9:05 a.m. It's the time of the morning when the sun strafes down 45th streeet, streaming through the windows of the 29th floor of my office in perfect alignment with my desk, seering my aching retinas like the flashlight of a vengeful god. It's unrestfully reminiscent of the scene in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" when Indiana Jones, with the help of the staff of Ra, divines the location of the Well of Souls. It's quite like that, in fact.
Only with fewer Nazis.
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