I wondered what it would be like to live in Joyce's Dublin. I imagined myself sitting on a bench looking at the shadows of the clouds as they passed by. I wouldn't be totally aware of my surroundings, but they would merge together, bringing on a Gestalt flash in me. The city and its inhabitants would be like shadow puppets, and only my thoughts would be lucid.

I have to settle for this wintry city. Walking down the sidewalk, I look down and see the asphalt merge and float by. Like I'm lost in the Sahara, I can't afford to keep my eyes open more than halfway. I feel like I'm in undiscovered territory, a hero journeying through harsh lands.

Those who enter my periphery go unnoticed. The trees and gables merge into one gray viscous sea. Suddenly, despite the wind's lacerations, I am in Ireland in June.