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mr. keating in a modern au individually emails the dead poets "you have attachment issues" without providing any context whatsoever. they're all awoken by the notification and the email they are met with has them bolting upright in bed, half awake, squinting at their phone like it's a foreign object, gears in their brains turning, overcome with dread, thinking "he knows. he can see right through me." panicked, keating immediately follows it up with "file attachment issues! under the assignment! whew i apologize for that. have a good night, boys!"




















