Loose Lips Sink Ships, said the wartime poster. Of course the ships will all sink anyway, sooner or later.

His mission gone, Chaliapin forfeits his existence as well, singing his grief as he expires during the lengthy, expressionistic bookburning scene, the beauty of the flames and the slowly transfigured volumes signifying the death of chivalry, the passing of the Quixotic age.

[…] and the explosion of anti-immigrant and asylophobic violence against the backdrop of the so-called migrant crisis and the mainstreaming of far-right political parties across Fortress Europe and elsewhere.

But of course she blew a gasket and called me a dirty cuntbucket, said that the toaster was rightfully hers, a deserved piece of the alimony that the courts denied her.