I was so happy the other day that even the gravest texts bore a lilt of life: that Hopkins poem about the fell of dark, ominous tidings from Liz, Fumer peut entraîner une mort lente et douleureuse. Someone actually told me "Franchement vous êtes jolie," and I hadn't so much as asked him for directions. Frankly France is lovely, maybe it's that Provençal light...or maybe it was the Adderall after all. I promised M. Laval, slouching all through his chemise, to be more vigilant in monitoring my casier; I dropped a désormais in conversation, which perked up his posture perceptibly.
Meanwhile poor Andrew reads his practice LSAT passages for the écriture. Last night he explained to me a thought experiment about an Indian, a basket of figs, a note...it sounded like a nice dream.
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