It’s in the smiles of Dubliners in celebration, in the tradition of a music that is not just live but keeps you alive, in the warmth of travel companions without whom every Ithaca would lose its appeal and with them, the joy of seeking it again and again. It’s the hidden corner of those who observe, who listen. If you watch the city from that darkness, from one of the countless bridges, you realize you’re suspended, granted, for a brief moment, a break from the chaos, and you feel closer to every thought you have. The mixed cobblestones of Temple Bar will soon bring you back in touch with the street, the pubs, the faces, the fleeting and accidental brawls like ephemeral whirlwinds, already forgiven as they pass. It’s a distracted escape, no longer a paralysis but a form of reclaiming. You share with her (the city) the feeling of reconquest, the stubborn will to begin every new adventure. The coming night is not just the absence of light: it’s the beginning of a new face of the day. In its reflections, in the dark alleys and streets, lies the temporary meaning of many things… mysterious, fascinating, secret, intimate. To be lived with urgency, to be burned through in the hours of idling, of girls pretending to be drunk, of loquacious silences filled with: “stars, deserts, lakes and hills to photograph, pubs to dance in and feel the heat, comfort on the couch, music, streaming and TV, wild exhaustion ready for bed, clashing, unexpected feelings, memories and words or smiling goodnight texts.”
