Dear Padraic, I am safely ensconced in the mainland and, Padraic, it's lovely here. There's a river running past my window as I write, and the people already seem less bitter and mental. I'm not sure why, but I think it's 'cause a lot of them are from Spain. Mostly, I wanted to say there's a spare bed here for you, Padraic. And with the war almost over, I think there'd be work for ya here. Because there's nothing for you on Inisherin. Nothing but more bleakness and grudges and loneliness and spite and the slow passing of time until death. And sure, you can do that anywhere. So come, Padraic. Leave there.