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| The loneliness is crushing. I return home to a poorly stocked fridge every night, to a liter of whiskey every morning. And I am hated by all who see me. | |
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| The war...the only time I ever felt anything...why can't I return to those bloody fields of lost innocence? Of tragic comfort? | |
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| M'am, I'll ask you for the last time. Please move your pickup or we're gonna have ourselves a problem. | |
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