Sending cinders to the tailor. Memories of Norman Mailer.
He spoke with the lilt of a boxer from the Emerald Isles – he would have liked that image I think.
Everything had the after-effect as caused by the timbre of Tuscan Italian spoken softly, but with the strength of a raging bull.
Each sentence was a self-contained poem, and left hook.
An American dream, an occasional nightmare and great dinner invitations.
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