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Friday, 25 May, 2007

It’s not my place to do so, but I worry about her. She shows up at my door drunk, babbling, not-entirely-coherent and (this is new) bloody. She is desperate to feed her mind, but only knows to go through the same old cycles. Job one: convince her it would be good to dress her injuries. Job two: Get her interested enough in her own welfare to do so.

She recommends media intended for children for calming, and I wait impatiently. Thank god for the newfangled idiot box. I simmer as I remember the worst of the old days. Sure enough she comes in for a landing. Eventually. If I were a normal person, I would want her to go away as readily as possible.

But I worry in exactly the same ways and for the same reasons. She has a rather comfortable cage, but is growing too large for it. Not that that ever meant anything before.


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