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by Coner O'Callaghan
answers questions vaguely1, as if from distance, cares less for the dribs and drabs of his libido2; gets more droll3, lachrymose4, implicit5 with age; has backed from the room, the turntable moving and a refill pad lying open at the page with 'swansong' and 'glockenspiel' written on it; makes collect calls from payphones, lost for words; has been known to sleep in the rear seat on the hard shoulder, the hazards ticking; is given to sudden floods of hope; still dreams of swimming pools, in sepia; can take or leave a life in shadow; will whoop6 out of the blue and surface on the landing, fork and spoon in hand, adrift of what the done thing was; doodles butterflies on the envelopes of unread letters; travels happiest towards daylight and fancies pigeons; gets a kick inhabiting the third person, as if talking across himself or forever clapping his own exits from the wings. 点击收听单词发音
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