Saturday, July 22, 2006


My mind keeps escaping me. Sat here at the desk, this perpetual screeching alarm from outside breaking the sound of GAA and Golf commentary, a rattling in my skull to rival the Bull McCabe himself.

I can only think of the beach. It’s not even particularly sunny, and I get nervous near water, but I’ve got me a want for Inch Strand late at night, drinking bottled beer and listening to birds and waves and all that useless beauty...

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