off again, and for good. has gone. works will follow.
Because you can't spell Ireland without ire...
If the world doesn't owe me a living, it at least owes me an apology. Wailing and gnashing of teeth from the thinking person's drunk.
I never know what to put here, so I let someone else do it for me:
“Shannon was born, as far as we know, was presently a child, and- after lengthy procrastination- eventually a man. He has been writing poetry as long as he can remember, but considering there are times he’s hard pressed to recall events of the previous evening, that statement might not be as impressive as it initially sounds. He has lead a long and sordid life, about which he will tell you- interminably- when drunk. A versatile performer, Shannon is as happy on top of the table as he is under it. To earn a crust he labours under a misapprehension. In nineteen ninety-nine he borrowed a fiver from me and is yet to give it back. He is often mistaken for a girl, and claims to have read Finnegans Wake.”- Caroline.
