Men walk through tragedy, quietly, calm and precise on the outside, tearing themselves to shreds inside.
After the war I was going to make up for lost time. But the time I spent away, it's still lost. No matter what I do, it stays lost.
He looks a hell of a lot like me, only a fair bit older.
Iām alone with the ghost of the swamp, somewhere near the weeping willows.
Two Arts degrees does not a life make.
I'm drinking away the exam results that don't take me anywhere.