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But what’s the nature of the attraction? To this way of life ye’ve picked? It’s freedom, she says. It’s poverty, Charlie says. Poverty is always for free.
The days were cold as evil but the evenings spread magic from the sea inwards and stretched out and tapped the place until it was open to our dreaming.
The fear of turning into our parents, she said, is what turns us into our fucking parents.
Only the Russians, he said. I’m sorry? Only the cunten Russians, he said, have less class than us when they get a few pound.
He wanted to leave the place again but was rooted to it now. Fucking Ireland. Its smiling fiends. Its speaking rocks. Its haunted fields. Its sea memory. Its wildness and strife. Its haunt of melancholy. The way that it closes in.
He’s the lad out of Radiohead, Charlie. Never liked them. Whining bastards. And the amount of money the cunts are making? They should have the ukuleles out.
