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"   The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it.   "
Margaret Atwood, from The Blind Assassin 
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thestaplessisters:

Now, thinking of her only reminded him how alone he was. How, if they were still together she might be planning a great bash for his birthday and maybe he wouldn’t be so reluctant to turn thirty. Instead he counted down the days to September thirteenth, wondering why he didn’t have more to show for his life and feeling painfully existential.

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