She's draped across my chest. I'm hunting keys down like Captain Ahab with one finger. It's almost midnight. Arm's aching from eight pounds of uncompressed raw personality, snoozing for maybe 12 more little hand clock spins 'til instinct kicks in and says it's midnight snack time. Mouth's wide open, hand tucked under her chin, occasional grin as some fleeting neuron twitches her lips up. Chilling with Dad late in the Interpol-scored p.m.