The game is entow.
"Another smoke and I'll be ready."
-the story of his life, Byh O'Graphy

Procrastination has been renamed "The tentative date" as by the powers of my calender. Makes me feel like I've got a plan; it's just numbers keepin' this white boy down. The clock is tickin' a jumpy little tune called T-minus And Counting.
I'm tapping my toes, and a wait'n.

Other than that...well. It looks like the stars are still spinning. Birds still sing a poor version of some lost jazz tune. People still crowd all the more when they see a crowd. And traffic still gathers on the biggest roads.
Still; I'd like to think, somewhere, that Sherlock is stooping way down. His back is haunched over; a magnifying glass in one hand, and the other down among the dirt of the ground.
"I say, old chap." And he almost turns. "I believe we have found a clue."
Never excited, the bastard. Never, "A clue! Watson, great god shit! A fuckin clue, old bean!"
just another day.
Still, there is a bit of joy beyond his words, knowing he's got that much closer.