I woke at 5:30 am to watch the True Detective finale because I knew not to watch it right before bed. I paused midway to bolster myself with a four-shot Americano and a chocolate croissant, and opened all the windows in my blue and gold nest to watch the rest with my small cat by my side. It didn’t help that it was dark outside at 7 am but, man, my efforts would have been all for naught anyway. I’m going to have nighmares tonight. What a series: So saturated in its own mythology that it seeps into your pores despite yourself. Some part of me will be watching that man with dead, wet eyes and scars on his chin fondling his half sister for the rest of my life.