Though I did have to ungracefully climb up to my bed, which detracts from the image somewhat. A real tortured wisp wouldn't have to bother with something as trivial as a bunk bed; nay, she'd tip onto a feather mattress, slender wrist to alabaster forehead, in a dainty puff of sighing satin and taffeta. In that case, it's just as well I'm not a typical Victorian lily, but a typical teenage den of mundanity.

Pardon the tangent. The point is, I fell blissfully unconscious for a short time, during which I dreamed Michael Maguire was turned into a duck. Not much of a stretch, I know, but I woke up smiling all the same.

Adieu.