B was all Crankenstein tonight (the perfect compliment to my Princess Crankypants), so I took him for a ride through the bolts of lightning and the wet DC streets. We missed the rain-- just a few random pitter-pats on the windshield-- but watching the drama play out in bursts of skylight over the city seemed to lift some of the aching burden from our own souls. Swept up by the wind and carried away with the rest of the storm moving east through the night.

There is a lot I could say. I have months of thought circling around inside of my head tonight. I think about how life has changed and how quickly the world spins through day after day. I feel dizzy-- blurred-- a long exposure on a speeding highway. But this kinetic energy-- this building inertia-- makes me feel undeniably whole. And though my mind sometimes seeks out my missing parts-- places I used to visit, words I used to read, lives I used to follow-- I know they are not lost. Just rearranged, called on by memory, threaded deep into the fiber of who I am.

Reg's 13 pages are all that's left for me of Coupland's Hey Nostradamus!. I had no idea I would be this sad. It's been a number of nights-- one lit by battery-powered lantern inside of our tent, others along-side B in our bed while he also read or slept or stirred restlessly-- of reading, mouth open, surprised, in awe. I'd forgotten Coupland. I'd forgotten how amazing it feels when his words resonate so mysteriously-- speaking your most private thoughts, articulating a beautiful dream you only had once and didn't remember upon waking.

Right now we're sitting at our respective desks, updating our blogs, transferring a day's thoughts in ether. But soon is sleep. And soon are Reg's 13 pages. And then the end. Nothingness-- only that damn note on the type left to read. And then pulled chains, lights out, and swirling thoughts of all that has flooded my senses and woken me up to brilliance yet again.