Sir, – I once wrote a letter.
Before pen hit paper, the page complained it could now never become a painting. The ink explained how it would be removed from its reservoir and would be used for words and not numbers as it once desired. The envelope moaned it would be sealed and posted when it only wanted to ever be used to gather dust.
I wrote about the time I travelled on a light-rail network from Dublin Airport to the city centre. Nobody asked about the page, ink or envelope ever again. – Yours, etc,
LIAM FINN,
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Ashtown,
Co Dublin.
