night wakes up. hear the wind is blowing hard. my bed has been so warm. shut my window, curtains trembling. my dream was all lament. but the white thin skins of new potatoes washed up in the clay and marrows big as zeppelins hiding in the leaves and tips of willow trees. i was wearing boots in a frog pond. at the end there was a horde coming across the fields with hooks so i swam away to sea.
rub the chill out of my hands, slap them for heat. i think a sup of my electric fire would be very cordial. right, ripe, ready, quick like that. hurry up the hot water to me in the pipes before i pull them out of the house altogether. to wash my face is a great relief and my teeth too. i’ll not wear this underwear but get into my suit nude. when i die i want to decompose in a barrel of porter and have it served in all the pubs in dublin. i wonder would they know its me?
-jp donleavy 1955