In Jim Cashman’s, Tara-val, Andi is shopping…
She stirs, she rubs her eyes; her nose it itches, maybe.
She snorts, and shuffles, and settles back.
She’s a babe in wraps, encased as she is within the atmosphere of this Irish, this Cork pub.
She sleeps while the atmosphere resonates. I wonder if she dreams in Cork, the Corkonian lure fluttering at the veils of her subconscious.
The notion that she is among people, their chattering, the clink and clatter of dishes, the voice of the barman querying, and here the words fall torrential on this page racing from back to front to meet a centre…
And still she sleeps.