It’s not late. It’s dark out. The cats are to bed. The lights are all out. But it’s not late. It’s not even ten. It’s early. Why am I going to bed early? What kind of cruelness is this early bedtime. It’s like that Christmas thing. The not a creature was stirring thing. Only there’s no Christmas. It’s just going to bed early, which is a weirder thing than putting out cookies for an imaginary man. It just feels weird. The 9 p.m. drama wouldn’t have even been over.

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