When you wake up at two in the morning and tear through the house, rifling through the Oxford, the Pelican, the Bevington, and the Riverside in a groggy attempt to settle a textual dispute from a dream.  ("Honey? Are  the Ardens still in a box somewhere? Oh! Shh Shh Shh! It's the middle of the night!") Ravelled. Trammeled. Sorted.

And then you realize that you can't, from your wheelchair, reach the books you just left on the floor and so will have to sheepishly ask your wife to straighten things up for you in the morning. Sleep rolling.

"Out, damned Scott!"


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