I stayed at some hostel- cannot recall the name of it now- in Temple Bar, it seemed to be above a night club because I could hear music playing until the early hours of the morning, and then at the crack of dawn, the beer kegs would go “clang” “clang” “clang” on the cobblestones outside of my window. I wandered around in the cold of the city, and did not have a coat, so I found a secondhand shop & bought myself what I used to call my “milkman dan jacket”. One day out wandering, a homeless man offered me some of his leek & potato soup. I caught bronchitis. I wrote alot. It was a good place to walk around alone in the rain, with a journal. A miserable, wet, writerly place.