and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.

The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.

It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.

You have to remember that there are reasons to live, and that at least a few people are decent, and that the world is worthwhile some of the time, okay?”
I raise my face to his, wanting another kiss, but he stops me.
“You will remember?”
The balloon bumps downward again. His eyes are still closed.
“Why don’t you open your eyes?”
He opens one and squints at me for a second. “I’m terrified of heights,” he says.

I belong to the faubourg Saint-Patrice called Ireland for short

The weakness of a man is the strength of a woman