My second favorite Irish man.

Okay, distant second.

If there is joy?

I have a special skill for avoiding things, it seems. Even now, the screen blank and staring before me, I rearrange my desk, pick up pieces of broken plastic, play songs I don't need to hear.

I've been wrecked by love.

And yet, I turn my hands to the sky and go again. It seems love burns out at me from the darkness but when I grasp, I come away with a handful of feathers, a few dusty curls.



I hope, that this time will the the last. That this fear, it will dissolve into him, be shriven from me finally. Self-hatred creeps, dark fingers clawing, and I wait, almost expectant, almost hoping for the truth, that this is the way.

Oh, but how my dreams dilate, expanding exponentially, his voice painting a bright streamer of desire. "Here" he says "is my heart in my hand, here is the world, here is everything and everything." and "Please, please, please."