Really foul-smelling vomit, the kind you get from an empty stomach, yellowy-cream-colored and lightly curded. Some of those Pokemon cards were beyond redemption. His boots were splashed, but just barely -- given the clutter of his room, he managed to land an awful lot of it on the bare floor. We went through a whole roll of paper towels, sopping it up, while he shuddered and coughed in the shower. Round two for him, as it's been for most of us -- we have at least two viruses haunting the house.
2:00 am. Martha has just headed back to bed, ominously carrying a pot. Of course it's difficult to do this kind of cleanup without feeling nauseous. I don't feel grand myself.
Now Alan's on the couch. I think he's just fallen asleep -- he's put his gameboy aside, and he's lying still, anyway. He trailed up to bed very early this evening. (Last evening, I guess.) I read him a few pages of James Herriot. Stopped reading, and there was just the quiet breathing. Already asleep.
Class at 9:00 am. A required class on ISO processes. (ISO, for the uninitiated, stands for "International Standards Organization." I am not making this up.) So sleeping would make more sense than blogging. But I've been spending my time at work actually working, and I miss this spinning of filament, filament, filament, as Walt would say. This texture, as Suzanne would say. But suddenly I'm weary. I don't think I have a lot of thread left in the sac. Time to go wandering again through the halls of sleep, light and shadow, door and wall. Turning landscapes, heavy with consequence.
Good night, you moonlight ladies.