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“My pains, sometimes seem like witch hunters: confess, confess, confess. Like a heavy stone on my rib-cage. Confess to what? And, of course, I would confess, if only I knew what it was they wanted to hear.” — Richard Smyth
My pains, sometimes seem like witch hunters: confess, confess, confess. Like a heavy stone on my rib-cage.
Confess to what?
And, of course, I would confess, if only I knew what it was they wanted to hear.