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Pretending to be cleaning so the seven year old won't bug me about hanging out in her room with her. Alone time. I needs it!
Eta: she's been home sick, so her sleep cycle is all out of whack...
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'...
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds,)
...'
Dylan Thomas, Author's Prologue
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