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So I went to town and wrote a virtupous thousand words, then scurried off for my physio appointment.

Where K hurt me rather less than I'd expected, but I came out feeling sore-but-better anyway, as I usually do, if a bit depressed (as I also usually do) and a little sleepy with it (as I always do: it's one of those acknowledgedly weird reactions to torture); and I went back to the Lit & Phil and wrote another thousand words.

And then walked up into town again to shop a little (ask me about dinner tonight, I dare you) - and saw a little girl let go of her balloon. And ran, and stretched, and seized it for I am long and angular like that; and gave it back to the little girl, and smiled, and waved away her parents' thankings for 'twas nothing but common humanity after all; and walked on with a growing distressful tingle in my hand, for I had totally yanked the nerve and probably undone all this morning's good work. *sobs*

Next balloon I see, I'm going to stamp on.

*sobs more, for effect*
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desperance

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