I took to my bed no more than two and a half hours ago - midnightish, in a word; les habitants had gone down to inglorious defeat and it seemed the realm of Morpheus was my only alternative to despair.
Nevertheless, 'twas not much more than an hour's rest that saw me awake again, stumbling to the commode, whence to void my bladder - oh! though nearly incontinent eve!
Yet make it I did, and so returned to the downy comforts of my lonely bed.
To sleep? Aye. And to dream at last.
It was to Bakka(-Phoenix) that my nerdly fantasies did lead me. Sweaty from a swift and unexpected perambulation upon my two-wheeled steed, my bicycle helmet in hand I found myself inside those air-conditioned, book-lined walls.
Even in my sleep, I marvelled they were open so late.
Was it The Last Dangerous Visions which drew me thither? Or perhaps the long-lost conclusion the Gormenghast books?
Alas! Nothing so romantic.
Indeed, t'was at the periodical shelves I did find myself. Though in life I do subscribe, the latest Analog did catch my eye and the latest Asimov's I did spurn, but also there was a double-issue - an anniversary no doubt, and even without benefit of having read it, much improved over the sad reality - of Neo-Opsis for which I dug deeply into my wallet. It contained, among a plethora of short stories and novellas, a three-page verse by Isaac Asimov himself and that did close the deal.
At the counter, I asked the Gentle Clerk a question concerning the details of stock-keeping and maintaining accurate books come year-end, but the answer has faded from my fevered mind.
And then, just before I climbed aboard my trusty steed to ride into the night, I came awake and so to the keyboard once again, to bore my Gentle Readers with this pointless anecdote.
Good night! Farewell! I will treasure that non-existent magazine if I can!