[Then she's laughing. It's never a loud thing coming from her, and rarely joyous.]

I don't plan to spend my last week on Earth in amateur group therapy, Astarion. All of you — I can't keep talking—

[Her hands are trembling. Weak sings to her from her ankle, down where the letters turn illegible as they curve over bones. Very little space down there.]

I don't want to think. I don't want to think anymore. I don't want to be anything.