From Hunter S Thompson’s The Rum Diary, p.191

Those were the good mornings, when the sun was hot and the air was quick and promising, when the Real Business seemed right on t he verge of happening and I felt that if I went just a little faster I might overtake that bright and fleeting thing that was always just ahead.

Then came noon, and morning withered like a lost dream. The sweat was torture and the rest of the day was littered with the dead remains of all those things that might have happened, but couldn’t stand the heat. When the sun got hot enough it burned away all the illusions and i saw the place as it was – cheap, sullen, and garish – nothing good was going to happen here.

Sometimes at dusk, when you were trying to relax and not think about the general stagnation, the garbage God would gather a handful of those choked-off morning hopes and dangle them somewhere just out of reach; they would hang in the breeze and make a sound like delicate glass bells, reminding you of something you never quite got hold of, and never would. It was a maddening image, and the only way to whip it was to hang on until dusk and banish the ghosts with rum. Often it was easier not to wait, so the drinking would begin at noon. It didn’t help much, as I recall, except that sometimes it made the day go a little faster.