A man came ashore the Emerald Isle. He pushed the bud of the blue pen onto a yellow paper. He thought he'd made a dot; a full stop, period, end of story. It was only the beginning. He did not part the pen from paper.
The dot changed into a line – a stanza, an etch, a musical note, a new hope. But really, it was just a line, a thread. Whatever it was, it was good enough. He followed that thread through the copper circuits of the city. When at last he did pause, he swiveled around to behold the fabled city, Dublin, traced by his imagination. It was only his first day.
