Rock N Roll and the Art of Computer Maintenance
an excerpt

The hour is getting late; early some might say, though not for me. Time is but a dream, some wicked nightmare that preys upon the soul, the body, the sleeper in the night, and all those wandering this far forgotten foreshore of delusional grandure. The world is a deathly haze, thought I one wayward, whitechapel night, whose recount I pry most readily from swirling, decaying memory, a night quite haughtily haunted, impassioned with misadventurous uses of previously agreed upon standards. It was we who had become the flagbearers, but of what, and in what manner? None of us knew for certain, not even he I would hazard a wager, though none among us would confess their guilt of ignorance, and certainly not he.