A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
The Dead, James Joyce
"The soon-to-be most important lyricist of the 20th century met me at the ticket barrier of Piccadilly station earlier that afternoon.
I immediately saw that he had been putting on a ‘brave front’ since 1959, resisting both decimalisation and new fabrics. He looked a little like Patti Smith on the cover of “Horses” but dressed as Dee Dee Ramone and carried a satchel stuffed with vitamin pills and blank postcards. He would liberally distribute these postcards – upon which he scrawled cryptic messages – at bus stops, telephone booths and pubs. One might sit down in the snug of a bar to sip a gin and tonic only to find a card pinned under the ashtray bearing the communiqué:
“I ENJOY EMPHASIS IN THE WRONG PLACE.”
Alternatively, one peruses a bus schedule – iced cream in hand, en route into town to find a blank postcard slipped under the fibreglass mounting. Curious, you tease it out:
“YAWNING EMPTINESS DEMANDS EVER MORE DIMINISHING TREATS.”"
Just had an offer for a coat accepted on eBay, on the condition that I’m “a fellow skinhead”.