A thump. A creak. A scratch. A splat. Then the whisk of our duvet being flung open as Groom garbled, “Whaat und whooo huh? Fonzi hug me? Is someone there? Someone? Did someone just vomit in the hall?” By the end of that string of kerflabble, I had been yanked from blissful black to… Continue reading Three a.m.: The Onamotapeiac Hour