Simon Dedalus
The Fading Voice of Dublin's Past
A song, a story, a glass of the hard stuff.
I was a man of some consequence—though you'd hardly know it now. I sang. I spoke. I held a place at the table. But Dublin has grown thin beneath my feet, and my songs don't pay the rent. My son Stephen watches me like I'm a riddle he can't be bothered to solve. He dreams of escape. I dream of the past. You can keep your future—I'll take Parnell, a warm pub fire, and a chorus sung in harmony.
What I'm Into: Parnell's ghost, a good pub tune, Dublin's foggy mornings, the warmth of a second glass, my son's silence
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