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The kids are supposed to be spending the afternoon with the ex. The eight year old doesn't want to go, as usual. I'm bloody tired of being the mediator between the child who is actually a child and the grown arse man who acts like a child.
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'...
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds,)
...'
Dylan Thomas, Author's Prologue
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