And here we might rest, except that the insistence of what follows will never allow it. Whatever happens, I am next.

Thus go I to Lisbon in a dream, so that I may be here with myself and not dying. The flap of the cover wears bashfully little. And many crannys yet undiscovered nooks yet just there like the road bending through the village again out of sight. Lisbon is a name to give a place without a name, a city known to others more deserving—that I may deserve that knowing, go I thus in dream to Lisbon. In Winter Gillespie pipes Olipso, paint peeling from the sides of the narrow trains, what so many are the names echoed from the sea to have said this gently, the mapmaker, that it is the place for sailors and poets. Thus dream I in a going to of Lisbon.