Sundays are for realising that the smell you can smell is that smell. That smell which smells. And how does it smell? It smells smelly. You open the door, and there they are. Anchovies. All waiting to play Hollow Knight: Silksong. No. Stay back. They won't. Into your cardboard box they file, clearly experts in filling tight spaces thanks to their past lives as tinned goods. From upstairs, you hear the unmistakeable sound of roaring laughter, echoing amid the damp paper. "I told you to let me out," bellows a triumphant Adrian Edmondson. "Now you'll pay the price." As the light fades from your eyes, you picture some writings from this week.
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