We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like “I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive. …” And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming: “Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?”
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Hunter S. Thompson
I was halfway through an inoffensive novel about a psychic solving mysteries in New Mexico and for some reason related to nothing at all my mood dove in a way that only Thompson could solve. Anyone else have days like that?