We drove to Dublin yesterday evening when it was still bright. It was almost dark when we got there. But you couldn't tell many city dwellers that. It's never day. It's never night. Maria'd gotten tickets to see one of those old men that should've stopped singing years ago only their fans have gotten older too, and nobody's able to let go. It's no harm really. I just never knew that that many elderly folk could file into one city like that. I got to sit in the back seat, on the left hand side, just behind the passenger seat. That's where I like to sit best in a car. It's always been my place, even if my brother tries to tell everybody differently. When we were younger, we both had long plastic brightly coloured strings that we tied to either side. His was green. Mine was pink. I don't know where we got them from, but it marked our territory. We were forever drawing invisible lines right down the middle, one whining about the other taking up too much space, when in reality there was more than enough space for all. Try telling a child that. Shane drove the whole way there and back last night, much like he always does, and I sat in my spot in the back, my knees up close to my face as I quietly hummed along to the only CD that was left there to play - an old almost scratched Damien Rice album I'd copied for Shane when we first met, all that time ago. Everybody always says that you don't see the stars in the city because of all the light. I think they just don't want to look up. As we sped back down the motorway, the sky was full to the brim with the most beautiful patterns and constellations that I sometimes recognise. There was one particular spot, and I could never be all too sure if it was just a reflection of light onto my glasses, or if the star followed me from every angle to which we turned. I guess logic would solve that mystery, but sometimes it's nice to believe otherwise. I drank coffee from a paper cup - the first time I had in months - and I felt more than intensely upset about the way this year has shaped itself so far, but I'll never admit that to anybody who chooses to ask. I slept in Shane's bed last night, with a small ray of blue light shining right onto my face, and I knew that if he'd pay attention for just a second, he'd see the slight glimmer of sadness rolling down my cheek, and for once maybe we'd talk about it without pretending it didn't happen. I don't know what he saw or what he chose to ignore, but suffice it to say, we didn't talk about it in the morning.