Jesus, I’ve been off the sauce less than a week and my mind is as fertile as a peat field in Monaghan.
It’s a curious thing, the sauce. The way it depletes you, leaves you pink-irised, zombified and shuffling along, tongue wagging like some half brained cretin, frightened of your own shadow, talking to dogs and eating anything with melted cheese across its back. But, despite this, let me tell you. Despite all the wretched mornings and the fearful tremors and the blasted dreams, despite all this let me tell you; you don’t need anybody to sing you a feckin’ lullably. It’s out like a light, out for the count, in a deep sleep, snoring so loud sure the neighbours’d be complaining the next morning, all pallid and bruise lidded over their Odlum’s the next morning. “Jesus, did you hear that Donovan fella last night, didje?” “Snorin’ goodo’ he was, sounded like a feckin’ asthmatic labrador the poor divil.” “We’re going to have to soundproof those walls, Dermot.” “I’ll be on it, Mary.”
Ha! Feck them! And here’s me now, wide-eyed typing into the buzzing abyss, the moon above, throbbin’ great streams of imagination inside me head, and what the feck am I supposed to do with it all?! Paint it?! Write it?! Sure I could do that in the day you feck! The night time’s for cuddlin’ and dreamin’ and snoozin’ and restin’ and bleedin’…..recuperatin’ after a heavy stretch on the fuckin tiles you remorseless gom’!
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