Nothing Ever Burns Down By Itself by Aisling Walsh
he narrow passage of cinder block painted
matte white, with its grey industrial carpet and fluorescent lighting was my
eventual weekend and summer playground from eleven years of age until my late
teens. Left alone to wander the corridor I would do rounds reading over each
framed poster documenting theatre performances from the early 80s, before I was
even born, to the present.
...READ MORE