Paul OMahony offentlig
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The pen is always heavy, when it’s months since you lifted it. The weight of the space left behind undressed, unaddressed. Time without colour, days without commas, seconds stripped asunder, drunk on the spirit of everlasting full stops. ——— This pen has a cough, the sign of an infected life lived as if there was no editor round the corner waiting.…
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Sluggish Dawn Waking is such sweet joy, my friend, Crumpled sheets and well-worn pillows The body warm and snug. A gentle lift-off with a push A right-hand palm, the door to a well-known pit, into the landscape of a fragile core. Nostalgia for the sweet touch of night Gone the face of slumbered satisfaction. Welcome back marauded morn Enough, enoug…
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