the market was sleeping as we came awake . . .

Forget sports, I get cranky shoveling snow out of my face every other day and surfing on black ice. But we can remedy this with a fat bottle of vino and a bric a brac of Italian with easily translatable fruits and cheeses . Preferably on the holy day, whilst the Steelers of Pitt and the Packers of Lambeau are battling for the soul of the cursed minions.

This post is for those nights in the city when Bowie would run wallpaper against the ceilings and you would dance the candles to sleep. I would quote your favorite author and you would describe Ireland to me in the most nondenominational of terms.

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