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Washed eris_raven last night. I lost more blood giving plasma, but the plasma pokes hurt less. Washed shammash today, who did me no injury.

We'll be catsitting for the Viking next weekend, as his house is getting hit with a bug bomb or two. This means the Viking's familiar, the crotchety neutered tom Trickster, a fifteen-year-old fellow who was, last time I saw him, as fat as he was old, as strong as he was fat, and as cranky as all three of the above put together. And you know what this means. Bath time!
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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