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November 3 - November 8, 2025
“When old friends die, you’re furious, because you’ve never quite finished what you were saying to them.”
By and large if a man is thinking anything halfway acceptable, he’ll say it, and, if not, he’ll just carry on thinking it instead.
Joyce thinks that perhaps bombs are women. Once they’ve exploded, that’s an end to it. Men are more like guns: they’re constantly reloading.
That’s a fault in me: sometimes I don’t want to know the truth, because it’s too painful.
It’s the story of those quiet corners, I suppose? The stories that don’t get told, because no one is there to hear them, or people are too distracted by louder noises.

