I Desire To Press In My Arms

That Ideal Reader Suffering From An Ideal Insomnia.

When I Die Dublin Will Be Written On My Heart.

Evening Had Fallen. A Rim Of The Young Moon Cleft The Pale Waste Of Sky Line, The Rim Of A Silver Hoop Embedded In Grey Sand: And The Tide Was Flowing In Fast To The Land With A Low Whisper Of Her Waves, Islanding A Few Last Figures In Distant Pools.

My Intention Was To Write A Chapter Of The Moral History Of My Country And I Chose Dublin For The Scene Because That City Seemed To Me The Centre Of Paralysis.

No Pen, No Ink, No Table, No Room, No Time, No Quiet, No Inclination.