I saw Samuel Beckett on the 205 this morning. Ok, not Samuel. He died in Paris in 1989 when I was 22. But his doppelganger. Dark clothes. Amused eyes. That lined face. Matching most every later photograph of the man. With the possible exception of

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

I find Beckett largely impenetrable. Anyway he alighted at Patrick Street.

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