These darkened mornings as the year grows old like a maturing Sunday. When natural light is not enough to wake up by, shave by, find your way to the toaster by. These darkened mornings I awake with my eyes pointed towards an indistinct map of the world which sets my day like a rorshach atlas. Today: dinosaur wraith stares down armoured tank. Get up, shave, shower, breakfast, dress, work, lunch, work, tea. Later on in that rorshach-mapped day I find that I am wearing a shirt and tie but no socks. Best guess, I took my socks off somewhere along the way. Or I never had them on. I must assume that this was my fault, I do not imagine that the world is staring back at my morning rorshach face – from the Ellesmere Island of my forehead to the Tierra del Fuego of my chin – and acting accordingly.