To whoever picked Christopher's jacket up off the floor at the bottom of the stairs and crammed it into the space behind the basement door, in between the heating system:

Thanks for picking it up, but would it have killed you to walk up the damn stairs and put it on a hook in the closet?

Sorry if I sound bitter, but we spent the better part of yesterday wondering if Christopher would have to be irradiated by security to get home or if we'd get home at all, since his jacket was missing and his ID was in the pocket. In the end, I stood on the stairs and used my the psychic power to find lost things that comes with the double x chromosome and found it just before we left for the airport.

That's really all I have to say just now, on anything. It is good to be home, but there's too much gray and it's just the home part that's good. Started reading White Apples by Jonathan Carroll; I'll leave the oddly appropriate comments for now.

Go check out In the Binary Alleys of the Lion's Virus at poetry daily; it's a poetry sort of day.