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Thought is the thought of thought.
History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.
Corny might have given us a more commodious yoke, Mr Power said.
Wonder if he pays rent to the corporation. How can you own water really?
It’s always flowing in a stream, never the same, which in the stream of life we trace. Because life is a stream.
Look at his mouth. Could whistle in his own ear.
Lotus ladies tend them i’the eyes, their pineal glands aglow. Filled with his god, he thrones, Buddh under plantain. Gulfer of souls, engulfer. Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls. Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they bewail.
Life is many days. This will end.
Course everything is dear if you don’t want it.
The crier: (Loudly) Whereas Leopold Bloom of no fixed abode is a wellknown dynamitard, forger, bigamist, bawd and cuckold and a public nuisance to the citizens of Dublin
Both preferred a continental to an insular manner of life, a cisatlantic to a transatlantic place of residence.
He kissed the plump mellow yellow smellow melons of her rump, on each plump melonous hemisphere, in their mellow yellow furrow, with obscure prolonged provocative melonsmellonous osculation.
I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.