I’m fifteen. We can do the roundtable math rather well, yet not entirely. Free-range sunlight in the clerestory of our lair… where elements of bloodthirsty aplomb are obsessively off-key. Safety in timing carefully disguised as bright and furious, knowing the advantages waiting a beat.

I’ve good news in bed. (But) I’m getting ahead.

Can you clarify why? For what party in sleep?