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The Collar

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You cant roll a smoke in this kind of cold. The hands feel fine until you try moving them. It’s like watching a stranger’s hands working the paper, trying to will them to do what you want. It’s futile.

An old priest came over and told me he won a diving contest here back in ’56. Then it was off to the monastery with him.

 

 

 

 

Deckchairs.

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My new home. My abode for the Winter. Galway City.

I got digs.

Four walls, an inflatable mattress, a damp draft and a stunning array of ceiling mould stretching down to the floor.  Once block from the center of town, where music can be heard no matter where you stand.

When I crashed here last night it felt familiar. I remembered my first apartment in Melbourne 6 year ago.

It was a dank bare hole in the wall. All I had was one suitcase full of crap, a mattress on the ground and a pile of furniture pulled from the side of the road.

Once I found a dozen busted deck chairs on the road and spent an hour dragging them back to the apartment where I arranged them into a big pile in the living room. A big pile of bent rusting aluminium and cracked polyethylene.

Just to fill the space.

I had a 10 kilo sack of rice and a job at a Comic book store.

Foxes lived in the empty lot behind the living room.

I’d sit on my pile of deck chairs and watch them playing in the long grass sometimes.