half diary half prose nothing overly thought through...
I’ve just cut the inside of my nose accidentally, there is a small amount of blood. I have done this while the weather has oscillated between an especially wet flaccid rain and the kind of Sun that reminds you to breathe. There’s a genre of loosely held films which I reserve for pink Summer evenings, All About Lily Chou-Chou, A Brighter Summer’s Day, Celine and Julie Go Boating. I have not seen…
Testiig typewriteeer. Not easy. How o did they do it-? Well. Practice. Martha at the office t aps at Mach 5. I can hardly think for her incessant tapping. I,,ve een told to get withn the times but handwritten is surely best. I can;t even do n apostrophe correctly. ,,,.;"... Th t's it. It was over the 8. Nonsensical contraption. Mrark my words, this ishow it all ends. Mustandgs nd atomic bombs all…
The eyes that then belonged to young Francis Cunningham shot open and he sat up because he knew something was wrong as the sun was too high so his arm reached out and grabbed his phone which was near dying but still showed the time as past nine in the morning and he was late but could still make it without it being too damning as he’d been too damning in the past and he shot up and began to dress…
And its here, on the rainy streets of Dublin I stand. Or rather, sit, on the 150 bus to Ross Mór. I've never been to Ross Mór but I imagine its big. I saw a woman outside the cinema whose hood blew down in the wind and it seemed to make her terribly angry even though she was the one walking against it, fighting an invisible force. Its impossible to always go with the wind but its also a real bitch…