. I don't stop dancing. I try to keep everybody going, but it feels like the night is already dead and rotting in the gutter, being feasted on by stray dogs.

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I was just in my local supermarket and overheard someone saying some strange things in the next aisle. They were loudly trying to explain to someone on their phone the word "bulb" (which the person on the other line did not understand). They proceeded to spell the word out b as in bee, u as in you, l as in light and b as in bulb.

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