You get a decent do at the Brazen Head

Ireland sober is Ireland stiff.

Thought is the thought of thought.

(...) You cruel creature, little mite of a thing with a heart the size of a fullstop.

When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street.

My puns are not trivial. They are quadrivial

The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence: silence that is infinite of space: and swiftly, silently the sound is wafted over regions of cycles of cycles of generations that have lived.