I am thinking of a color and missing this color and looking for this color and wanting this color so badly. It is a cold grey. A grey that might be wet. I don't know. A dull grey. A grey with black dots, and maybe browns and whites. I stepped on this grey and sat on this gray and listened to musicians and spoke with strangers. One who offered me cigarettes and a beer. And smiled on this grey. It was a darker version of the sky. And while I was with this grey, I thought of a green. A fresh green. A kind of green you want between your lips. And when I went back to the hotel room, the very expensive hotel room, where I had eaten starfruit and croissants that morning, and black sausages and a sweet Polynesian tea, I sat behind the red curtains. The deep red curtains. The kind of red you want inside you, the kind of red that comes out of a prick on your fingertip in the wintertime, in the cold driven snow. And behind these curtains, I stuck my hand out of the window, and saw a part of Dublin many had ignored. The greys in the skies, the greys on the ground. The promise of greens in the distance, the immediacy of the reds. This is when I thought of you.