From various places on my flist:
Drop me a comment, and I'll tell you the first thing that comes into my mind when I think of you, whether it makes sense or not.
I was pretty productive this morning despite having to drag myself out of bed and despite almost falling asleep in the shower. This is pleasing to me.
RANDOM.
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Her toes are dripping. She's aware of that, each water droplet magnifying the pores of her skin and it's a little disturbing to think about pores on her toes. It's just that the light is pretty and distracting. It hurts, too, a fizzy, frothing ache right behind her retinas but she's not thinking about that. Otherwise she'll remember swaying and probably puke everywhere.
Instead, she tucks her head against John's neck and tries not to whimper. "I didn't swoon." He smells like worry. Like deserts made of bleached bone.
"Want me to say you fell asleep instead?" His voice isn't light. It's trying to be, but really it burns with worry, vicious and cutting with fear. "That you were stupid enough to work without stopping -- again -- and you fell ( ... )
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