It’s raining. He’ll be soaked. I passed him on the way down the Ormeau Road. He was vomiting up cheap red wine. He was on his side, curled up in a ball, barely conscious, barely feeling his pain. He’d surrounded himself with bottles as if they were a wall against a hostile world. In a sense they are; drink keeps the horrors at bay. I know he’s a chronic alcoholic. I know that abrupt cessation will kill him, but not before it floods him with all his terrors, makes every nightmare come true in his own virtual reality show.
It’s been weeks since I saw the posters. They weren’t just on telephone boxes. Big money was spent on billboards. Don’t give money to the homeless; it fuels the addictions that keep them on the street. There are some serious defects in this reasoning. When I tell you who the organisations…
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