Otherwise known as why the hell am I awake?
It's 03:15 as I write this. Decent, civilised people are in bed. Indecent but still civilised people are in bed with someone else, doing things of a biological nature. Whatever. I am not them. I am in my living room, blogging this stream-of-alleged-conciousness to you, people who are actually reading it in the future.
Funny thing about writing, that. It's time-travelling telepathy. It leaps all bounds of geography - I can write this in Lancaster and you can, theoretically at least, read it in Kathmandu - language - assuming it's translated correctly you can understand what I'm thinking perfectly well - and of course, time period, which is why we can still know what Oscar Wilde was thinking a hundred-and-odd years ago (I wrote 'a hundred years ago' originally and then had the commons sense to check whether or not dear old Oscar, who turned 155 this week, was dead a hundred years ago. Sure enough, he died in 1900, poor chap).
So you could be reading this ten years from now, scouring through the new, improved, instant-download-to-your-hippocampus version of the Internet Archive. You might even be looking at a 3D representation of me - though not, of course, of me right now because I'm a bit shy on the 3D recording equipment front here.
Or maybe you're reading it tomorrow, when I'm asleep, recovering from not having been so last night (I can see that language is going to be a problem here). Or perhaps it's Sunday, and you're reading this over a cup of coffee and a muffin, whilst I'm learning things and shooting frames at the Wilkinson Digital Splash. Thing is, wherever we are, we're all right here, right now, and this particular instance of me, right here, right now, should be asleep.
This instance will now shut down.
