The days spent dreaming of a future
And say then, that was my life.
For the days are long –
From the first milk van
To the last shout in the night,
An eternity. But the weeks go by
Like birds; and the years, the years
Fly past anti-clockwise
Like clock hands in a bar mirror
J.P. Donleavy’s Dublin, by Derek Mahon
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Postcards from Poitiers 