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Location: Dublin, Republic of, Ireland

Tuesday, 12 December 2006

To fiddle on yes? What else is there to do.

Hey, listen. I'm the lady who used to write you comedy.
Catch those laughs.
Slick stand-ups, monologues and the like.
Do you remember?
Where did that lady go? Did you see her? I've sent out a search warrant but she doesn't show.
I have lost my exuberance from this half-mended inner wound. If ever you spot it again, do let me know.
For now, it has vanished.
I must return to my stage play. No more pussyfooting about it. I say, I say. Naughty girl, me.
Just don't forget to put up a roadblock for my runaway exuberance. It's wrapped in a sweater of roses, to keep it from the cold and it stares dreamily at swallows in a sunset. And sometimes on a good day, it curls up to an old Marianne Faithfull song. The kind that makes you cry buckets. If you ever see it once more, do whistle up a storm. My soul fled with the flight of wind.
Now, I miss me.

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