The sun'll come up tomorrow, but not the day after. I've made damn sure of that. The moon, however, is just on sabbatical.

Time gets us all, in the end. That's why I've set up shot gun traps above all my doors and windows, in an effort to catch the bastard. I do have to rearm the bathroom ones constantly (I'm forgetful) but my cat-like reflexes and homemade body armor are enough to save me from most blunders.

"WATER!" I rasp as I emerge from a newly excavated tomb, dessicated and frail. Inside, archeologists find a vcr with 315 copies of Shrek 2. The second water touches my lips, I disintegrate into my base component parts: confetti, cheese, and gold sonic rings.

I've decided I'm too much of an old woman for social media. I am now going to treat all of you like huddled grandchildren as I recount tales of days long past and talk for long hours about textiles and fibercraft. Mortimer, would you be a dear and pass me my sewing tin? Thank you, darling.

Alright, now what?