That Unconceivable Line

I am a dripped trail of bitumen, defining the scored ground between Tyrone’s potholes and their Donegal cousins. I am a stream, clogged with black silage-wrap, dead sheep and discarded Coca-Cola bottles. I am the hunched hoodie in the Diesel Stop, two hundred yards inside the Republic, the thirty eggs for £3 or €4, whichever […]

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