Marcy's All-Night Diner will be reducing its 24-hour schedule to allow for mandatory renovations to the kitchen and orrery. As usual, it will serve all night, all the time, with the baking sun inexplicably appearing as starry skies through the mundane plate-glass windows, but this unique ambiance will now be available only after sunrise until further notice.

Regulars accustomed to enjoying their authentic 50s-style sandwiches and coffee for subjective hours or days, only to find precisely fifteen minutes have passed once they exit into blinding daylight, will now be asked to leave before closing. Stragglers may find themselves inconvenienced by ongoing temporal adjustments. Proprietor Marcy would not specify when closing was. Old Woman Josie informed us it was somewhere before 8PM, then laughed as though remembering distant worry and mentioned a certain area teenager whom she knows will ignore the advice.

The Ralph's down the street will remain open until midnight, for any of you late-night diners.

The ongoing budget crisis will change the night sky we are all wearily familiar with. The chosen stars, fixed against the inky blackness of infinity, will be dimmed by approximately half their individual magnitudes. The city council has promised to leave most major constellations unaffected, to avoid "Washington Monument syndrome," and will otherwise pick stars randomly to make the effect less noticeable. Non-stellar lights like the global array of weather control satellites and the rogue planet rapidly approaching Earth from above our galactic plane will be unaffected. Acting mayor Trish Hidge ignored questions about how noticeable these formerly indistinguishable features would become, holding her hand near her face to block her view of the reporter who asked, while loudly repeating, "Are there any questions?!" No further questions were asked.

The debt dispute between the City Council and a vague, yet menacing government agency is expected to end before the year is out. Ideally we will not run out the clock and end up with several funding issues slipping through as technicalities, like that unfortunate incident in Radon Canyon. The twenty-four fatalities caused by mutant boll weevils will forever be remembered as strong disincentive against reckless brinksmanship during tourist season. It will be much more difficult fulfilling next year's sacrificial quota. Covering up deaths by animal isn't covered under the Sheriff's Secret Police's black budget, people. Read the bylaws.

Personally, I'm not bothered about the change. The stars weren't really pulling their weight as an attraction. Making miniscule seasonal schedule changes to the same show every night for ten thousand years isn't any way to maintain interest. If not for traditional interest then we'd probably shutter the whole program and run more black helicopters. Even the clouds change it up from hour to hour. That's why their funding remains unaffected. Well, that, and their amenability to product placement.

On that note, a word from our sponsors:

Put the knife down. Step away from the table. You are a predator. Consume this beast's muscle and sinew as befits your role. Embrace the violence of food! Lunge at it! Rend! Tear! Eat like a godless wild animal!! Best Buy.

In a statement issued today, the Night Vale Medical Board would like to remind residents of the following:

"Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality."

To this they added, "If Death offers you a ride in his carriage, it is recommended that you quickly change the subject to other things, like flowers or Australia or that one black fly that's expired on your windowsill. If you must be in a carriage with Death, it's recommended you take someone with you. Enjoying Death's company unsupervised isn't recommended.

"We're pretty sure the whole 'immortality' thing isn't too bad, either. It actually sounds sort of awesome," the Night Vale Medical Board went on to say. "Actually, if you see Death, can you send him our way? We want to talk to him."

Sheriff's Secret Police have finally made contact with the entities that put up those mysterious billboards a few weeks prior. Y'know, the ones with no pictures and just hyper-bright and colorful text that reads "20% off everything! We’re going to take 20% off everything! Every thing! We’re craaaazy!" Well, according to the Sheriff's Secret Police, the entities, which radiate a sort of purplish yellow-green light and exist in a state of pure energy, have been very cooperative and open to negotiation! After Secret Police bartered the percentage down to a mere 47%, the entities said that the time for taking the newly lowered 47% off of everything, and indeed everyone, was random, and that they would stay away from essential parts of bodies, like limbs, and would focus on taking, and I quote, "non essential things to you puny corporeal life forms, such as your hearts, livers, lungs, and heads." Well, much thanks to the Sheriff's Secret Police for their much appreciated negotiation skills!

Stop by and check out all the high education opportunities that are available to Night Vale citizens. From the public university to apprenticeships at local warlocks, the Night Vale High School's array of informative pamphlets will tell you all you need to know, but not so much that you will be hunted down by shadowy government operatives for knowing too much. Schedule an appoint for a one-on-one consultation, where a helpful soothsayer will consult her crystal orb and then whisper the name of the college that you are destined to attend into your dreams. Consult our specialists to find out why your GPA is way too low for you to attend any respectable college, and donate your crushed hopes and dreams to feed the eldridge horrors that wander our fair city. Won't you think of the poor, homeless, eldridge horrors? Simone Rigadeau, the transient living in the Night Vale Community College's abandoned earth science building, will be there to represent neither the community college nor geology.

All juniors, seniors, and telepathically uplifted kindergarteners who are planning on applying to college or black ops training programs that may or may not be sponsored by the government are encourage to take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity before the shimmering runes of the thick mahogany doors dim and the gates slam shut, requiring yet another century of blood sacrifice before the portal opens again.

In a recent interview, Night Vale Rattlesnakes point guard Jeremiah Wilkes attributed his success to strong coaching, regular practice, and the fact his entire nervous system is under his explicit and mindful command at all times. His rare genetic condition, kept secret until this current semester, forces him to work every muscle, organ, and gland in a constant rhythm which most people's bodies handle reasonably well behind the scenes. He says this unique burden which permits him perfect mechanical control of every throw is central to his success, but is quick to mention his coach's focus on fundamentals as almost equally important. Wilkes' flawless record of artful 3-point jump shots and single-handed pass interceptions has attracted national attention. He is currently considering offers from several unnamed teams despite being only a freshman, and says he has plenty of time to think it over while he sits perfectly still at night and carefully regulates the balance of chemicals in his brain.

Accusations that his conditions grants him an unfair advantage by permitting an ideal balance of hormones early in life have been consistently rebutted by the High School's sports medic. Her official statement on the matter reads, "Stop talking about it or those photos go public." Jeremiah himself simply wonders why other students can't follow his initiative and take control of their own lives. Reportedly, he finds it especially perplexing when his teammates choose to miss, sending their limbs signals which move the ball in the wrong direction. When asked what his hopes and dreams were beyond high school, Jeremiah answered, "Sleep." Godspeed, J-Man - and keep givin' it to those awful Desert Bluffs Hawks.

In the flat expanse of rocky plains around this town, two strangers, male and female, are lost. Their cars have broken down simultaneously from unrelated mechanical problems. They walk south, side by side, though at a great distance, each unable to hear or see the other. They approach the city's muted lights together in almost-total darkness. He carries a flashlight whose bulb has cracked. Hers, an identical model, is without batteries. It sits unfunctioning in the purse slung over her shoulder, whose strap is exactly long enough to replace his broken timing belt.

They could easily escape this difficult tragedy through combined resources and knowledge. They could fill the long walk discussing their careers - both professional drivers, her delivering to the city and him delivering from it - and hit off a lengthy relationship of trust and respect that becomes romance. They are perfect for each other, barely a mile apart, but their parallel paths do not cross.

A wolf howls at the precise midpoint between them. They turn, scanning the barren desert with terrified clarity, repeatedly looking straight toward each other at the same moment, but they see nothing. They will never meet.

And that's it for traffic. Next up: sports.

Samaelowemac, the angel cast down from heaven by the almighty for questioning the necessity of ritual, is currently under observation at Mercy General. The seemingly middle-eastern man, beautiful and flawless in every physical characteristic and yet somehow incapable of generating any base lustful attraction in the town's naturally mortal citizens, moved in sometime last month on an ill-remembered moonless night, as is typical.

He says the simplicity of his appointments at the Sleep Eazy motel on Second was initially charming... until he investigated the television. His consumption of late-night television grew quickly, as he does not require food or sleep, and his part-time job at the Ralph's does not consume much time. Apparently the gradual loss of his inherent divinity left him susceptible to the emotional reactions of his human body. He found himself wracked with a range of emotions, each one pure and sincere as a newborn child's, with causes including the unbearable lightness of being, the suffering innate to the human condition, and pictures of kittens. While watching the evening news, the severe mental whiplash between a tragic car accident and the potentially life-saving operation enabled by the insurance payout to the driver's next-of-kin caused him to wish for death. He says this is common among angels, who are of course eternal, without beginning or end, and apparently love sarcasm as only the omniscient can, but he soon realized his human body might actually be capable of going through with the joke.

"The worst thing," he explained, his sonorous voice muting all other noises, "is that every person lives a personal mythology of relevance. The lowliest beggar and highest king are hereos beset by furious evils, within their minds' eyes." Around this time he broke down crying. It was beautiful, listeners. Like a living sculpture that perfectly captured the platonic ideal of miserable catharsis. And yet... I could not muster sympathy during the half-hour where this sight left me transfixed. It was awe-inspiring, but somehow not as moving as even an amateur actor's portrayal would be. Sammy explained the phenomenon by touching my forehead and imparting direct revelation. Unfortunately his fragile state left him imprecise, and the knowledge was too much for mortal kind, so I have since lost it, along with the revealed meaning of life and several childhood motor skills. My apologies to the hospital's janitorial staff.

Samaelowemac expects to leave sometime next month. I wish him the best of luck, not that it's necessary, as he is all-seeing, so his anticipated release is not really in doubt.

Hey guys,

Just wanted let you all know that the rift in time and space over on 21st is acting strange. I usually hop into it around 8 so I can make it to work on time. It’s much cheaper and safer than the public transit in my opinion. I’m sure you’ve heard about the recent werewolf muggings, those poor lycanthropes don’t deserve that.

Anyway, I hopped in like normal this morning and instead of being thrown over to the Nightvale Office Building and Sacrificial Altar Complex I was stuck in 1882 for about three hours. Thanks to a very friendly local sheriff named Wyatt, I was directed to another rift that had opened out back of the nearest saloon.

Needless to say, I was late to work. I will be contacting the Sherrif’s Secret Police about this matter immediately, as just posting this here has notified them. I’m told the time portal over by the Pinkberry is still working fine in case any of you need an alternate route tomorrow, though!

The 5th annual softball tournament between the Glow Cloud and the Mysterious Hooded Figures was held this past Saturday at the dog park.

Just like in past years, no one was invited to attend, and the scores will not be released to the general public.

But our own Intern Dana, who reported the story by appearing to me in a dream, gave us all of the details.

With a score of [REDACTED BY STATION MANAGEMENT] against [REDACTED BY STATION MANAGEMENT], the [REDACTED BY STATION MANAGEMENT] won for the second year in a row!

Doesn't that sound like such a riveting game?!

Especially when [REDACTED BY STATION MANAGEMENT] scored that amazing game winning home run against the rival team [REDACTED BY STATION MANAGEMENT].

Can't wait to hear about next years game!

In an unofficial and ill advised press release, the players had this to say;

"All hail the Glow Cloud" - Glow Cloud

And the Mysterious Hooded Figures just hissed into the microphone for 47 minutes.

Stay tuned for next weeks sports update, where we will discuss the competitive food eating contest that has been going on for the past 2 months at Big Rico's Pizza!

Area bird watchers are excited about the rash of unexpected starling sightings that have spread through out the Old Town area. Over two dozen homes have reported finding starlings, which are black, white speckled birds, in their attics, basements, crawl spaces, and walls, all dead.

Roberta Silverman and Genevieve Jackson, whose house has a view of the Squatter Shacks, have reported the dead birds in their basement.

“Yeah, they’re really crammed in there,” says Silverman. “It’s like a wall of black, silvery wings.”

Jackson adds, “I keep taking them out back to bury them with a shovel, but there’s always more. They don’t stop. I’ve had to quit my job and sleep two hours a night to keep up with burying all of them.”

Matters are complicated by the fact that there are often no windows or large openings in the areas where the birds tend to congregate. There’s also no record of anyone encountering the birds while still alive. All the starlings that have been found are already dead. They usually appear with a single red ribbon tied around their beaks and feet.

The glow cloud that runs the Night Vale Elementary PTA was asked for comment due to its history of raining dead animals in the area. All it had to say was, “ALL SHALL BOW.” No one is expected to investigate the glow cloud any further.

Common Starlings were introduced to North America, after two failed attempts, in 1890 in New York’s Central Park and by the Portland Song Bird Club in Portland, Oregon. The birds from Portland disappeared from the Pacific Northwest around 1902 but re-appeared in the 1940’s, possibly descendants from the starlings in New York. Common Starlings are not considered native to Night Vale, at least not until now.

Thirty houses so far have reported the dead starlings. The owners of said houses have added that they feel distressed, afraid, and, in some cases, physically ill. Bird enthusiasts in Night Vale, however, remain absolutely delighted.

Local art store, The Inky Paint Club, right across from the fire station, is hosting a full liquidation sale. Business owner Maureen Jason fired all employees earlier this week due to concerns over their personal hygiene and the state of the establishment.

“The stench has been unbearable. I don’t think a single one bathed, brushed their teeth, cleaned up after themselves, or scraped their skin regularly,” said Jason. “Their teeth, their skin flakes, their veins—the smell was just awful. I could barely breathe.”

The twelve former employees of the The Inky Paint Club were quick to defend themselves. One pointed out that he scraped regularly.

“It could have been their clothes,” Jason went on. “A haze lingered with their clothes. You could see it if you squinted. All those flies. They’re hovering along the ceiling right now,” she said, pointing to the bear fluorescent lights above the aisles. “The letters they write in their swarms, the prophecies they etch into the air, and oh God the smell is in the walls now. They crawl. They sing. I can’t. No, I can’t.”

Jason said she will be driving a steam roller through the store at the next available opportunity. This “next available opportunity,” she said, will involve finding a rental company that specializes in construction vehicles and another that specializes in gas masks and hazmat suits.

When asked how she felt about the survival of small businesses in the current economy, Jason replied, “Sulphur leaks into the dreams of the living. We drink of the air and she is spoiled, festering. The silver well is open. The flies. I have not heard such music since I was a girl.”

Sale items include oil paint, canvas, shelves, a variety of leather-bound books of indeterminate origin with small golden eyes opening and closing along their spines, gesso, and moleskines.

It seems a bit unusual that Night Vale would have a flood warning, what with being located in the desert, but area meteorologists posted the warning earlier today.

The meteorologists in question, specifically, are Channel 3 weather team Mr. Javier and Mrs. Louisa Castillo. They reported their house was flooded with a red, rust-colored water this morning. The water started leaking from the kitchen sink while they slept and is now pouring from their bedroom, bathroom window, and from beneath the driveway. Their lawn is now dyed, according to interior decorating experts, "a nice, deep burgundy."

Mr. and Mrs. Castillo, in response to queries that it might just be their pipes leaking, said they had a plumber shut off the water an hour after they discovered the flooding but "it just keeps coming. We have no idea where it's from, but it just keeps coming." The meteorologist couple are disheartened by the stains developing on their walls and hallways.

The sheriff's secret police showed up this evening to investigate. Chief among their inquiries was whether or not Mr. and Mrs. Castillo were sure the water in question was water and not blood.

"Oh, yes, just water," said Mrs. Louisa Castillo. "There's some animal parts in it, but the normal amount of animal parts for water in our area."

The sheriff's police asked once more if they were sure, ABSOLUTELY sure, that the water wasn't blood.

"No, just water," said Mr. Castillo, pointing to his seeping front lawn. "You can see for yourself. Blood looks a bit thicker."

The sheriff's secret police left soon afterward, claiming that that sounded "super boring."

The water in question shows absolutely no signs of affecting the rest of the neighborhood in any way despite staining everything in its path. It isn't expected to have any impact on anyone in the vicinity besides the emotional stability of the Castillos and their meteorologist friends, who often enjoy coming over for meteorology-themed parties. Residents, when asked about their growing concerns, said they had none. They added that the Castillo family was "pretty much on their own with this one."

Our favorite local ice cream shop, the White Sand Ice Cream Shop, which you all remember from the incident with the lion, has spoken to the oracle who decreed that they add a new flavor! The new flavor is "butter pecan", and will start to be sold in the next week, as soon as the slave-elves who make all the deserts in town get to work on it.
So, come join in on the fun at the White Sand Ice Cream Shop! I would like to point out that this new "butter pecan" ice cream does contain nut. Just the one. So those of you with nut allergies, take a gamble!

Taking advantage of Night Vale's new high-speed internet with literally zero latency to anywhere, StrexCorp has moved their stock trading operations into the Perfectly Normal Building on 7th Street. Their computer-driven "high-frequency trading" on the world's leading stock exchanges arrived first. Various unpersonable weirdos of a slightly different character than our vast homegrown supply have been filtering in ever since, and will presumably stop once the office is full. These "quants" are becoming distinct and numerous enough that the City Council has required them to register as an official subculture. Their chosen leader, a gaunt young professional with mild acne, has yet to announce their official identification tattoos and rival gang.

The high-frequency trading operation itself is already much improved. StrexCorp's previous site, located mere light-seconds from key servers in New York City, was still too slow for computer algorithms to take advantage of tiny dips and upticks in every stock. The new system is only limited by computer speed and mankind's wildest dreams of avarice - both of which grow exponentially every year. However, despite becoming increasingly commonplace, the act of tunneling light through alternate dimensions filled with unbelievable monstrosities (who are now in good standing with local clergy) is not without its complications. All trading algorithms perform roughly as expected, with the exception that every single one also tries to buy stocks of, quote, "skulls." No company or indeed species is specified. The value of each attempted purchase varies between algorithms. Attempts to suss out this systemic problem have resulted in the purchase orders changing to "skulls, semicolon, meat included." StrexCorp expects to have the issue resolved before the next fiscal quarter.

One last note, dear listeners: I am required to inform you that I am required to inform you about potential conflicts of interest, but I am not in fact required to inform you of what they might actually be. Good luck.

Scientists announced today that photons can collide, but are rarely observed doing so because they knock each other into parallel realities. Photons, the discrete quanta which make up light, are of course massless and take up almost no space. Physicists formerly assumed that - aside from the intricacies of wave-particle duality - nonparallel light rays did not meaningfully interact. Recent experiments proved that these particles do collide with unexpected ease, but that they bounce at right angles into N-dimensional space and are almost always replaced by nearly identical photons from nearby realities. Rapid prototyping based on this discovery led to dim photographs of the impossible worlds beyond the paper-thin veil which separates every atom of our existence from the unthinkable strangeness of infinities which have never and will never contain beings such as ourselves. I have seen these ghostly images from beyond our universe, and they're really quite nice, making strong use of contrast through saturation and the rule of thirds.

The research team responsible is requesting additional funding for a higher-powered laser. They intend to more clearly image and perhaps even communicate with these alien neighbors in all directions. They argued that the pictures would make excellent mousepads and dormitory posters which could help pay for the damage done with their previous high-powered laser. The city council was unconvinced until the lead researcher mentioned that the formless, flowing, non-individualistic entities living just one inch to the left of everywhere have probably never heard the good news about bloodstones. The acting mayor immediately promised them the most dangerous laser that money and suffering could buy.

The team's press release promises more news next month and closes with a traditional prayer to the almighty, whom the scientists hope to eventually locate and destroy.

No, literally.

Time seems to be going by at a slower pace than usual. It took me almost 3 hours to record this.

I tried to call Carlos, but I couldn't even type out the 12 digits of his phone number, it was taking too long. I also tried to look at a clock, but as we all know, those don't even work properly.

I will keep you informed as the story develops.