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Joe Umland
Having a mood.
Sat May 12, 2018 18:37

A key point in the ethics of using long-effect brain-altering potions, wrote Joe, and glanced at the stack of little leaves which contained his notes and sketches of a structure for the essay, all accumulated in preparation for sitting down to write smooth sentences. As he did this, his hand kept moving, and he was startled to look back at the paper and see he had just inscribed the words is nothing.

Well, that wasnít right.

Even if it felt rather true at the moment.

Felt Ė but wasnít. Of course.

He took out his wand and used it to clean the inappropriate words off his final draft, as he hated to hand in pages with words struck out or which were in any other way less than perfectly clean copies. This was the same reason he kept a ruled sheet behind his parchments, to ensure the lines of his text were almost perfectly straight, and why he kept a comb in his bag during the day, to ensure his hair was in place, that there was nothing untidy about him whatsoever. He cleaned off the inappropriate words, loaded his quill with ink, glanced at his notes again as he did, composed the rest of the sentence in his headÖand then sat there, watching the ink drip onto the page and spread into a magnificent blot with focused interest, his sentence Ė and, indeed, the rest of his assignment, completely forgotten.

After a moment he blinked, saw the spot, and made a noise of disgust. Noticing too that he had not put his wand away yet, he cleaned away the blot and then closed his book over the partially written essay and notes for the rest of it. He didnít feel as though he could stand to look at it any longer, and clearly there was no real point to doing so, so he might as well put it away. Even if he didnít really have a clear plan for what to do next.

There were a million things he might have done Ė he could have done other homework, for instance, or read a book, or practiced Quidditch maneuvers, or written letters, or started a conversation with someone, or started teaching himself German, or whatever Ė but the problem was that he didnít want to do any of them. He didnít want to sit in this chair, looking at the ceiling. He didnít want to go to sleep, either. He didnít want to do a damn thing. His bones felt full of lead, and so he took the path of least resistance, which was to continue sitting, looking across the room at nothing in particular.

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