He entwined their hands softly under the February morning light. With her heart in Mexico and her future in Canada he kissed her sadly, knowing that these were the last mornings. Mornings he would often spend in an agitated fugue, feeling the alcohol drain out his system, like a cistern replenishing brandy with spring-water. They had met on an October night in Rathmines – she a pioneer, having never touched a drop of alcohol in her life. He was forlorn at this point, living at home with his Mother, a sad and dreary symphony of thoughts would percolate through his brain for hours – attenuated only by, and paradoxically exacerbated by, alcohol. The mist is a cruel thing. Call it depression, call it any snazzy code word you want – The Black Dog, The Hair of The Dog – so many Dogs involved in this pernicious union of misery and addiction. But, there is hope. Hope in the way he looked at her. Hope in the way the dawn’s chorus settles on the wind like a treble clef made of caramel twined with minims and clovers made of dewy glitter. I’m going to be thirty in just over two months. A decade spent silently howling in pitiable penury – an interminable maturing. It’s not going to be another melancholy departure, a shocking abandonment would not creep over his heart again like wire. This time it is different. This time it will be the Hair of The God.