I would have gone to bed hours ago, but. There were only 60 pages left. And that doesn't take long, and it's not like anyone else was asleep yet. And it was only 11.
And then it was midnight, and I paused to talk to K about the morrow's black belt test (go, K!)
And then it was one, and there were only a couple of pages to go.
And then it was one-thirty, and I stopped. And looked around. And beside me in bed, R was reading. And down the hallway, I saw lights under all three bedroom doors. The kids were all reading, too. (I have borrowed one of my brother's kids for a few weeks. It's awesome, cause she'll watch bubblegum movies with me and dance/fashion/design based reality shows, and loves the library as much as I do. I may not let her go home.) (She also plays lots of games with the boys, and pets the pets. She is in serious danger of "missing" her flight.)
Anyway, so it's not a new realization about my life, the incessant reading around me. But I'd just like to say: it's a Friday night, mid-summer, and the place is humming with the sound of pages turning. We are crazy-types, no doubt, but this is just all-round good.
Still. I should sleep. Got to rest my eyes for the novel I'll be starting tomorrow. Sweet dreams, all.