I have made a conscious decision to suspend my disbelief in the possiblity of a real and enduring romance: it's hard to decide whether constant doubt or complacency is more boring but I have decided to give complacency its turn. At least it's a change.
Bleeding like a dying pig and feeling an accompanying disgust with myself as the producer of all this indulgent autobiography. Time to hunt down Umberto.
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Tales of blood and deception (interspersed with large amounts of boring autobiography). Read at your peril!
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