on rainy grey day

... co-workers flirt about with each other. "You'll melt, you're made of sugar."

And I find myself without an internet connection while the Parents switch computers, old clunky to new shiny sleek. I find myself, but don't know what to do with what I've found, so I put it all aboard an early Thursday morning flight to Budapest. Meanwhile at the ranch, we finally surface from a period of frantic and confusingly realistic dreams as lanky famous people stop by to bum a smoke and the building crumbles down around us.

I'll do book reports when I get home, I think. Different bat time, brand new channel.