Moïra Fowley-Doyle

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Accidents happen. Our bones shatter, our skin splits, our hearts break. We burn, we drown, we stay alive

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There's this magical place,' he says with mock solemnity, 'called a library--I don't know if you've heard of it, but they have books, and also newspaper, and back issues of newspapers

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So let’s raise our glass to the accident season,To the river beneath us where we sink our souls,To the bruises and secrets, to the ghosts in the ceiling,One more drink for the watery road