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Who is this sassy lost child
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At some point, Raina's tears ran dry and her sobs were reduced to the occasional hiccup. When she felt - well, not composed, but not falling apart anymore at least, she sat up and wiped her eyes and nose on the back of her sleeve. Johnny seemed content to just chill on the ground next to her; some part of her was pathetically grateful that he hadn't called attention to her crying.

Instead of addressing him, Raina examined her ankle. It hurt, but it didn't feel like any serious damage had been done, in her unprofessional estimation. Putting weight on it might hurt for a bit, but she thought she could walk.

Not that she felt like walking anywhere right now. Dark clouds were beginning to gather overhead, promising rain later on. They'd have to head inside somewhere soon, but the asylum was out of the question for the time being. It was a huge building, and realistically they probably wouldn't bump into Alvaro again, but the thought of heading back inside had every survival instinct she still had intact screaming at the idiocy.

So, what had she accomplished so far? Three days of sitting and planning with nothing to show for it, and probably two dead bodies that had been people she liked and cared about. She couldn't have done anything against that gun, had it been turned on her. She had to live, so that she could help others live. Running away had been the smart and practical thing to do. Big picture.

Raina wondered how long it would take for all of those announcements to really start feeling like statistics instead of people, and she half-hoped it would happen faster.
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."

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Coward Mont Blanc · Crematorium Gardens