dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
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Green olives on a grey day, whose trees wave in the back of the mind. Leaves with silver dust reminiscent of an earlier journey in life, or current longing for a friend’s return: hills of Cinque Terra. Black canvas bag filled with books, & a jam jar of red wine the only company at the moment, surrounded by free time, carved out the hard way. I believe in gravity as an asset to man. Leaves fall, olives burgeon heavily, instead of taking flight. On the ground by the tree trunk’s roots, two fish-shaped stones wander in the direction of the sea as resolutely quiet as this solitude.



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