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RubyTombstone

Bloody Shambles

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Pale Fire: A Poem in Four Cantos by John Shade
Vladimir Nabokov, Brian Boyd
Pale Fire
Vladimir Nabokov
Lords of Chaos: The Bloody Rise of the Satanic Metal Underground New Edition
Michael Moynihan, Didrik Søderlind
Under Stones
Bob Franklin
The Erotic Potential of My Wife
David Foenkinos, Yasmine Gaspard
A Corner of White
Jaclyn Moriarty
Winter's Bone
Daniel Woodrell
Progress: 99 %
Fragile Things: Short Fictions and Wonders
Neil Gaiman
The Beetle
Richard Marsh
Wreck This Journal
Keri Smith
Picnic at Hanging Rock - Joan Lindsay I had a weird little moment a couple of weeks ago. I was on the ferry from Townsville, heading towards Magnetic Island for the first time. When the boat picked up speed, there was a strange high-pitched whistling of wind through a metal fitting. The whistling and the wind whipping our faces made it impossible for any of the passengers to talk, so we were silent. Looking around at the sparse, rocky piece of coast ahead, distant islands blobbing the horizon, I was suddenly acutely aware of how far from anywhere we were. That sometimes happens in remote Australia, but this wasn't one of the more remote places I've been. I think it was the whistling that gave the moment a mysteriously ominous tone. All I could think about that morning while I was splashing around at the beach was Peter Weir's film, although it's been so long since I've seen it, I can only really remember the feel of it.I think it's time I read the book..