The Penis of Dublin
<p>They call it the Millennium Spire, casting a light on the otherwise dark and gloomy Irish weather. Five decades since Nelson blew up from his height, replaced by this metal rod. Men and women of all ages conglomerate here. James Joyce watches with frozen eyes as shuttle buses arrive from the airport and leave once again. Others take students to the University College, some go to Dún Laoghaire or Howth for an afternoon stroll. The sun sets behind it, shining O’Connell street in a dusty haze.</p>
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