No darkness here — night is a long silver dusk, and sleep is a thing people agree to. The law of the country is one man's memory recited against a cliff, and this fortnight it is deciding what to say about gods. I am a trader's guest; my silence is read as dignity, which is cheap. Booth walls are turf, roofs are homespun cloth. Dublin has doors, so this goes there. Two weeks a year this is a city; then grass.