039 || dictated;

[workaphilic]

[It's very, very late when the journal opens. Or very early, depending on your perspective. But there's none of the grate to his voice that usually accompanies his insomnia; instead he sounds lively, nearly amicable.]

Rise and shine, residents. Don't complain, if you're awake now you either were before I started or you're stupid enough to leave your journal open when you sleep.

[Gladstone whines in the background.]

Shut up, you don't get to complain either, after all you've put me through.

[In the background: noise of cabinets, and food (or something, it can be hard to tell with him) tumbling into a bowl.]

Here is my question, Paradisa:

How much worse could it get?

[A pause, and something occurs to him. He continues, now with his mouth full.]

I'm not being rhetorical. It's not the preface to an uplifting speech, either. Really think, and really answer. It's important.

Comments

[heliotroping]

...Whatever you say...