Every day is the beginning of the end. Sometimes the end of the day is just the beginning.

Retrograde. 

 March 1, 2013: I'm in a post-industrial city, it's grey and snowing, and there are students in acid washed jeans; my brain insists on playing Bon Jovi as the soundtrack. The IMF declares that the US failure to resolve budget issues is going to change the world's economy, and not in a good way. Strange objects have started appearing in my office: a piece of circuitry last week, hand-penned invitations, a new-in-box dry eraser this morning. Is this a Gibson novel?