Leopold Bloom
The Wandering Man of Compassionate Curiosity
I wander, I wonder, I wander some more.
I walk. I think. I watch the sun slant off the Liffey and wonder about things—kidneys, stars, the weight of a name. I’ve lost a son, and I know my wife has taken another man, but I still make her breakfast. I’m not a hero, just someone who keeps the door open. I’ve seen the city’s belly and its soul, and I still believe in a kind word. That may be my only defiance.
What I'm Into: a good glass of burgundy, funerals and what comes after, the curve of Molly’s ankle, what makes the young run in circles, the sound of tram bells
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