I'm drinking coffee and devouring the sun. I'm contemplating, uncomfortably, last night's conversation with the teenager about grades, about technology, about disappointment and distractions, about what the hell we're all doing on this decaying planet. Sleep was something tossed at me last night, and if my bed were a person, she'd laugh as she swung a bat. A home run! the crowd would cheer, and I'd be the one who reached high, so high it hurt but not high enough.