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Hans shows me an invention which magnifies letters for his failing eyes, so that still he may read, so that still the winds may turn the bronze art coins of his perception. Cobweb-like sculptures dream upon some shelves, poetry is the wing of his bird-like speech.
the coast is jagged like a weeping cut .. the high end of town, pizza beer dusk ... it is here we have staked a life, counted off the steps and measured what it is we need ... hands dissolve in prayer.
Now he is pursed within the curl of his leaf, a monk at watch for those lost souls, whom he might trap in the sneer of his silken intentions.
'You've got a wicked mind, Padre.' 'All the wickeder for seeing you.' Enter Big Nurse. Big Needle. Big Sleep. I check the stopwatch when I wake. I do not tell Big Nurse her response time is a personal best.
There are weary smiling workers recovering from a Thursday night event. There are men planning this, the second weekend, with their family. There are married couples — one in the throes of giving up hope of being touched, the other working hard to ensure the weekend is chaste.
She lived in an alcove outside Saint Brigid's Church. She had been an artist. She drank. She married a man who slept on the avenue, not near the church; he didn't like the church, said it talked to him at night in a stern rumble. He beat her. Her name was Grace.
The light is falling away with the tide, but the dark shapes are birds going somewhere. the bubbles in the sand small breaths rising into the air ...
Bought after the wreckage of a shoaled first marriage, the becalmed, calming painting survived a bachelor's anchorage, flotsam and jetsam, to find love. Peace. Safe, prized harbour under muted tiles and a stultifying light orb.
His mother quoted Shakespeare, preferred her husband to their children, placing her faith in him, gin, and ghosts ... When she turned up breast cancer's card she hugged her suffering to herself.
Awful to think of her lying in that polished box, plump though somewhat wasted. It's a mercy, someone's bound to say, yet tearful Bill may not agree.
He was deaf as a lamppost in the end, so that he never heard a note of it. We listen still, and we hear the sound of what it was like to be alone. We are surrounded. After all these years we have to believe that god was important.
Jesus said 'G'day mate, why don'tcher try a cast off the point there, I had a few bites just now, reckon you'll catch a feed, at least. I'll get the billy on ...'
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