dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
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Not much going on, but disappearance of day, time & light combining to wane goodbye. I keep my eye on that, too. Would have liked silence as background noise rather than builders banging, sawing, dropping, clawing money out of hours. They’re long gone. Put on Bill Evans’ I Do It For Your Love playing Paris in 1979, not so long ago, mere space between notes. Get up, touch her in passing on my way to the window to see what time clouds will tell. Fish-ribbed, “Just after six,” they say. Moon appears half-full with the other half visible, but veiled. Car tail lights head home across the bridge expanse like red corpuscles snaking through my veins at pulse rates matching the music of Time’s disappearance.



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