She pushed me to the door. I said, “Before you say your piece, heed this; hearken to the sages: words said are words written on the fabric of your soul. They cannot be unsaid. A soul cannot turn back.”

She said, “Get the hell out of my house.”

I left.

Why there’s the very fellow. See Peter: in Dublin does he lurk, all beard and books. Perhaps today he is an extra on a film set, perhaps tomorrow he plays freelance with a camera, the day after that a writer. Wherever he is, whatever he is, he is most likely having coffee or thinking of his next one.