[David is tucked away in a corner of the mess hall in the very, very early morning hours, several thick books and stacks of notes strewn around him on the table, coffee cup at his elbow; he looks like he's been here... a while. Every so often he pauses in his writing to close his eyes or rub tiredly at the bridge of his nose]
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--Ah. Good morning. Yes, I-- good morning.
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[...But was that yesterday or the day before I do not remember...]
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[and my blood is made of coffee]
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No, no -- I've not the time, no. I shall sleep later on, after I have... finished. Yes.
[...Though this is the glazed look of someone who's in danger of giving himself a lovely fever]
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For the love of-- do unhand me, I am fine--!
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I am quite sure everyone has better things to do than worry if I should become sick -- I am not going to die of it, and even if I do I can't see how it would matter, as I expect it would cure me. [I am sulky and unreasonable at the moment, you might have noticed]
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Do you hear yourself right now? Whether or not you care if you get sick, isn't it just all around easier to just get sleep and avoid it all together?
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