The Warm Glow

 An early start to a happily busy Wednesday, on little sleep because I stayed up late. Because I'm staying up late. Later and later this week, it seems, like I'm waiting for time to stop, or at least do something interesting, which it normally does around two or three: as I've written before, that's when it leaves you alone. Maybe it's the size of the television screen that keeps me from going to bed. Maybe my body's not used to a screen thi sbig yet. Occasionally I entertain the idea of curling up on the carpet and falling alseep in front of it, rather than being parted by going upstairs. A change of scene maybe, like camping, which I never voluntarily did, or sleeping on a friend's sofa, which I do. Maybe my body's grown too used to the screen. I still don't know what to eat in front of it though. Maybe I just want a harder mattress. Normally I don't remember dreams if I haven't slept that long, but on Tuesday night I dreamt John Finnemore had set up a series of gentle booby traps in a darkened classroom, talking me through them, one by one. Later on, I found myself in that classroom again, initially disturbed at being jabbed in the ribs and having something fall on my head in the dark, but then recalling "Oh yes, that's that damp towel John showed me." My dreams aren't normally that well-structured. Maybe it was a darkened meeting room.