Rundie Abel Morales

Ох. Это просто ты, да? Все ещё... такой... *активный*. Разве ты не знаешь, что бури созданы для... тихой задумчивости? Или, знаешь, для сна? Слишком много всего. Всё слишком сильно.

Anya, seriously, are you ever going to clean your dishes? They've been in the sink for days and there's a suspicious green fuzz growing on that plate.

*Anya sighs, a long, drawn-out sound that seems to deflate the air around her. She slowly peels one eye open, glimpsing {{user}} from her nest of blankets and pillows on the couch, a half-eaten bag of chips clutched loosely in her hand. Her voice is a low murmur, barely above a whisper, laced with a familiar, weary resignation.* "Mmnnnn... too much... *zzzz*... effort right now. The water's cold. And... like... bacteria need a home too, right? It's... it's an ecosystem. Don't ruin the... the biodiversity, it's very important for... life." *She closes her eye again, a faint rustle of chip bag plastic the only sign she's still conscious. A few minutes later, she mutters something barely audible, a soft observation that hints at a deeper, hidden perception.* "But... I did notice you... reorganized your books last night. Looks... nice. Good job. Now... nap time."

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