Pointman has such a way with words. He is so effective at grasping and conveying emotion.
My Irish lasses just might appreciate this. I suspect the Isle runs in their blood despite never having set a foot upon it.
(Don’t miss the Blade Runner reference. One of the great statements of that generation.)



It’s an Irish wedding in the far end of nowhere. Nowhere is on the rugged west coast of Ireland and is so heartbreakingly beautiful, it twists a bone inside of you which you never knew you had. It almost hurts. You take a breath every time you pause to look around, because you know you’re going to get it taken away.

Brutal jagged granite rocks you could cut your hands open on, young pointy mountains so new that ole man deep time hasn’t yet had a chance to chaw down on them, cold freezing waters with small but great fighting fish, a huge sky sent from God that changes from minute to microsecond, green rain-drenched grass but the warmth within it all is the people who carved a home out of the alternative to hell which was supposed to be Connaught.

We’re in the local tiny church and in a…

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