Father time is the master of all life. Seasons change, the universe descends into chaos, and all life has a limited moment in the complex system of entropy. Humanity has obsessed about time to the point that we calculate the transitive frequencies of the invisible building blocks of matter itself with an atomic clock. Every aspect of our society is based on the precise measurement of the minutes. Punch cards tell us what time we started work, receipts are stamped with the moment we ordered our frappuccinos, the Catchphrase machine buzzes after exactly 60 seconds. Yet, still, there exists a place beyond the measure of time. There is a place where we can socialize without regard for the confines of hours and minutes. The local restaurant. For some reason, they do not have a clock with which to end their day. If the door is unlocked, one simply has to walk in, and behold, you are the timelord now!
Sit a spell, and linger – long past the witching hour – with Mat and Veronique, as we disappoint and annoy the entire staff as their newly-minted demi-god of Closing Time!
*Grumbles are specifically off-the-cuff, no research went into this grumble.
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