What’s wrong with you? You look so pale. . . and well, as we say in psychiatry, a bit dishelved. What is wrong with you?

(I lost my Ficly) Having trouble – having trouble- Having. . . trouble. . with. . . with . . my words. (I need to find my Ficly) Madres de Dios! Fellow crafters of lucid prose, what once was lost is found; revealed, bringing back with it my myriad of hopes and dreams, returning to me the amour propre for my beloved words. . .

Oh, Jesus. . . quickly hide her Ficly again or she’ll drive us all mad.