A sinister wind curled around the dark crevices of the rock jettison that crept out into the ocean.  It was late September and the summer was gasping for its final breaths.  Matt McCusker stubbed his index-fingered-size joint, of the highest grade marijuana known to man, out on the rock next to him and let it feel the dark, murky waters.  TSSSSS.

He lie back on one of the larger rocks and dipped his head deep into the frigid waters that most men would be afraid, because one never knows what kind of beasts or stinging jellyfish could be lurking in the ocean under the veil of night.  

Matt had long ago stopped looking at time linearly but he estimated that it had been about a week since his battle on mars with the bedeviled nation of robot prostitutes that he had to stop from trying to take over the universe.  Matt did not fight his battle with violence, but instead with love.  For his sword was made of flesh, not of steel.   His pelvis ached, but he smiled at the sky.