Monochromatical rays of eeriness propagate through the nightly breeze crossing nocturnal notions and thoughts, swindling all vividness out of a moist plot of lignite grass. A tawny, dusky halo envelops reality. This moment, impromptu, with which this insignificant night has bequeathed us, will not redeem the omnipresent anguish of existence, will not spawn a peremptory decree on life, the universe, and everything. Synchrony of thought and kindredness of spirit wear away the melancholy of an isolated, finite and solitary existence, yet only for an infinitesimal period of time within the universal and corrugating vastness of existence. Thank god for apple juice.