So. This is it.
This is our reality.
If I could follow the pylons, I might just get to you faster:
We string those across fields and water and mountains, our roads follow the paths of rivers-
Hours. Hours it will take in that liminal space, between there and somewhere,
Hours of shitty WiFi and bus changes and looking out for that clock tower – our clock tower – in the vast green between Cashel and Cahir.
That digital connection, between masts and satellites and pieces of glass, it’s not good enough, is it? Not for us.
All we’ve known is each other in that empty frame of mind, reality between limbos, you in essence of halls and rippling grass and markered sheets of paper.