In my head, this already feels long.

My favorite thing about Saturday night was the light on the leaves. Bees was sitting next to me, so I showed her and said, "That's always the best part," and she said, "Really?" She didn't believe it, but the boy on the other side of her did. He agreed with me, enough for a high five. Later on he pulled me up to the windows of the Catholic high school so I could see how oddly it was decorated, and boy was he right. We're going to be special friends, he and I.

I don't know when or how to get to Sunday. There were so many things I wanted to ask you about that I couldn't start. No one ever says what you want them to say, not even me.

On Monday we went to ride rollercoasters. There were supposed to be more of us, but there were less, and it only took one car. There was so much in my head that for most of the way I could only look through the window and listen to The Sea and Cake coming out of the speakers and smile when Michael and the Egg played with each other in the front seat. They're good at playing with each other in the front seat. When we got there it was raining, but the rain only started to mean something when we got on that first line. We spent an hour in the heaviest, heaviest rain, and it was actually shocking that we could be so wet, but the ride dried us off a little, made us feel a bit better, and afterwards the rain stopped, though we never quite got dry again all day.

It happens that I'm not scared of rollercoasters at all, but I forget that and think I might be until I'm all locked into one. After that, once it starts moving, I remember what a good idea rollercoasters are. I wish there were more of them, everywhere. I wish I could ride that last one again. I wish everyone could ride that last one.

In the car on the way home he had his arm stretched out behind me and I tucked into his side where it was was warm, because I'd been cold for too many hours in a row. He pointed out things along the ride that seemed interesting, creepy buildings and patches of light in the sky. He said, "Do you want me to stop annoying you?" and I told him that he hadn't been, because he hadn't. After a while he asked, "Are you alright?" and I said that I was, only sleepy, and then I accidentally said something about wanting to feel better about things and he said, "What is it that you don't feel good about?" I told him it was nothing, but he thought that I was lying, because I was. He smiled at me, and after that we were mostly quiet the rest of the way home, eyes sometimes open, eyes sometimes closed. I noticed that sometimes he looked a bit like someone else, and that was unexpected. It isn't good or bad, but it does make me want to stare, a little.

By the time I got to bed on Monday night I'd been up for forty continuous hours, which might not actually be as long as it seems.

Yesterday there were a lot of messages to respond to, and most of them were a good distraction, but one was a good reminder. Last night I was suddenly exhausted and almost couldn't manage to shut off the light before falling asleep. Then I seemed to wake up every five minutes unsure of where I was and upset as a result of the nightmarelets I kept having. It was a strange night and it is a strange day. I have all of the symptoms of a fever, minus the hot.

Tonight I've got to go meet an anxious George. She forgot we'd be gone all of Monday and spent the day emailing and calling the Captain and Michael and I in turns, not understanding why not one of us would respond. When I finally spoke to her she said she'd thought we were boycotting her, so tonight I'll make her feel better by buying her a milky drink and talking about Inspector Lynley's long hair. Tonight I'm sticking with George because she'll make me feel better too, because she won't confuse me by looking like anyone but herself.

p.s. I checked, because even though I didn't know who I was writing about, I knew when I was writing. There was never a person at all, it turns out that I was describing the when itself, the autumnal equinox, and now I'm surprised that I could have forgotten.