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Do you ever get that feeling where you want to have a nice conversation about something, as if you might have something on your mind, but you don’t know what exactly it might be, or who you might want to spill it on. I wonder if there’s a word for that… Verbal dry heaving? The imagery is beautiful, really.

I do, and I have it now. I just finished sending and flurry of emails to various people, but it just wasn’t enough. It must have been the kippered herring I ate. Fish is supposed to be brain food, right? It must have jump started the linguistic centres of my brain or some other neurological nonsense.

I considered reading a book, but the only fiction book (the only thing for bedtime reading) I have on hand has been recalled to the library in two days—not really enough time to start and finish it. This is the second time this particular novel, winner of last year’s Canada Reads, has avoided my scrutiny. Last time it was somebody else’s copy I had to leave behind when leaving the province, and now four months later it’s the administrative hand of McGill pulling it away from me. My white paperback whale.

Instead I retreat to my magnetic fields, where information is planted and harvested, to find a suitable sleepy movie to waste the night away with.

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