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Ow, my socks.

Ow. My shoulder hurts because I was thinking with my socks.


I did laundry, and there were guys out between the apartments, the sort of guys who are up and smoking and drinking beer and helpfully offer to help with your carrying-laundry if you need it.

"I'm fine," I said casually.

"Muscles!" they said approvingly.

My socks decided that I should toss the laundry bag (which is a large bag, about the size of a reasonably large child, heavy, and bulky) up in the air, catch it deftly, and carry it the rest of the way back to the apartment on top of my head.

The only part that wasn't a mistake was carrying it on my head. The tossing and catching strained something. Ow. Pain. My socks are satisfied, though, but the rest of me is pretty pissed.


Dagger adamantly denies that she's the one who thinks with our socks, but it's either her, Marah, or both. I suspect both working in concert.
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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