And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon, the purple apples of the sun
Stephen Moran
@sjmoran.com
1.2K followers 327 following 3K posts
London Irish from Dublin, 1954-2854. Books: The London Silence, Day of the Flying Leaves, Ghosts and Pigeons. Made a living from computer programming. Website: StephenMoransMuseumOfIllusions.WordPress.com. Oligarchs depend on us. We don't need them.
![Image of page 71 from a book showing the start of a story titled in oversized Garamond Italic "The End", then a section title "Hostel". The opening of the story can then be seen, cut off at the bottom of the page in mid-sentence, as follows:
The End
Hostel
[italics]
Tunnel! Forget your shame, your degradation. Let the sound of the train be a machine gun cutting you down. Light again! Shut your eyes.
[end italics]
He had landed at Dover, carried along in a slow-moving crowd. A uniformed man stamped his Irish passport. The money went quickly in Paris, even living on croque monsieur and draft beer. He had a room under the roof of a pension near the Place d’Italie. At night the spring fragrance of the city filled the room through the open window, bearing traces of Turkish tobacco and lady of the night.
[italics]
Tunnel! Remember the presents you bought her. She rejected them. Rattle that gun! Let it cut you down. Light! The sound of a sabre as it beheads you is the word, ‘Forget.’
[end italics]
England is not black and white, the News of the World](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:tyb3cc6v6wl5gakqhvhncipz/bafkreibewtplho5armeazq5m5cvxrfrrlcm7oqpqvei4azmtbfof7n5l5e)
