Entry 9

I've noticed that my posts, when read, seem to be taking you somewhere at first, but then end up leading you to a vortex of discombobulated nonsense. This I will have to rectify as soon as my writing style permits. For the meantime, the ogres sitting over there on the couch are waiting to be told about the time I watched the sunset. It was a beautiful stagnant orange, with far away clouds gliding through the troposphere. My mean gaze was fixed upon a tired old lamp, resting insistently upon the gritty shore. "Who turns it on now?" I wondered, admiring its solitude and weary cord, powerless and opaque.
Just then, who was passing by? None other than Tutankhamen, the boy king. He was, of couse, too young to speak to and spoke an ancient dialect of a foreign language, but I was happy to see him just the same. "How's it goin', Tut?" I hailed. He did not do me the courtesy of a response, but I knew he was pleased. How could an ancient king be otherwise, being hailed by a busy, malnourished, nervous wreck of a bar tender such as myself?