um-hm

Three A.M.
by Louis Jenkins

The god of three a.m. is the god of the dripping faucet,
sirens, and barking dogs. He's been given titular charge of
circumstances that cannot be controlled. "It's out of my
hands," he says, repeatedly. He is a minor functionary, a
troll that lives under a bridge. On the far side are the
pastures of night where bright stars graze in the dark
matter of the cosmos. He is fond of philosophic thought.
"Of course, our understanding is limited. All we can do is
adhere to those laws and principles that have been proven,
time and again, to work." It seems there is some discrepancy
in my papers. "A minor delay," he assures me. Now it's
almost four.