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You can’t contain the history you are which is a series spiller, more akin to House than Cumberbatch, who’s an uptight, trench coat, duffel coat buttoner.

And it’s the thick wall partitioning in the flat share which keeps me watching, and it’s not that I want you to fuck exactly because I understand the aftermath of craved unions; I’ve lived a timeline ready to scoop hipbone like uncooked potato.

If you’re renewed, keep cancellation bayed, and the critics lay off as they’ve not watched – I wouldn’t preach something I didn’t experience first, so I could comprehend the wrongs and rights of it – I’ll expect an awkward episode in season 4 and I’ll make my mind up then.

Lucy’s not degraded, is instead the controlling, force and reason of James Wilson, the purpose and narrow and utter empowerment, unliveable without. No second best, now.

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