As the darkness washed over the land our hero glanced up from his domain and said, "Fer Chrissake, it's only 4 of the clock!" Undaunted he mindfully focused his mind back to it's purpose, but the darkness had crept in. That couldn't be enough to stop him. Recessions and unjust wars could not stop him from plotting and creating and otherwise making a nuisance of himself to the tireless enemy, entropy. But he looked around again, "I can't even see my notebook," he said. So he pulled out his trump card, he rolled his chair back turned and flicked on the light. Blinking he returned to his plan, and found the shadows still growing in front of him, as his 75 watt battalion was overtaken and engulfed by the darkness. Shaking his head, he muttered, "... must hold on ... call at 4:30 ...." Just then a yawn thundered out across the workspace, his hands rose on their own to try and force it back down his gullet, but they faltered, and began to rub his right eye. And time stretched out, with nothing to mark it by. His spirit oozed out onto the table and lay off to the side like an empty basketball, as his arms sprawled and his head slowly came to rest where once his hands had lain, nay, where they had danced and made the universe sing. He made his final statement until somehow maybe the darkness would pass, "asjl;j;l"