The dead do not care what we think of them; they do not care if anyone walks on their graves; they most certainly do not care if they win some award for the stuff they’ve done.
Well that’s a stupid title. It’s basically gibberish in Latin. I recognise some of it, but it’s just a jumble of bits of stuff.
I dream of fantastic patés, bought wrapped in paper from the local charcutier, but then I shop in the local Monoprix, scared to set foot in artisanal shops.
Insularity used to be such a normal thing: we were all separated from everyone else all of the time, and that was the way things were. Now it seems so odd – at least to me.
I like watching the credits on films; I have always done so. I’m a nerd about this stuff.
Social protocol. They’re great things, aren’t they? They are so helpful for navigating our way through the vagaries of our impossibly complex day to day existences.
I don’t really do being nice to people with the sole intent of building social/emotional currency; I don’t think it’s very nice, honest or respectful.