A Man's Errors Are His Portals Of

Terence O'ryan Heard Him And Straightway Brought Him A Crystal Cup Full Of The Foaming Ebon Ale Which The Noble Twin Brothers Bungiveagh And Bungardilaun Brew Ever In Their Divine Alevats, Cunning As The Sons Of Deathless Leda. For They Garner The Succulent Berries Of The Hop And Mass And Sift And Bruise And Brew Them And They Mix Therewith Sour Juices And Bring The Must To The Sacred Fire And Cease Not Night Or Day From Their Toil, Those Cunning Brothers, Lords Of The Vat.

Phall If You But Will, Rise You Must: And None So Soon Either Shall The Pharce For The Nunce Come To A Setdown Secular Phoenish.

For Myself, I Always Write About Dublin, Because If I Can Get To The Heart Of Dublin I Can Get To The Heart Of All The Cities Of The World. In The Particular Is Contained The Universal.

A Man Of Genius Makes No Mistakes; His Errors Are Volitional And Are The Portals Of Discovery.

What Did That Mean, To Kiss? You Put Your Face Up Like That To Say Goodnight And Then His Mother Put Her Face Down. That Was To Kiss. His Mother Put Her Lips On His Cheek; Her Lips Were Soft And They Wetted His Cheek; And They Made A Tiny Little Noise: Kiss. Why Did People Do That With Their Two Faces?