Sick of all the slippery stuff;; [ivan]

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pixel by tricky

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[div style="width: 300px; max-height: 100px; height: overflow; overflow: scroll; padding-bottom: 5px; margin-top: -5px; font-family: georgia; font-size: 8pt; color: #152232; letter-spacing: 0px; text-align: justify;"]He kept fancying that Ivan was absorbed in something — something inward and important — that he was striving toward some goal, perhaps very hard to attain.

— Бра́тья Карама́зовы

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He was weak, he had been since birth. It was a cruel deal of a fate, to be strong in mind but not in body. Now, he wasn't seriously injured, like his sister Alice or his brother Simon. This accident had lent a lot to the idea that Ivan just wasn't so strong. While he lamented over it, he realized that he didn't mind so much. He'd rather have his skinny body with his mind than take Atticus' sturdy form. Oh, the unfairness of it all.

"Ah," His eyes fluttered shut. "So they do. Thanks, Doctor." But would he do the same for anyone else? He sighed. This was probably the first time he's thanked Caustic. It probably won't be the last.