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Slow

Test-fired some Beltane torchballs last night, and they were good. So very good. Mmmmmm, fire. Then the pub, welcoming back a traveller on her triumphant return. A late-night walk, the kind I'm so fond of, with conversation involving more than just me. And I remember smoking the foulest thing I've ever put between my lips, a clove. With a sugary filter. Those things are pure evil. Worse even than menthols (which, let's face it, are joints rolled with Polo mints rather than anything interesting). This was a foul, foul thing. I still smoked it, but will have the good sense in future to remember that not all such things are good. I don't like the idea that I'm smoking the Candyman's shrivelled and blackened cock.

Rant over.

This morning, tired. But in a good way. Finally sleeping again, so it .may take a little tine to adjust. And now, pissed off with how slow the world is going. Everything, including my brain, is moving through treacle. Time stops for no reason, and I can't escape it.

Just three and a half hours to go. If I don't die of old age first.

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