He wrote down immediately what he saw. The villagers collecting. The nomads heading off. The icon, still and perfect. But sometimes, for what he saw or felt, there were no words. No words would come. The writing stopped. His hand could not form a word. And the word he might have written down disappeared into the void. He no longer had any language in which he might contemplate the world, but only stinging asides from his past with Catherine. His memory was impaired, and since memory depended on words, no words would come except those which had already been defiled. So he listened intently to the others, as he had once listened to popular songs. He’d write down a sentence spoken by the villagers as they unrolled their bedclothes and greeted each other, as they shuffled towards breakfast, as they fasted before their pills.

It’s a dirty old morning, a voice sang out.

You’re a trickster – like a weather pot, came the reply.

What’s a weather pot?

A weather-gauge. A class of thermometer. Like yourself, it’s got two readings.

Oh.

I’ll give you £2 for the woollen cap.

How about £2. 50?

Are you a bit of a farmer?

Yes, and I worked in a factory in Killalla, God bless us. But it’s dear honey that’s licked off the whins. I’ve already lost two of these woollen hats. But they’re great, they are. You can roll them up and put them in your pocket.

Like a sheep. You can roll them up and put them in your pocket.

This will be all yours one day, my uncle told me. Oh, but if I had only got it in writing.

If I could only see her again, said Jack.

You’d be well, but sick again.

Where there’s two in it, the guilt is halved, said a listener.

People worry something wicked about themselves.

It’s a pity about them.

Each man has his savings, said an old trim voice.

I broke the rule to find out the right way, explained Bohola. I’m told the right way, but when you are used to your own way you can’t correct it.

God help us, Kiltimagh!

What is the name for a lady’s frustration?

Oh, sacred!

There is an earth outside the Shangrila, and its purpose is misguided, spoke the hippy. Could you help Jack to put it back on the path to Heaven?

We all have people somewhere, said Jack to the hairdresser.

Yes, and we’re not with them, she replied.

As time passed, he found one day was not long enough to contain all that happened in it. Each moment had at its centre a hint of eternity. Some day, he knew, he would lift these papers and hate them, yet it had to be done.