What were Mondays like in the great future past? Lamentable, say the gentle oracles of outdated calendars, as weekends waged prolonged wars upon the dreariness of workweeks. Fear not, for every tick of the faulty clock brings us closer to the next long Saturday.
The coffee cup murmured:
Here's a glimpse—a tangent in the tapestry, unraveling: "A stitch in time saves nine, but what if seven were once eight?" mused Archibald idly, a future past master in both his crafts: idling and pondering. Perhaps it was the ashtray that said it, but Archibald's memory was always clearer in the presence of cigars.