Wretched squealing and gnarling of last week's nails on a plated glass. Thinking the weekend would end your weakness you hear the unbound squalling of a bell hammered; the ringing of what's unknown to come. As if Harold Ramis fulfilled a role as your own personal Ba'aliel. Two more days to the hump and four more to the fall. Then you can have a mimosa with those guys or gals chained to the same insufferable fate. Not far behind the aired screams of the clock chimes. Louder it grows, closer and closer.