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tastyykpop · 3 years

Text

𝑆𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝐶𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑢𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛

•pairings: enemy, barista and student!jaemin x student and barista!reader

♡𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡♡

<next>

•warnings: dom!jaemin, brat!reader, brat taming, crying kink, hair pulling, choking, small praising, small size kink, degradation (slut, whore), dumbification (sexual and non sexual use) nanas kinda mean :( but gets a lil nicer :), jaemin refers to himself as nana a lot mostly when they do the dirty, bulging kink, pet names (princess, baby, baby girl, little girl, pretty girl), unprotected sex (please be safe), slight face slapping (he slaps her once), rough sex clearly, some sexual tension, I hope i got everything

You were fuming!

The boy in front of you not even batting an eyelash, just laughing at the mess dripping down your face.

You smelt like an iced americano.

People around you held their hands to their mouths in shock and others tried to hold back their laughter. Some even pointed at you or gave sympathetic looks.

It wasnt like people were surprised anymore. Jaemin always had something up his sleeve for you. But he never went as far as pouring his coffee on you.

"Aw poor baby. Do you need a napkin?" He faked sympathy with a pout and his friends began laughing. You just got up and walk by them, making sure to bump into jaemins shoulder on your way through.

It was almost everyday that Jaemin would do something so uncalled for. It was like he was made to push your buttons. Even as you're walking out of the college building, you can still hear the boy laughing at you. Or maybe it was the other students. Either way, you wanted to kill him.

As you trudged towards your car, a sense of relief washed over you. A great happiness that only comes when you finished your classes and could go home. Only this happiness stayed for a good 2 hours until you have to go to your part time job at the cafe with your favorite person of course. But its not like you can quit. You need the money so you can live and get the education you need, no matter how hard it is being with him.

It was then when you sat in your car and the squishing in the seat made your face curl into a scowl, only made you think of ways to get away with murder. It was gross really. The seats were sticky, plus your hair and clothes were sticking to you like lip gloss. A shower would be perfect right about now.

"Hi y- oh..." Your roommate, jimin, stared at your messy state. Giving you a good up and down before shrugging his shoulders, "jaemin?"

You sighed, walking over to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, "Who else? Its always him."

Jimin gave you a small smile and came closer as if ready to hug you but didn't because he didn't want to get sticky. "You know, maybe you should quit that job."

"No."

He groaned and snatched the water that you were about to sip, "Why? You'd only see jaemin in school. And you wouldnt have to stick with his bickering in work." He huffed, shaking his head, "Girls are so difficult sometimes."

You tried leaping up to grab the bottle from jimin, but all he did was hold it above his head. You stomped on his foot in return. Jimin huddled over and you snatched the bottle, smirking with victory as you put it to your lips.

"You fucking snake." Jimin hissed in pain.

A laugh fell from your lips as you walked by him, completely ignoring his words and his pain, "Im gonna take a shower."

Once you got to your room, the first thing you did was grab your work clothes, a towel, and underwear and got ready for the warm shower.

After you switched on the water and let it heat up, you stepped in and immediately felt at peace as the water cascaded over your body, cleaning off the almost dried coffee. Your hair felt lighter, like a feather and your fingers could now slip through the strands easily without an issue. The scent of your body wash overpowered the coffee smell and you felt much better. Water, soap, and coffee were beginning to fill the drain as you finished washing up. You rolled your eyes at the sight of the murky water. What a bastard.

For once you were actually happy to wear your work clothes after what had happened earlier. The clothes actually felt comfortable and jimin was becoming more and more confused as to why you were hugging yourself with a huge smile on the couch.

"No one should be that happy after a shower." He started flipping through channels on the t.v.

"Dont tell me how to feel, I dont smell like jaemins coffee anymore." You gushed overdramtically. Jimin could only role his eyes.

"Please...you act like he's a demon of some sort."

You squinted your eyes at jimin and flared your nostrils, "he is. Hes a nasty, dumb, annoying, self centered-"

"Okay okay I get it! You hate jaemin! The funny thing is you can never get his name out of your mouth." Everything stopped and your head snapped in jimins directions.

"What are you saying?" A frown found itself on your face, jimin leaned closer.

"Im saying that maybe you might like him."

You shrieked in disgust, blocking your ears with your hands. Jimin laughed at your reaction. Almost falling off the couch in the process. "Ew! Gross! Why would you even think that!"

"Like I said, you can never get his name out of your mouth. I think its pretty obvious you like him." He was still giggling at you except your face was anything but happy, more grossed out at how he thought you could like such a person

"I can't stand you. I'm leaving for work." You stood up and jimin did nothing to stop you from going. Even though you still had about 15 minutes until you normally leave. "Ill be back at 9." The door slammed behind you, leaving jimin alone with another laughing fit.

You got in the car and drove off to your work, still trying to come up with a reason as to why jimin is saying all this. Sure maybe you talk about jaemin a little lot but that doesn't mean you like him. Its very much the opposite and jimin should know that. It only frustrates you the more you think about it. Liking someone like jaemin? Please. That would be your nightmare.

As you pulled up to the cafe, there were only a few other cars parked. Few were from other workers but the majority were most like customers or people just trying to get a free parking space. Lucky for you, there were many open spaces, unlike when you come later and they're filled. Maybe leaving earlier wasnt such a bad idea. It saved you the 3 minute walk.

"Y/n! You're just on time!" One of your coworkers, irene, called out as you stepped inside the shop. "We need help back here!" You had no time to even begin to say your shift hasn't started yet when irene took you by the hand and dragged you to where the coffee was being made. "We have a bunch of online orders coming in so can you please help us with the coffee and food?" She tossed you a brown apron for you to put on and you nodded, trying to get your brain to speed up with everything in the world.

It was so quiet when you walked in that you never even realized that the back was busy. Coffee cups were filled and put into trays for orders, food was being heated or baked. It was a chaotic place right now and all you could do was help. So as fast as you could, you began with the first order on the screen. A large mocha with extra extra sugar, whipped cream, and chocolate curls. Easy enough you thought as you reached for a cup but a hand beat you to it.

Your eyes looked up at the person in front of you and just when you thought everything was going fine, it wasn't, "What are you doing here so early?" You asked bitterly.

"I always come in early. What are you doing here so early?" Jaemin asked whilst holding a death grip on the cup.

"Just felt like coming early." You muttered, watching as jaemin turned away with a scoff, quickly cutting the conversation short. "Bastard."

Jaemin was busy making what you were originally going to do, so you looked for another order to get ready. It was just two cake pops and a small strawberry banana smoothie. Something you've been craving recently from the lack of sweetness and fruit in your day to day life.

The cake pops and smoothie were quick to make and were soon sent off to the customer. You happily beamed and wished them good day once they left.

After then there was a familiar face with a friend right next to him, he was quite handsome you must say. He was indeed so handsome that he just looked unreal. "Hey jimin. Whose this?" You nodded towards the bright black haired man.

"This is taemin! He wanted some coffee so I brought him- hey stop staring at him!" Jimin snapped you out of your trance and taemin chuckled.

"Its okay shes cute." He eye smiled, showing off his perfectly white teeth. He's definitely not real.

Jimin tsk'd, "Until you get to know her."

"Yeah yeah... whatever." You smiled at him, completely oblivious to what he just said.

They both ordered and took a seat next to the window. You were still staring at taemin with your head in your hand until someone tapped your shoulder, "Who are they?" Jaemins voice rang in your ears, making you stand up straight.

"Thats my roommate, jimin, and his friend taemin." You glanced back at the boys, mainly at taemin and just stared like he was your first crush.

"Quit staring your gonna scare him away." Jaemin said earning himself a chuckle from you.

You stuck your tongue out, "He called me cute."

The boy smirked from ear to ear and leaned in close to your face, "He was lying." You grumbled and pushed him away from you, getting annoyed by his presence very quickly.

"Jaemin and y/n, get back to work we have orders to do!" Irene called out. Both of you quickly returning to your stations and getting things ready.

"Look at him. Hes basically waiting for me to come over to him." Seulgi, another person in this school you dispise, said as she looked at jaemin in the back of the room. She wasn't very quiet either considering you were only a few seats away from him. So it only meant that jaemin could hear her, but chose to ignore it. Typical boy.

"Honestly. He looks so good today too." Sana, her best friend, commented.

"Oh and did you hear what he was planning on doing today to y/n? Apparently he's gonna-"

"Class get back in your seats, we have much to discuss." The professor stood in the front of the class. Everyone shifted and moved to their appropriate places and waited for the teacher to begin. Unlike you, who was wondering what seulgi was going to say next. If its something worse than coffee being poured on your head, you may just have to bury yourself six feet under after this.

As you were taking notes something flung towards your head and hit you on the side, looking over was jaemin with a smirk was he held his fingers in a sling shot shape. A rubber band was laying on your lap. Then another one. One even hit your cheek creating a small smack sound as you winced in pain. Oh you desperately wanted to get out of this seat and punch the boy in the face.

"Excuse me sir!" You called out, raising your head. The whole class looked at you and your cheeks began to heat up. "May i go to the restroom?" The professor nodded and you headed out. Not until you stopped in your tracks from a loud smack to your butt, causing the whole class to turn around again.

Jaemin was enjoying this, the way you stared at him with wide eyes and open mouth, made him just want to do it again. He never thought this reaction from you would be so entertaining and he tried his best not show it, with only a small smirk covering his face.

You rushed out of the room, faster than ever and leaned against the nearest surface you could find. Not only were you questioning reality, but also why jaemin just did that.

"That little bitch." You said to yourself as you paced back and forth in the hallway, staring at the ground.

"Excuse me?" Jaemin voice rang in your ears as you looked up with a angry red face. Steam was even coming out of your ears and nose. "Did you just call nana a bitch?" He put his hands to his chest and pouted, "Little girl you need to learn some manners." Jaemin tilted his head to the side and began walking forward.

"Shut up." You had nothing else to say as you grit your teeth, looking at the ground.

Jaemin didnt like that and grabbed the back of your neck to make you look at him, "What? Did your stupid head stop thinking? Your normally so chatty for nana what happened?"

"Jaemin i-" you cut yourself off as you felt jaemin grip the back of your neck tighter causing you to moan in pain.

"Stupid girl." Jaemin whispered, forcefully pushing you away. It was not strong enough to make you fall but at least stumble.

You glowered, earning yourself a chuckle from him. "What will it take for you to leave me alone!?"

"Bring this to table 15 please! Thanks!" Irene smiled as she handed you a small cup of iced coffee and you took it, taking it to its designated place. What you didn't except was to see taemin again, gleaming up at you.

"Hi y/n." He smiled and you tried to remain calm.

God how is someone so beautiful?

"Hey, I didnt except you to come back." You returned the warm smile and started to play with the apron around your waist.

Taemin giggled, "I actually quite like this place, its cozy." He began to take a sip from the straw, eyes still trained on you. If only you weren't so awkward with him, you wouldve found something to say other than staring at him and indulging in the beauty before you. But lucky for you someone behind the counter called for you, quickly averting your attention back to work.

The next order was a shake, so you grabbed the correct ingredients and began using the blendor, when someone came next to you, doing the same thing "You seem like your having fun flirting around." The unwanted conversation with jaemin began, "makes nana kind of jealous."

"Hm funny." You ignored him and continued blending the ice cream.

Jaemin casually rolled his eyes and glanced down at your nonchalant face before returning back to the blender, "you know you really do piss me off."

You sneered and snickered to yourself, "what are you gonna do about it?"

"I was thinking of fucking you dumb or until you know your place but maybe thats a bit too rewarding."

The cup was removed and set aside from the blender with your hands placed on your hips, "Im sorry what?"

"Did I stutter?" Jaemin raised an eyebrow and also put the cup down. You went silent, not knowing whether or not to just laugh it off or quickly run away. "And I'm still waiting on my apology."

"One, I am not going to apologize to your bitchy ass. Two, even if I did let you, you could never 'fuck me dumb', it just wouldn't happen. Now stop trying to get in my pants."

Jaemin opened then closed his mouth about to say something, but didn't and just put on a sweet smile, "Go take these to table 7 for nana." He said like he was testing yoj.

"Why? You made them."

"Nana told you to do something little girl, now do it." Jaemins sweet smile was still plastered on his face yet it intimidated you enough to do as he said.

Taemin was long gone when you walked out and you were kind of sad as you weren't able to say goodbye before he left. You placed the shake down on the table and was ready to walk away when you heard your name being called.

"Y/n? You work here?" Seulgis voice spoke as you turned around. Both her and sana were looking at you with shit eating grins.

"Doesn't jaemin also work here seulgi?" Sana asked the girl in front of her and seulgi looked as if she got the brightest idea.

"Oh yeah! Y/n can you get jaemin over here? Pretty please?" She asked sweetly yet with a hint of sourness and you listened, not feeling like ignoring her at the moment.

You told jaemin that seulgi and sana were out front looking for him and he nonchalantly went out without question. Leaving you to do some of the work alone, which you didn't mind considering its jaemin, the annoying bastard who won't leave you alone, but he does help you whenever you need it. And right now, it was a bit busy, and you needed it.

After doing 4 more online orders and sending them off through the driveway, jaemin finally came back with a scowl on his face looking ready to beat someone up. "What the hell is wrong with you!?" He raised his voice only loud enough for you to hear. But you were quite confused on what was happening.

"What are you talking about?" You asked, tilting your head to the side like a puppy.

Jaemin groaned, "I knew you were fucking dumb but come on y/n! Why is seulgi covered in the shake i gave you?"

You paused for a moment, unable to answer that. Is he assuming you spilt her shake on her? Why would you even do that in the first place. Yeah you don't like her, but you're not going to stoop to her or his level. "I dont know."

He slammed his hand on the wall near your head, startling you a bit, "You dont know huh?" You shook your head slowly. "Seulgi and sana both said you purposefully spilt the shake on seulgi. Now answer me honestly. Is that true?" You shook your head again, feeling really small and helpless under his strong gaze.

"I-i didnt spill t-the skake." You muttered quietly.

He inhaled sharply, "Then who did huh? Or maybe you don't know because you're so dumb."

"S-stop..." you frowned, looking down at floor, but jaemin had other plans and made you look up at him. A single tear slide down your cheek and you swear you saw a small grin appear on his face.

"Tell nana what happened." His voice became softer as he swiped away the stray tear on your face.

You huffed, still afraid that he'd do something to you although you knew he wouldnt purposely cause you pain. "W-well she asked me to go get you, which I did, a-and her shake was perfectly fine when I left."

"Are you saying she purposely spilt the shake on herself to make me angry at you?"

"Y-yes."

"Ill believe my little girl for now, but if I find out you are lying, you will be in big trouble got that?" Jaemin lifted his hand off the wall and proceeded to walk back out of the room. Leaving you shocked at his words and still frightened by an angry jaemin.

You went to the cash register once jaemin left to get ready to count the bills until you heard jaemin and seulgi arguing. Lucky for them, no one but you and him were working right now. Irene went home earlier and the normal crew always leave around 6:30, leaving just you and jaemin.

"It was only a prank nana. No need to get so worked up. And besides you didn't even prank her today, be glad I did for you." Seulgi said smiling at the boy in front of her.

Jaemin physically cringed when he heard his nickname roll off her tongue, "you didn't have to do that."

You stood there watching, astonished how jaemin was standing up for you. Hes supposed to hate you. Jaemin didn't even bother going with the girls when they offered him a ride, instead he stayed with you and even helped close. Something he normally doesn't do because he leaves before you and gives you all the hard things to do.

"Hurry up and finish." Jaemin spoke. A little bit of anger still laced in his voice.

"Whats your rush?"

He sighed, "I wanna go home. Plus I can't stand this place right now. I'm pissed."

You finished wiping down that last table and walked over to him, "Just go home then."

"Not without you."

You gave him a dirty look, "im not going home with you."

Jaemin leaned down, his face only inches from yours and whispered, "Remember what I said earlier hm? I wanna fuck you dumb." He then grabbed your waist bringing you closer to him, if that was possible, "Can I do that pretty girl? Can nana fuck you so hard you won't even remember anything but my cock?" You were so lost in your mind that everything became a blur. Jaemins words sounded so sweet but were so lewd. And you were so close to kissing him until he put his finger on your lips, "But you have to wait." You frowned and were only getting more angry by the second. You went from not wanting anything to do with jaemin to just about ready to beg him to kiss you. Was it that easy for him to get in your head? Or were you so sex deprived that now jaemin seemed somewhat interesting?

You laid on jaemins bed getting bored with the constant teasing. He never did anything but that. Jaemin would get close to your lips and back away as you chased him. Hed chuckle and coo at you for being so desperate. But that wasn't the point of all the teasing. He really just wanted you to beg him to kiss you. No words will come out of his mouth telling you to beg, he just excepted it to happen sooner or later. But youre too stubborn to do so, so you grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down to kiss him, catching him by surprise.

Jaemins hands gripped your wrists and pulled them off his face, pinning them to the bed, "You didnt even ask to kiss me." Jaemin pulled away, raising his eyebrow high, "Dont you think thats a bit mean."

"So was teasing me, but I let you continue." You huffed, trying to free your wrists from his death grip but it was no use.

"You dont have a say on whether i continue or not. I'm in charge here and you take what I give you, understand?" You rolled your eyes. It was your intention to make jaemin angry. You wanted to push his buttons.

What you didnt know was that not answering jaemin correctly would earn you a slap to the face. And jaemin was not even fazed by it.

"Dont roll your eyes and answer nana." Jaemin smiled. "Can you say 'yes nana'?"

"Y-yes nana."

"Good girl." Jaemin muttered and began slowly kissing your jawline down to your neck, sucking here and there creating shades of purple and red marks. Oh how he loved the marks he was leaving.

You so desperately wanted to grip onto jaemins hair and pull it but he never budged his hands, only tightening his grasps. As he continued attacking your neck, you began to lift your hips up to get some sort friction. Jaemin noticed and shifted so that his thigh was in between your legs and rubbing against your clothed core. A spew of quiet moans left your lips but you wanted more. Jaemin was going to soft and slow for your liking.

"I thought you were going to fuck me dumb?" You said and jaemin lifted his head to give you a quick kiss on the lips.

"Patience baby. You aren't ready yet." He let go of your wrists and took your shirt off. The cold air made you shiver and jaemin chuckled. "I wanna make you cum at least 2 times before I fuck you."

"Then stop talking and do it." You replied, pushing your hips up to rub against his thigh, but they were pushed back down on the bed.

"Didnt I say to take what I give you?" Your head slowly moved up and down and jaemin smiled, "so why arent you happy with what nana gives you?"

"I want more..." you sighed as he started to slide your pants and panties off, discarding them somewhere in the room. His mouth slowly started kissing your inner thighs and you could feel your heat dripping with anticipation. You whined for more but only got a slap to the thigh telling you to be quiet. Needless to say you didn't listen and continued to try to get him closer to where you needed him most but pulling his hair.

Jaemin groaned grabbing your wrist again and pushed it away roughly. His patience was wearing out. You were more stubborn than he thought, but that doesn't mean he can't still break you. "Next time you do that, I'll flip you over and beat your ass till its purple." Your breath hitched and as much as you were tempted, you wanted to be able to sit for a few days so you stayed put and kept your hands to yourself.

But the desperation was getting to you and you wanted relief which jaemin wasnt giving you until you felt his two fingers circling around your clit. "P-please jaemin." You moaned as he flicked your clit with his middle finger. Then soon enough he stuck two fingers inside you. Your pussy automatically clenching around his digits as he moved at a steady in and out pace.

It felt so good. His fingers felt so good. They made your body twist in pleasure as more moans left your mouth. Jaemin was watching your face closely as it contorted with pleasure. He loved seeing your eyebrows bunched together, so focused on the way his fingers worked inside you.

"My pretty slut. Taking nanas fingers so well." He gushed, still watching your face. Jaemin could feel himself get even more painfully hard but he didn't want to fuck you just yet. He meant it when he said he wanted you to cum 2 times. So he picked up the speed with his fingers, your hands landing on his forearm that was resting on near your hip. "Are you gonna cum for nana princess?"

You frantically nodded your head as a wave of pleasure washed over you. You could feel your cum leak out of you as jaemin leaned down and began eating away at your cunt.

"J-jaemin! So...go-good!" Your head flew back as his tongue sucked on your clit and a loud moan filled the room.

Jaemin smirked against your heat, "I haven't even fucked you yet and your already sounding like a dumb whore. Its so easy to break you princess."

"N-no its j-ju-...." you whimpered as your brain wasnt even trying to help you function right. His tongue was extraordinary. "Mmmm."

"Aw my dumb little princess is so cute." He muttered diving back into lapping at your soaked cunt. It was almost as if on cue and without warning, you were cumming again. Jaemins hasty tongue took it all. Groaning at the taste of you in his mouth.

He sat up over you, grabbing your neck, pulling you into a deep kiss. You tasted yourself on his tongue. Deepening the kiss by grabbing the back of his hair, jaemin couldnt help but moan a bit as his cock brushed against your thigh. He felt big. Bigger than the few guys you've been with and you were ecstatic.

You tugged on jaemins pants and shirt as a way to tell him to take them off and he did after getting off of you and sitting on the edge of the bed. His abs were more defined than you thought and when his cock sprung free, your mouth started watering. Jaemins smirk only grew watching you stare. He was starting to get cocky

"What? You wanna suck my cock?" Jaemin asked sweetly.

"Yes please." You reached over to try and touch him but he didn't allow you. And smacked your hand away. It was a way for him to tease you and you hated it.

"So kind for nana now. Ealier you were so cock hungry that you decided to be a brat. Did nana finally break you?" Jaemin whispered as he moved a piece of hair out of your face, looking at you with fill admiration.

"No you didn't break me. But I wanna suck you off." You whined as jaemin picked you up and sat you just above his cock, the tip teasing at your entrance.

"Too bad. Now I want you to sit." Jaemin said looking into your eyes. You obeyed with a little hesitation. His cock was surely going to hurt you so you took it slowly and started lowering your hips. "Fuck...thats a good girl." Jaemin praised, watching his cock dissappear between your legs and your tummy get full with his cock. "My baby's so tiny you can see my cock in your belly." He said, pushing down on the area where he was imprinted in you.

Slowly you started moving, lifting your hips up and down. You were wet enough that he could easily slide in and out with no problem.

Jaemins head fell back as he sighed with relief, grunting as you picked up the pace, "So tight for nana." He whispered and you moaned back loudly. His cock stretched every inch of you to the point where it felt like you'd split.

"More more more." You whined against jaemins neck, gripping his shoulders tightly. Carefully jaemin flipped you both over so he was on top and continued pounding into your destroyed cunt. He kept a hand around your neck squeezing it every so often as a choked out moan left your throat.

His cock was so deep and fast that you couldn't think straight. You kept blabbering about his cock. Only thing on your mind was how nice he felt inside you. Jaemin bit his lip as he smirked at you, grabbing your hair and bringing your face close to his, "Now will you admit that I fucked you dumb and say your nanas dumb slut?"

"Y-yes, I'm na-nanas dumb sl-slut." You cried, tears falling down your face from how good he felt inside and if you thought jaemin couldn't go any faster, he did. His thrusts were hard and rough, sure enough to hurt your thighs tomorrow as he pounded relentlessly. "So close." Your voice came out choked as your eyes rolled to the back of your head. You held on to jaemins hand that was on your neck as he helped you with your orgasm.

Jaemin wasnt far behind you with his and groaned loudly, "fuck, where do you want it princess?"

"I-inside." You moaned as the feeling of hot cum was shot inside you. Jaemins hips kept moving him through his orgasm until he slowly came to a stop. Both of you panted loudly, there were even a few tears falling down your cheek here and there.

Jaemin slowly pulled out, making sure not to hurt you, and he laid beside you. "You did so well." He kissed your forehead. "Cmon ill carry you to bathroom so we can take a bath." He said picking up your worn out naked figure with so much care. Making you forget he was your enemy.

#nct smut #nct #na jaemin #na jaemin smut #kpop #kpop smut #nct 127 #nct dream #wayv #nct u #jaemin #jaemin nct dream #jaemin nct #nct dream smut #wayv smut #nct 127 smut

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b-rainlet · 3 years

Note

📓📓📓📓

- the-scarecrxw

(Since you sent 4 of those emojis I'm gonna go off but I'll stick to one in this answer and make seperate posts for the others aksnsns)

I can't give you anything Jonathan centric (that isn't Tommy/Jonathan, one of my fave rarepairs) but Jerome features in lots of my AUs.

This one is one of my faves that's entirely self-indulgent and if it ever gets written it's probably gonna be the longest fic I ever published (Again: If it ever gets written):

I gotta apologize in advance, it's just a fun little AU I haven't put too much thoughts into in terms of plotting so this is gonna be A. Long, B. Messy and C. A little chaotic

- First off, you gotta understand that @nsfwitchy2 Me had some fun with a pretty nonsensical and definitely not canon-compliant AU where Jerome and Jeremiah have three Mums (Tabby, Lee and Barbara, who all date) and live with them and Barbara Lee as their little sister.

- Ecco also lives with them, she sees herself as both the twins' gf more than a genuine part of the family tho (for now)

- (Meanwhile at Wayne Manor Alfred and Jim date and are very tired parents of Bruce and his clone 514A, in this AU - and pretty much every AU - nicknamed Brook)

- (Selina kinda goes back and forth between living at Wayne Manor or at Lee's place)

- Also, everyone dates. The twins. The clones. Eccomiah, Jecco, Batcat, Valeyne, Wayleska, they're all fucking

- Which isn't THAT important for this particular AU but I figured I'd give a warning xD

- This is mostly my attempt to give Tabitha some more backstory? Just...how I personally see her character and how I could see her end up if things would've went differently after S2

- The google docs file is called 'How Tabitha started being a Mum while disregarding canon completely' lmao

- Like her current life involves having 4 kids (if you count Selina) and two wives and that's a hell of an AU and I just like to overthink things and play with the way things would have needed to have gone in canon to have her 'end up' like this

- Also I can see her struggling with having a family all if a sudden (that isn't a manipulative brother or a weird cult)

-Especially if that involves Motherhood

- So on one hand it's a 'S2 until now' fic, explaining what happened to her in my canon

- But also - mostly because I find that easier to organize in my brain - it's interwoven with a 5+1-esque fic of all her children calling her 'Mum' (and her getting emotional over that)

- So it switches back and forth between the past and the present but for rambling's sake, I'll start with the past

- She still leaves Theo behind and flees with Silver but she keeps Silver close instead of immediately sending her away

- And her and Silver get taken in by Fish after they leave Theo because they have nowhere to go and Fish loves taking care of strays

- (Fish, who probably didn't end up in Indian Hill but rather lives in hiding until she is ready to strike against Penguin)

- She refers to herself as Liza's Mother in canon, you can't tell me she wouldn't instantly adopt Tabby and call her 'Honey' and give her motherly advice while Tabby tries to be all bite but actually enjoys somebody taking care of her for once

- Selina🤝Tabby

'Trying so very hard all the time to not show how soft and insecure they are'

- Actually, I'd start diverting from Canon even sooner aksnsjd

- Well not full on changing canon, but I'd...pepper in some stuff

- Like some scenes of her back with Theo and the Maniax

- Mostly her talking to Theo about Jerome's planned murder, which, yeah, she knows it's been set in stone from the beginning but that doesn't mean that she isn't talking about alternatives where he doesn't get killed off

- And Theo's like "Don't tell me you're going soft. No one will miss him. He was just a boy. Not worthy enough to be remembered."

- And later on she betrays him and goes 'I remember him'

- Anyway, they stay with Fish for a while but Tabby doesn't wanna keep Silver in Gotham

- So she sends her back to the school she went to before coming to Gotham with Theo (but makes sure their weird cult can't get their hands on her there)

- And Silver wants her to come with but Tabby says she has some unfinished business

- Aka she just doesn't wanna leave Barbara (who is in a coma atm, if Memory serves right)

- And Tabby's reasoning is that it's not safe in Gotham but really, she thinks she can't be responsible for another person

- "She needs a mother. A Family. I can't give her that." - "You are her family."

- So Silver's out of the picture and Tabby hangs with Fish until Barbara wakes up and they get together again (and never ever seperate)

- Also there's no Butch/Tabby because that was unnecessary as fuck

- And I gotta be honest, I haven't thought more about canon because Butch/Tabby alone makes my head hurt already but somehow they start dating Lee

- Who brings Jerome into the relationship because I sure am fond of Lee being Jerome's Mother (like as in, I have several wips with that concept alone not counting this one)

- Jerome probably came back to life after S3 and Lee fought to have him not be treated like a violent criminal but rather a child who was taken advantage of and after his release from Arkham (where she visited him and made sure he got some proper treatment) it seemed natural to have him live with her

- (But also he's still a criminal aksnsjs, you can see how much I thought about this)

- (Sue me for sticking to the heartfelt scenes and avoiding the mess that is plotting)

- Tabby and Barbara already had Selina and through Jerome, Jeremiah and Ecco were added et voila! Their Family is complete

- (Why exactly Barbara Lee exists if Tabby and Barbara have been non-stop dating since S2 I can't tell you, I simply think she is neat and I like the idea of big brother Jerome)

- (This AU? Self-indulgent? Why would you ever think that?)

- In the present however she is dealing with what is mostly referred to as 'feelings'

- Mostly panic at realizing that the bunch of weird children she's been living with are seeing her as some kind of parental figure

- Because suddenly they all call her 'Mum'

- Unsurprisingly the first one to call her Mum is Jerome at breakfast

- She's reading the newspaper and there's an article about a hostage situation the twins planned and he goes 'Mum, are you done with that? Can we see?'

- And they snatch it from her and argue about how they didn't even make the front page while Tabby nearly chokes on her coffee

- And of course she breaks down talks to her wives about it later while they get ready for bed because no one ever called her 'Mum' before

- Barbara's braiding her hair, while Lee's off to the side, getting ready for bed and it's very domestic and I am very gay

- But neither see it as a big deal because both of them have been called Mum before (by Jerome at least. Like. Immediately upon meeting them)

- So she's trying to be nonchalant about it because it's only a big deal if she makes it one

- While also not being able to deny the warm feeling that spreads throughout her body when Jerome keeps calling her 'Mum'

- Miah and Selina on the other hand are both hesitant to call anyone Mum

- Miah cause of Pride, Selina cause of her Mummy Issues

- But they both do at some point

- I think I have more notes on this SOMEWHERE but I kinda wanna have Miah call her Mum while he's ill (because we all know he'd be super fussy and want attention 24/7)

- So she humours him and while he's close to falling asleep - and she's totally not carding her fingers through his hair because she isn't soft or anything - he mumbles: "Thank you Mum" and she melts

- Selina would be more angsty

- Like, maybe it's her birthday and she disappears for a while (as she tends to do) but Tabby (who's closest to her) knows how hard this day is for her (since again her Mum isn't there with here and looks for her and brings her back home but doesn't make a big fuss out of her birthday

- Just...lets her be, gives her space but also lets her curl up close to her and maybe Selina doesn't call her Mum on that exact day

- But it's the day she realizes she wouldn't mind calling Tabitha her Mother, so she hesitantly tries it out a while later (maybe days, maybe weeks, however long it takes for her to feel comfortable with it) and they share a smile

- Then there's Barbara Lee, but she barely counts because she's a toddler and calls everyone 'Mummy'

- Even her father ajsnsnsn

- The last one would be Ecco because I have a very soft spot for Tabby and Ecco being close

- Ecco's rather formal with them for the longest time (she calls Barbara, Lee and Tabby 'Ma'am' for the most part because she may like them, but she doesn't think they see her as family. She's just the token girlfriend).

- So there's a scene where they connect, possibly over Tabby's hand and Ecco's head since I hc that Ecco gets headaches and migraines a lot (considering that she still gets shot in the head by Miah, like I said, this AU isn't necessarily the most bullet proof in terms of linear timelines)

- But so is Gotham so-

- So there's possibly a scene where Ecco's headache is getting super bad and no one's around (especially not Miah to dote on her) and Tabby awkwardly tries to bond by telling her about her hand and how she can't feel much (is a little clumsy with it) and Ecco immediately imprints on her like a duckling

- Maybe it's even the first time anyone reached out to Ecco in a way that feels genuine, especially without the twins or any of her (various) other partners being present so now she's willing to die for Tabby

- Which ends in her also calling her 'Mum' (while she keeps calling Lee and Barbara 'Ma'am' and Lee's so mad ajsnsjdj she was trying so hard to bond with this kid but couldn't quite get it right and you're telling her her socially pretty clumsy - but still wonderful of course - wife managed with just one conversation?? Slander

- And of course because I can't stop myself, there would be even more tidbits here and there of Tabby overcoming her previous way of living (as in, thinking caring or showing emotions is weakness) by having her reminisce a LOT about Theo

- For example by having Jerome climb into bed with her while Barbara's sleeping and Tabby is waiting for Lee to come home

- Lee works as a doc in the narrows which may be a little illegal, but the people didn't just stop needing help after her Queen of the Narrows arc was over, so I vote she keeps at it (and is held in very high regard for it by pretty much everyone)

- Tabby always stays up until everyone is home because she likes knowing where everyone is and that they're safe while Jerome has frequent nightmares and wanders around the house, so this isn't a rare occurrence

- And sometimes, they talk Theo

- "You miss him?" - "Don't know."

- "I wish he was still alive so I could kill him." - "....Me too." - "Which one?" - "...Both."

- (ajajsbssj this is all just copy pasted and cleaned up a lil', leave me and my pretentious way of writing dialogue alone)

- Tabby also has a lot of interludes where she thinks about what growing up with Theo was like/her childhood in general

- How she always protected him from other children bullying him and how they swore to have each other's back but how in hindsight, she was the one doing all the dirty work for him, helping him fulfill his dream and enact his revenge

- Realizing that he probably never cared for her, not like she cared for him

- There's also allusions to them having sex because you cannot tell me they did NOT have sex

- And it ends with Tabby realizing that she is quite happy with how she ended up, even if it's neither how she thought she would ever live nor what her old self would've even wanted, possibly seeing too many attachments as 'weak' judging by the way she canonly used Butch for convenience sake at first

- And yeah, maybe now she can provide the family - the Mother - somebody else desperately needs

- So she brings Silver home

#This isn't at all presentable #Because the AU is all over the place still #But I am sharing it anyway #Tag: Happy Family #Long Post #WIP Rambles

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allthebest20 · 3 years

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Butter Honey Pig Bread by Francesca Ekwuyasi

8/10. A joy to read and a great debut novel. I think the author has even better work ahead of her. The characters are complex and unique, and the book explores modernity, pain, and generational spirituality in a very readable style. I couldn’t help but make assumptions about the author as I read the book: definitely Nigerian, definitely a cook, definitely spent time in London and Canada, definitely queer, definitely raised in the Church, but also definitely spiritual. The authenticity with which she writes, especially in regards to being queer in the modern world and the cultures of different places, is what makes this book great. The story dances between the gruesome details of reality in the twenty-first century and romanticized views of youth and love. It raises a lot of questions in me about the international class system, wealth, and privilege.

The only real complaint that I have is around one of the main plot points: the rape of Kehinde when she is 12. While this is a turning point in all their lives, I feel as though it is also simultaneously underappreciated, as if the author choose this event simply because it was one of the worst things she could think of. I think this is a common pit fall for authors. A lot of traumatic things happen to this family: Kambi, the mother, is very mental ill, Banji, the twin’s beloved father, is murdered, Taiye, the queer twin, struggles with her own mental health. Yet, the rape is regarded as the primary Bad Thing and all the other traumatic events are hardly discussed. I appreciate how the author takes some time, maybe 1 chapter, to discuss Kehinde’s relationship to sex and her body. Yet, Kehinde’s life seems to be mostly unaffected by this event, except in the way she punishes her family with her silence. She is in a healthy relationship. She does not abuse alcohol or drugs. She has a successful career. Ultimately, it’s not a book about overcoming childhood sexual abuse. It’s a book about mending a family after years of pain, resentment, distance, and silence. I almost feel as though the book could have been stronger if it focused more on the effects of Banji’s death and Kambi’s violence and depression on the twins. Ultimately, though, sexual abuse is just a thing that happens to a lot of kids, and perhaps it serves a purpose to write a book where it happens, it’s horrible, but it doesn’t need to be put under a magnifying glass. It just reverberates.

This book could have been about a lot of things. When I picked it off the shelf at the library, I barely read the entire description, immediately caught by the spiritual nature of Kambi’s being and the brief mention of “reckless hedonism.” I was pleasantly surprised to find out that Taiye was a lesbian, and I saw a lot of myself in her: the serial string of intense relationships, always slated to go nowhere, the indulgence in food and weed and dancing and occasionally other drugs, the loneliness and missing family but not being able to connect with them, the exploration of religion and spirituality and non-monogamy, seeing and feeling things you don’t know are real. I feel like a lot of modern young adults live like Taiye does, unsure what to look for except comfort. I love how the author mentioned the chaotic draw of dating apps. I love how Taiye is a stoner. I love how Taiye loves organic butter and fair trade chocolate and cooking extravagant meals for anyone who will eat it. I LOVE how the author includes recipes for what Taiye is cooking. Although I probably won’t use those recipes, I did want to cook what Taiye was cooking, and it reads just like my brain reads when I am absorbed in a culinary project. This book could have been more about what it means to be a lesbian, but it only barely describes her formative romantic and sexual experiences. The author details the first time Taiye calls her self gay out loud and has queer sex, but this is long after she has had gay feelings and gay experiences. The author does not explore Taiye’s inner turmoil, and it is unclear if Taiye struggles at all with her sexuality in the long term.

I also like how the book explores mental illness. It doesn’t shy away from both the good and the bad parts. It doesn’t shame medication use. It explores the spiritual powers of those who’s brains work differently. Kambi’s voice explores suicide in an interesting way: both from the frequent pull of the voices, asking Kambi to escape the pain of living, and Kambi’s own knowledge that she wants to remain here with her family. Although I have perhaps 0 hard examples of mental illness being spiritual, I still want to believe that those who hear voices, who see things, who feel things, are connected to the spiritual in a way that those who live entirely in reality are not. This book explores one such case. I also found it interesting how Taiye inherits some of Kambi’s crazy (struggles to speak as a young child, depressed, sleep walks) and some of Kambi’s magic (draws people to her, sees and hears beyond). This make Taiye feel closer to her mom as she ages, while Kehinde remains unsure. This book could have been more about generational mental illness and the pain and distance it causes, but instead the author focuses on the magic of it all. It asks, quietly, if the girls should be mad at their mother, can they be mad at her? From the outside, Kehinde knows that Kambi is respoinsible for the scar on Taiye’s face, but yet we, the audience, know that Kambi had to do this to prevent Taiye from killing the rapist, Uncle Earnest. Does Kehinde know this? How can she understand? In a family, we have no choice but to forgive and let live if we cannot understand, or else remain alienated. This is the underlying message of the book.

The book has a complicated timeline: the main story line follows the events of a six month period in which the three main characters are united again in Lagos, after over a decade apart. Slowly, in tangents, the three characters’ backstory is explained.

The book features a few key locations:

Nigeria (specifically Abeokuta, where Kambirinachi is born, Ife, where she spends her youth, and Lagos, where she raises her family),

London (where the twins were born and where Taiye lived for 9 years during and after university),

and Canada (Kehinde lives in Montreal since attending university there and Taiye lives in Halifax after London).

I’ve never been to Nigeria or London, but I love the way the author writes the dialogue and the characters from each place. I cannot say if they are accurate, but they have a clear and unique voice, not homogeneous but also representative of those place-based qualities that unite an area. The characters give me a glimpse into what it feels like to be Nigerian abroad vs. Nigerian at home. She rarely writes about interpersonal incidents of racism: the characters are mostly well liked, treated nicely by the people in their life, given opportunities. I think that contributes to the feeling of romanticism in the story. Racism is discussed on a more systematic level: they have problems at the airport, Taiye learns about the history of racism in Canada. As someone who has been to Canada, knows about the history of Canada, and lives very close to Canada, I enjoyed hearing about Taiye learning about Canada’s dark side, something that is so rarely discussed by the general public. However, for those of us who are interested, the evidence is everywhere. The history is just waiting to be explored by anyone who is interested in looking just slightly beyond the state-issued textbooks. I thought the way the author wrote about Canada was really authentic, which convinces me that the way she writes about London and Nigeria must also be accurate. What it must be like to be Ekwuyasi, so intimately familiar with places so far apart.

There was one line in the book that really stuck with me: as Taiye is traveling home, she passes through the busy streets of Lagos, crowded with street children, and she is reminded of her privilege in a very visual way, something she doesn’t get in Canada or London. This is the view the West wants us to have of Africa: a whole continent made of dirty huts and begging children on busy urban roads. Yes, poverty looks different in Nigeria than it does in Canada, but that doesn’t mean that everyone in Nigeria is somehow poorer. In fact, this family has a beautiful compound and a trust fund. Despite having a trust fund, Taiye still makes decisions on a strict budget and denies herself luxuries to save money, the way I do. I don’t really know a lot of people with trust funds, so I can��t tell if this is an international thing or if there are American kids who act like this. It kind of annoyed me when Taiye wrote to the culinary program saying she didn’t have enough to pay for the program, when in reality she just didn’t want to dip into her trust fund. I don’t know if there were limited spots/funds available for people who couldn’t afford to pay full price, but I hate when rich people forget what it means to actually not have money. Being cheap and being poor are two different things, often way more opposing than people think. Rich people are often the ones who know how to exploit the system to get what they want for less, while the poor are left with less connections and less time to work it.

Still, I refrain from delivering too harsh judgement on Taiye. I do not know the size of the trust fund. I know their family home was a gift, so perhaps the fund is to be saved for medical emergencies and property taxes. I’m not sure how insurance or taxes work in Nigeria, although I know the government is very unstable. How did they pay for international university? Did that come from the trust fund? The whole plot line has me thinking a lot about wealth and class on an international level. While I grew up comfortably, I often felt like my family was poor because of how rich everyone in our town was. I wonder what it would have been like to grow up in a compound and see homeless children often, but also ingest international media that cast your entire country as poor and to know your government is unstable.

All in all, the book touches on many of the central issues of modern life While it only brushes the surfaces of these topics, it had me thinking for days and wanting to know more. Perhaps I will search out an some Nigerian autobiographies / memoirs in the future.

#book #fiction #francesca ekwuyasi #butter honey pig bread #cooking #nigeria #lagos #canada #london #halifax #twins #queer #family #spiritual #religion #wealth #class #mental illness #mental health

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beautifulphoenixdoll · 3 years

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CENTER OF HOPE

I have Borderline Personality Disorder. I am ashamed to say that, and I shouldn’t be. I never judge anyone else or anyone else’s diagnosis. I did not ask for this condition. But I have it, like several millions who have mental health illnesses. For the first time in the history of the human species Mental Health is being discussed amongst each other openly in much more public avenues. That being said, I feel it is my due diligence to use my voice, and share what it has been like to live with Borderline Personality Disorder. Imagine a blister, fragile to the touch, prone to infection, with just a thin layer of skin protecting your insides from being exposed to collecting dirt or other bacteria that cause a fatal infection if untreated. A borderline female is a beautiful and chaotic thing. On one hand we tend to be the most loving, creative, sensitive, thoughtful, and compassionate beings. On the other we have spent our lives taking in messages and our surroundings and using them against ourselves, feeling controlled by our emotions, afraid of our own brains and the places our thoughts can lead us to. A common thread is that we mostly we have spent our lives in SO much pain. Pain that I would not wish on my worst enemy. Pain that a razor or blade soothe, for a blades sharp edge doesn’t even come close to how we are feeling inside but is sharp enough to distract us from the pain within. We are known to seek attention at any cost. Starving ourselves, or overeating. Whether its selling our bodies, offering our bodies, or treating our own like nothing more then a sexual object we seek the comfort of someone elses to let us know we are alright, that we are indeed desired, that we can be “loved”. Because we hate the skin were in. Because having someone’s hand on us even if it is just for a night means we don’t have to be alone. Being Alone is the scariest place to be. Alone the pain is magnified and something that would rub a non bpd the wrong way could make us feel like we want to end it all and just die. We convince ourselves that living—living is just too hard, and that this pain…. This all consuming pain that cripples us physically, emotionally, spiritually—I mean all around-- will never end. There are times where we see clearly. Those are the times we are happy to be alive. We get another day to enjoy the sun that beams brightly on our faces—you can see when were happy, when we are in love, when we believe in something positive and strongly—you will never question how we feel—for we cannot hide it… we are open souls and we are open hearted and the least judgemental creatures that are seeking to be understood while trying to understand our own sense of self. That is where Borderline Personality gets tricky--- especially young borderlines because our brains, sense of time, and worldly knowledge are still so far from being fully developed. Not only do we have a lot to learn but we have to learn it while our brain is on fire. And that is the thing—I Spent most of my life fighting my BPD symptoms on top of just trying to have a life, go to school, make friends, be a good daughter and sister, and girlfriend… and it was all just too much to take on. A simple task became the end of the world for me--- no one would ask someone to stitch up a hole on the back of their jeans while they were stuck in their house that was on fire surrounded by flames… they would tell them to get out. And that is how I felt—entitled to get out, in any way, any shape, or form… I just had to get out of my brain. But in the moment how do you explain that to someone who doesn’t understand that sewing up a hole with needle and thread pushes you off the edge? And that was what it was like when I was emotionally dysregulated. I was and can be a DANGER to myself. I wouldn’t harm a fly-a rat-a mouse, but I am the most LETHAL when it comes to myself, and myself only. Some of us break things, I did. But only to demonstrate the rage that built up inside of me. Only to show people that inside I am indeed hurting to this amount. The desire to be understood, or for someone to tell us that they too feel similarly—is so needed and helpful in the most profound way. I say this because without meeting the wonderful human beings I have met in treatment facilities suffering from BPD or other mental health diagnosis—all with gifts and challenges and a battle to fight of their own-- I would never EVER have the courage to come forward and share my experience.

It is in breaking my anonymity that I want to share with everyone that suffers with a mental health diagnosis that you are not alone. That you have nothing to be ashamed of, and that you can have a healthy and productive life with a recovery plan. Mental Health Treatment is much like attending AA—you need a DAILY reprieve to battle your condition. Without a treatment plan, without the proper and continuous and regimented medication (if needed), therapy, support system, and schedule you will have a much rougher time combating whatever youre facing. Not only is mental health a booming topic of discussion but the field itself is growing in ways that are remarkable. I spent so long fighting my diagnosis, fighting the treatment, fighting taking medication, fighting was recommended because I did not want to have my diagnosis. I did not want to believe I was in a category of people that needed pills to function normally—but how many people take medication every day to make sure their bones stay strong, or help with their lactose intolerant problems?

Everyday I wake up and re commit to another day of making sure my mental health is my number one priority—and the first thing I do is reminding myself that I ACCEPT myself for everything that I am. That I am not my diagnosis but that I indeed have Borderline. With practice and effort the things that once seemed so heavy no longer are, but only because I have been attending a diagnostic program where I have been able to set up a structured schedule that I will maintain after leaving. I noticed that If I sleep at the same time and wake at the same time, I am a different person. I noticed that with daily physical exercise even if it means walking for an hour I feel much better about myself and my body stays energized. Meditation is so crucial. As long as I meditate once a day in the morning my entire day tends to go positively. I have become a huge fan of DBT. I was not always a fan- especially as an adolescent --- oh how against it I once was… The workbook and concepts that were (this is putting it lightly) mundane, boring, and militant are what my mind craves. I love the structure-I love what it has given back to me.

The young girl who was so terrified of herself and her own brain knows that feelings are just feelings—I mean I always understood that saying but I never had any control of my own feelings—I was a runner. You couldn’t get me to sit still, or spend an evening alone with having a complete meltdown EVER. I am so strong now that I laugh at that—I laugh because I am free. I am smiling as I write this because I know that I have the skills to face things, have done so here at lidner. I smashed the fear of having to sit through things, to get through things on my own that used to CONSUME me WHOLE—and now do it happily because that means that I AM in control not the other way around. Lindner and DBT has given me, myself back. There is not a better gift once can receive after being lost for so long. I keep thinking gosh I want to share it with everyone—I feel like ive been given this secret remedy--- so I have never been more excited to start my life, to give back, to try and help others who are still struggling battling themselves, their brains, their emotions this wonderful tool that not only has saved my life but has also given me myself back.

Can I say it again: I am in control of my emotions- I can sit with them- I can stay self regulated- I can challenge my thoughts and not be afraid- I handle crisis’ without making things worse and I definitely without a doubt have more better days then bad ones. Who would have ever thought this would happen? It surely feels like a dream, but its happened since January 7th 2021—and it will continue to happen because Ive been given the key, and its not going anywhere else except for in my daily routine.

#dbt therapy #dbt #borderline personality problems #bpd recovery #truth #radicalselflove #hope #mentalwellness #yourenotalone #letsunite #smashthestigma #howtomoveon #recovery #who else is here #helping others

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jewpacabruhs · 4 years

Text

hi guys! so this post is gonna be a rambly mess but fuck it, here ya go. if u dont wanna read all of it, u dont have to; skip down to underneath the tl;dr in bold text for the important bits :)

(there’s a brief & non-graphic mention of a triggering topic in the next paragraph. please be sure to skip this next paragraph if the thought of suicide is going to upset you.)

alright. so i didn't share this originally, but i spent some time in a psychiatric unit this month. suicidality related. 1000% unrelated from anything online, i've just struggled with depression for a very long time & shit happens. i didn't intend to share that at all & i certainly don't want pity; i'm telling u guys bc my time in the unit was extremely eye-opening, and i have some insight to share. since i've gotten out, with the help of my newest anti-depressant (fourth time’s a charm lol), i'm seeing the world in a better light & i finally have the energy to and the interest in exploring what it has to offer, which frankly i've never had before.

with that has come the realization that i’ve come to do something very unhealthy, and i want to break out of it. and that’s how much i’ve come to rely on my fandom life. i don’t want to get too candid publicly, but mental illness took a lot from me, and i lost most of my life, my future, and my options in the last few years. next year will involve a lot of working on rebuilding things. but in the time that i let things fall to pieces around me & i absolutely couldn’t get out of bed, i had a phone and i had a laptop. so when i couldn’t get up and physically face the world, i built up a new world online.

and i don’t think that’s a completely uncommon experience. most people are able to better manage things, and evenly juggle real life with an internet life (like i did back in middle school), because most people can’t abandon their real lives entirely like i managed to; but i do think a lot of people nowadays rely on their fandom life and their fandom friends when their irl situation isn’t ideal. and that’s an excellent coping mechanism in theory, but i think it’s debilitating in the long run.

forgive me for sounding like an old person, but i’m a heavy nostalgist and a bit of an anarcho-primitivist in that i resent modern technology's influence on society - but that hasn't stopped me from letting it be a big part of my life out of accessibility. the internet kept me occupied during my low points, and i became dependent, but i've realized i don't wanna live like that anymore. i’m vaguely grateful that it usually kept me busy enough that i wasn’t thinking the bad thoughts as frequently, but more than anything, i’m resentful that my grasp on reality got lost somewhere along the way, and i let time get away from me, too. because, again, an internet life should be a fun hobby, but when it’s a lifestyle and it becomes an excuse to avoid dealing with our real lives, bc our real lives aren’t as rewarding or as exciting, then it’s unhealthy.

everything’s at our fingertips these days, but i deeply believe human interaction, fun, and fulfillment shouldn't be spoon-fed to us through a screen. it's easy access, sure, but at the end of the day, is it any way to live? compared with how much world there is to see, i’m no longer satisfied with the thought of sitting behind a screen for another five years. i used to be, when i had no hope and no drive, but not anymore. i’m not gonna let myself settle for staying busy with the thing that takes the least amount of work & movement. not only because i’m a whole ass adult who needs to start sorting my shit out for the long run, but also because i deserve better.

and it’s fucking hard! especially for those of us who are neurodivergent. i dropped out of school three fucking times due to crippling social anxiety and utter lack of ambition and energy. i lost all my friends through that (making friends post-school is hard af); the thought of having to go out and remake friends makes me wanna fucking cry. i have a hard enough time making friends online, i’ve even come to struggle with correspondence thru text & email. phone calls? outta the question. but that’s therapy shit, and i know i’ll get there. i just have to stop putting life off by staying in a comfort zone.

and it’s interesting; depression and anxiety really took everything from me, and while i was dwelling in my own misery, my adhd worsened and decided to make my entire brain revolve around my fixations, so i didn’t have to deal with my own life. can’t think about how much you wanna die and how much you can’t function in society if you’re busy thinking about a ship you like or a character you find interesting. so i latched onto the safety of that. aggressively. problem with that is that once you let your “happiness” (as much of it as you can feel in the midst of your depressive episode, anyway) revolve around an interest, that’s all you have. so you become dependent and reliant, and that’s never good, especially if you’re someone like me who feels pathetic & ridiculous when you realize it’s all you can bring yourself to care about.

and i think that’s what i realized in the psych ward (where there’s legitimately nothing to do; i did soooo much more thinking than usual, and i already think too much haha); mental illness will try to fuck up your lifestyle, so you have to eradicate the things that’ll let that happen in the first place. for example, like i said, my adhd tries to counteract my depression by making me hyperfixate and/or hyperfocus on something else to protect me from bad personal thoughts, and that’s good in theory (doing something you enjoy when you feel bad, to distract urself, is the number one most basic coping skill you learn), but i can’t do it in moderation, i let it run my life, and that’s made me worse in the long run. so i have to force myself out of that completely and not let myself fixate on things that make me happy in the short term, but don’t ultimately further me as a person. having fixations helped me through some awful times, but now i need to force myself to grow up, you know?

and while tumblr and other social media is an excellent way to indulge those fixations, it’s an aggressive enabler, in more ways than one. what i mean by that... okay, so while i’m the type of person who self-destructs while unhealthy, i do occasionally lash out. and i know some people completely explode rather than implode when they’re not doing well. and that’s how you get discourse, i think. because when mental illness makes us care much more about our interests than we ought to, and someone has a differing opinion about that interest, the instinct is of course to attack, if you’re that kind of person. i don’t think i am, but depression and boredom go hand in hand, and i might be inclined to care more about discourse than i would if i were healthy, purely because it’s entertaining and something to do.

that’s a long winded way of saying, while i stand wholeheartedly by my past positions, i do regret starting shit in the first place. i’m not the kind of person who genuinely cares about much and i have little to no sense of morality (im a chaotic neutral bastard), so the fact i was bored enough to start shit really goes against my character and says a lot about how bad i’ve been. so i apologize for all that. but, again, i think that's just what happens when something is truly your everything. and i think the chronic negativity of modern fandom is a result of how damn seriously we all take it, because we care so much and we’re so dependent. fandom’s supposed to be fun, but it’s just too damn stressful this way.

idk my point in sharing all this, but i do think it'd be cool if this kinda got yall thinking. even if you don't engage in discourse, if fandom is just one of your only consistent sources of happiness, that's not healthy either. we all gotta break out & exist more & louder & more positively. and unfortunately i think tumblr fandom (and maybe all modern fandom) is no longer a place that encourages positivity and health.

but for all my criticism, i do just wanna say how eternally grateful i am that i was fortunate enough to meet the people i call my best friends through tumblr. they're my family, truly, and all the bullshit in this fandom has been worth it simply because it brought them to me. i love them to death and i always will, even if interests change, even if we grow apart, even if we quit speaking entirely in the next few years, i love them with my whole heart in a way that transcends a simple fandom friendship and i'm so glad we bonded over sp in the first place. that’ll never change.

i will also always love south park itself. now that the cat's outta the bag about my hospital visit, i can brag about my most pathetic and obsessive accomplishment; the fact that i've never let circumstance stop me from watching a new south park as it airs, and i've now watched sp on 1) an airplane, and 2) in a psych ward. i win for most dedicated fan tbfh. dsjkf & i'll keep that tradition, and i'll still watch this stupid show til it ends! it'll always hold a special place in my heart, & kyman's still my most meaningful & long-term ship. i'll never stop loving it.

tl;dr

so, to recap; for 2020 i'm making myself step back from fandom (not just sp fandom, but fandom in general) and quit letting my world revolve around my fixations so i can enjoy the outside world a little more, mental illness be damned, and the first step is gonna be quitting tumblr. this blog won't be deleted and i may occasionally post (maybe when next season airs) but you're absolutely free to unfollow bc this'll be a mostly inactive blog. i’m also unfollowing everyone, so mutuals, please don’t take that personally.

i will, however, try to write more prolifically, bc fic writing is something i'm able to do in moderation & enjoy, and i hope to get back into it. so if you'd like, you can keep an eye out for any upcoming fanfic i may post - my ao3 is leere. i also have snapchat, instagram, & twitter my mutuals can ask for asap (bc ill be logging out for good by the afternoon of the 31st, which is tomorrow) - though i'm not very active on any of them. still, if you wanna have access to me, i’ll be there.

i want some connection to the fandom still, albeit without letting my life revolve around it, so i'll be starting a new open-to-the-public kyman discord server! the post with the invite for that will go up soon. nvm im too anxious

thank you for reading, thank you for the good times (thnks fr th mmrs), and i hope everyone has a good 2020!

#txt #mine

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justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog · 5 years

Text

A Necessarily Sober Night’s Ramblings

I’m sitting here in my bed, writing on a shitty, hundred dollar netbook that rests on a book thicker than my fist to prevent overheating. The floor of my room is covered in a disgusting salad of dirty laundry, trash, and books, all sprinkled with a frustrating amount of cat litter from the box a few feet to my right. A space heater with more personal space than anything else in the place keeps me warm in the mornings and nights, and the fan that’s blowing my hair at the moment keeps me cool during the afternoon and whenever else I’ve been drinking.

I’ve got Altered Carbon playing beside my word processor; just started watching it. It’s impossible for me to focus on any one thing, so its there just to keep the excess ‘brain energy’ or what have you busy while I try and write this all out. All this nonsense. The lamp resting on my nightstand, which is currently sitting in the midst of the chaotic disaster that is my floor rather than being pressed up against a wall, is annoying but helps keep the anxiety down a bit.

The anxiety is still drumming my heart and shaking my hands, but it would be worse in the dark. I enjoy knowing what’s surrounding me. If I turn off the light, I can only assume what rests in the darkness. I don’t think there’s any monsters hiding beneath my bed amidst the beer cans and paper plates, I’m not a child. But there’s knowing, and then there’s knowing. When the light is gone, the whole world becomes Schrodinger's fun house.

Plus, if I turn out the lights, the odds I step on a sharp piece of aluminum on my way to the bathroom magnify ten fold. Foot lacerations are the fucking worst. Slicing your palm isn’t that bad because you don’t always have to have your dick in your hand. Plus, for the most part, your always aware of the palms of your hands. You forget the bottoms of your feet, and the trail of blood you leave behind is a bitch and a half to clean up.

Not that I’d clean it from my own carpeted floor, but there’s certain expectations for the world outside the stained and battered walls of my bedroom. Smiles required, pleasantries demanded; it’s a whole other ball game out there. That’s not some dramatic piece of speculation either. When I was a child my parents threatened to beat the frowns from my face and decried my silent coming and goings as disrespectful disobedience. Now that I am a man in age and burden if not status however, I am free to move more freely. The habits have already taken root though.

Despite my already volcanic anxieties simmering and sizzling beneath my flesh, I’m having another energy drink, my third of the day. I went to the store earlier for something fizzy and calorie free to drink, and despite knowing I must be wary of caffeine, I was swayed by a little sticker promising ‘3 for $5!’. It’s a rare moment that I’m without thirst, but unless I have sweat through my clothes in exhaustion (an even rarer moment) or am exceptionally hung over, drinking water gives me heartburn.

It’s a touch allegorical, really. Water, that most basic material of life, burns the ever living shit out of my throat.

People don’t take caffeine seriously enough. It’s just like any other drug, if a bit milder. At first it puts a bounce in my step, then in a few minutes my mind will be racing with dark thoughts and fears, and if I go without it for too long my head feels like someone is taking an ice pick to the top of my skull. Sometimes the initial jauntiness is worth it though. That ‘sometimes’ keeps me coming back.

There it is. Reading this back, you won’t remember the pauses between sentences, the distraction filled minutes as Altered Carbon takes priority over writing between paragraphs. I say that so it won’t feel quite so jarring when I say that anxiety is carving a butcher’s knife through my gut and up my sternum after just mentioning the jauntiness caffeine can bring.

Anxiety and just a hint of anger are filling me. Thinking on it now, and exploring this idea for the first time (though I’ve brushed against it like a virgin schoolboy ‘accidentally’ bumping into a pretty girl before), I’m realizing there’s always anger somewhere in this stack of flesh. Anger I was bred into, that was taught to me, beat into me. It’s always there. Just, I keep it buried away and hidden. Once, I did that so that I wouldn’t get in trouble, so that I would be safe. Now I do it so that the people around me will be happier.

The only people I’ve ever intentionally physically hurt are my male family members. My younger brother, in adolescent rage reminiscent of my father’s, has been strangled, punched, thrown, and kicked. It was never unprovoked, but always unearned given the severity. I never bruised or truly damaged him, but still. Trauma is trauma. The words I spewed at him were instinctively and specifically chosen to hurt him, to damage him. It’s left me with a quandary similar to that of the chicken and the egg. Did his little man complex come from my infrequent but scarring abuse, or were the assaults unleashed by his constant needling and provocations?

Then there’s my father. Him I tried to kill once. He was drunk, and violent. He was roaring and screeching with anger at my mother, worse than normal. I went to figure out what the fuck was going on, he put his hands on me, and I snapped. I threw him to the ground, and amidst his punches and slaps and scratches I began to choke him. Tears and spit pouring from my face I bared my fangs and produced more animalistic sounds than actual speech.

My mother was futilely trying to pull me off, begging me to stop. I didn’t care. I was beyond reason at that point, my id was in full control. Like a flare in a moonless night however, a thought brought me to a stop. I had my second day of work at a new job the next day, and couldn’t afford to spend at least the night and next day in jail for murder. That lone, paragonal thought amidst a sea of frothing rage was all that saved my father’s life.

Other than those two examples however, I’ve never allowed myself to be a violent person. Or rather, I’ve never had the courage for it. I get the fight or flight shakes just from passing a slow moving vehicle, let alone a face to face confrontation. I wonder if that’s who I am, or who I was made to be.

My first girlfriend, who could technically be called my ex-fiancee if you don’t dismiss a six month, hormone-fueled, teenage puppy love engagement, was victim to some verbal abuse throughout the two or so years we spent together. She was a piece of work herself though, and although I cringe to think back on my words and feelings back then, I don’t think less of the man I am today for them. I see it as character growth. She cheated on me, lied to me, and was certifiably crazy herself. She and I have both come a long way since then though, and I’ve learned to be a better man based on the awful example I set for myself.

I say we’ve both come a long way, but in reality, she’s got a college degree and is dating a successful musician while working for a governor. I’ve got a GED, am entirely alone, and as of the end of March jobless. There was a brief spike in my life a little over a year ago. I only weighed one-hundred and sixty pounds, I was on the second rung of the company I worked for’s ladder, I had a girlfriend, I was happy. That’s all long gone now though.

See, even though I hunt for zero calorie sodas and energy drinks, I still eat too much food. I drink too much alcohol. I lay around in bed like a fucking pile of ooze. I was going to call myself a slug, but even those invertebrates get more exercise than I do. I probably weigh Two-ten by now. Two-fifteen maybe. I’m sure if I were sitting on a scale right now it’d read in the two-twenties, between my clothes, belly full of spaghetti sauce-drenched pizza, and general fat ass.

As of today I’m twenty-two years old, five-eight in the morning and in shoes, with short brunette hair and just the one tattoo, a coyote on my left arm. My upper right arm and my left ‘tit’ are covered in scars. I have a handful spread over the rest of my skin; faded ones all across my legs, one across my stomach, one on my right ‘tit’, three partially faded bands on my right forearm. All self-inflicted, obviously. I have a small patch of fur all across my chin that struggles to reach the center of my lower lip, stubble spreading back from it towards my throat, and a curled moustache above my mouth.

I fucking hate when television shows have non-English parts. It prevents me from being able to just spend the extra ‘brain energy’ on them, and instead I have to divert more of my direct attention to follow along.

Sometimes I want to carve out my own eye. Even though my left eye is (diagnosedly so) the weaker of the two, whenever I envision it, it’s always the right one I slice out like an avocado pit. The cut would start close to the center of my forehead and run all the way down to my jaw, stopping just a hair over the line and onto my throat.

I don’t think that comes from any weird sort of mutilationist fetish, or one of those weird (Ha, who am I to judge?) mental illnesses where a part of your body feels alien. I think its just a desire for attention? If that’s the right way to phrase it. I want to be special, look special. All those bad-ass pirates and fantasy characters have facial scars, typically over their eyes, and I want to be like them. I want to be special.

I want to be special. I want to be important. I want to feel like I actually matter. No amount of self reaffirmation has ever been enough for me. I’ve always needed ‘affirmation’ from others, and I’ve rarely ever received it. And it can’t be just anyone who gives it to me, it has to be someone special, someone whom I respect. The words of those I subconsciously deem as ‘below’ me mean absolutely nothing, no matter how reverential or supporting.

As for who I respect, which isn’t the right word at all, I’m not really sure. Beautiful women. Impressive men. Members of authority. People with experience in fields that I respect (this time it is the right word). I’ve had coworkers who practically begged me to hang out, less than attractive women who nearly molested me in their flirtations. All it ever did was annoy and nearly disgust me.

It’s a strange dichotomy, my ego and self-loathing. On one hand, I’m disgusted by myself. I look in the mirror and see a hideous, fat, disgusting, waste of human existence who could die tomorrow without the world so much as blinking. On the other hand, I recognize my intellect, sense of humor, virtues, and what few skills I have as being exceptional.

I hate myself, but somehow still place myself above others.

It’s funny how little self control I have compared to what little drive I have. I crave love, yet haven’t been able to muster the willpower to eat healthy and exercise. I crave fortune, yet haven’t been able to finish writing (Really writing, with editing and everything) a book. I crave attention, yet stay hidden away in my room and when out in public avoid standing out at all. When I crave a McChicken, I’ll drive to the McDonalds across town at 3 AM for it.

I guess I’m just short sighted. Back when I still played chess, I could never think more than a single move ahead. When a problem has a single-step solution, I can find it near instantly, no matter how obscure or obfuscated it is. Throw in just one more step, however, and suddenly I’m lost as an orphan looking for his mother in a department store.

That applies to long term goals too, even when the answer is spelled out for me step by fucking step. Step one, cut the calories down to less than two-thousand. Step two, take the dog(s) for a walk everyday. Step three, repeat steps one and two for the next six months. Just like that, I go from fat lard-face to looking like a young Leonardo DiCaprio.

But I just don’t do it. The one time I succeeded with a diet, it was based on routine. Every morning on my way to work, I’d get two McDonalds burritos with mild sauce and a large diet coke, no ice. Every night after work, same thing. Right now, jobless and hopeless, there is no routine in my life. That’s just an excuse though, I know that. Doesn’t mean I fucking do anything about it.

It also helped that back then I spent every night with a woman I was in love with. Kira. Black haired, thin as a skeleton, cheek bones like daggers. Her nails were more like claws, and she’s never without her eyeliner that stretch out like wings from her beautiful brown eyes.

When we met, she hated me, so of course I sought her approval. She hated me just because I sat in her spot one time. She, never to my face, called me an inbred hobbit. After several random encounters at work (which is where I met her), we also bumped into each other at the vape store. A casual, friendly conversation lead to her messaging me at work the next day, and a friendship quickly formed.

After that, it didn’t take long for love to form. One sided love. I asked her out, she rejected me. My love diminished but quickly re-blossomed. I confessed full-blown honest to god love to her. Again, she rejected me, with a full (and requested) letter explaining why. That letter tore me to pieces. Not because it destroyed my hopes for ever having her, but because every reason she listed was (to my eyes) nonsense.

She said I wasn’t artistic, I consider myself to be a great story crafter and a half-decent writer. She said she thought I’d be controlling and possessive, when I am nothing of the sort. She said I wasn’t ‘edgy’ enough, in so many words, even as I carved my flesh into ribbons. Even to this day, when she describes her perfect partner’s personality, she describes me to a T, or at least to a lower-case t.

I treat our bond as though we are siblings, and I believe that’s how she sees me, though I feel a much stronger love than that for her whilst single, and she feels nothing for me. She treats me like garbage. One time I begged her for company, knowing that if left alone I’d make an attempt on my life, and she said no. No one else came either, but I thought she of all people would understand and care. But she didn’t. And despite the handle of vodka, bottle of nyquil, assortment of pills, and sheer amount of blood loss I endured that night, I lived to suffer the pain of her betrayal.

With her it’s always apologies and broken promises. She’s sorry she abandoned me for the millionth time to be with her new abusive boyfriend, she promises it won’t happen again. She’s sorry she disappeared without a word of warning, and promises she’ll warn me in the future. She’s sorry that she broke her promises, she promises it won’t happen again.

And yet I love her. I’ve given her thousands of dollars. I’ve bought her over a hundred meals. I take care of her when everyone else abandoned her. I helped her get her shit together when agoraphobia had grabbed hold of her. I’ve given her everything I could possibly give, sacrificed everything she’s ever asked for or needed that I had.

But its never enough for her. It never will be. She will never care about me and my needs. I don’t need her romantic love, as much as I would enjoy it. But never once has she sacrificed for me. Never once has she gone out of her way to make me happy. She gave me a stack of ‘coupons’, to be redeemed for things such as ‘a guaranteed hang out session’ or ‘You can pick the music all day’. The one time I tried to redeem one, the first one I mentioned, she blew me off.

But of course, she moved to a whole other state for her drug addicted, physically and verbally abusive boyfriend. Then when she came back I took her back following a promise that she was completely done with him. I’m sure she will, or already has, broken that promise.

Despite all that, she is the most important person in my life. The thought of her killing herself makes me genuinely want to die too. Without her, there’d be absolutely no one in my life that I truly love. She is a fire amidst a barren tundra without which I’d freeze to death, even if she flickers in and out of existence that I’ve wished to die in her absence.

My only other friend is Whitney. The strangest person I’ve ever known, and one of the most genuinely wholesome and good people you could ever have the pleasure of meeting. She’s sweet, kind, caring, generous, intelligent, and fun. She’s also asexual, so there’s no hope for romance there either. She lives a busy life, between college and work, so it’s rare I ever get to see her.

Everyone else in my life is temporary, fleeting. They either abandon me purposely or drift away like clouds.

My last girlfriend, the only other serious one I’ve had besides my ‘ex-fiancee’, abandoned me out of the blue. One moment, she was saying that she loved me and that I was her perfect man. The next, she provided a list of issues she had with me and said that they were irreconcilable. She left me with trust issues that have plagued every attempt at romance I’ve had since. I lost my virginity to that girl.

And when we broke up, you know what happened? Her shit head best friend went and spread all of my personal information to our mutual friends, in a horrific way that painted me to be a violent and hurtful man who was ruining her life. And they believed him. Even though he was known to be an over-dramatic, hyper-aggressive piece of shit, they believed him. In spite of all the good things I’d done for them and absolutely no personal experience with me to back his words up, they took it as gospel. I had non-romantic commitment issues before then, but damned if they weren’t magnified ten fold after that.

Every other romantic trist I had after her has had its issues. One time, whilst I was seeing a shrink and given pills that amplified my anxieties to levels beyond my control, I went full blown crazy with a girl. Demanded to know where she was, why she was ignoring me, sent over thirty texts in as many minutes. I quit that medicine the moment I ‘came down’.

Another I ‘broke up’ with after we agreed that she couldn’t handle just hanging out in my car, and I can’t handle going to clubs. Another couple ghosted me. Another was even flakier than Kira, and far more blatant about it. Another just wasn’t that into me, even if he (an FtM transgender person) wouldn’t admit it.

Right now, the biggest source of my anxiety is the fact that Kira has yet again disappeared. I’m used to that, but this time she explicitly said she would text me ‘soon’ when we hung out three days ago. The girl is a fucking suicidal drug addict, and doesn’t care about the pain it causes me when she disappears like this. The fears and anxieties that fill me hurt so bad you wouldn’t believe it. I’ve told her this countless times. She just, doesn’t, care.

I want to punch something, tear my room apart. Its a disgusting mess now, but the mess is settled at least. A path to the door amidst the refuse, big piles pushed against the walls. It could be much, much worse. I feel like I’m about to explode, all these feelings bursting out of my fucking rib cage. But she doesn’t care about that. All she cares about is herself.

There’s only two people in the entire world I’ve truly cared for, like really, wholly, undeniably loved and felt empathy for. My ‘ex-fiancee’, and Kira. But even for those I didn’t feel that way for, Whitney or my ex-girlfriend, I treat them right. Better than right. I buy them gifts, I look after them, I tell them I love them, I do my best to be the best friend or boyfriend I can be.

I’m a heartless monster, but at least I have the manners to act better than that.

You know something, I legitimately can’t remember the last time I cried. Probably when Kira and I first started becoming friends, she demanded I open up and tell her everything if I wanted her to do the same. So I did, and I broke down. Since then, not a drop. I just don’t have it in me. I’m tired. I’m tired of being alive, but outside of drunken and seemingly random spikes of suicidal ideations, I’m too scared of death to try and kill myself tonight.

The thought of death, of everything just disappearing, terrifies me. It has since I was a little kid, we’re talking four or five years old. I don’t want to die, I never want to die. I want to live forever, or at least to know that there is reincarnation or an afterlife. I fear the ocean too, specifically being in the middle of the water with no land in sight and seeing a silhouette approaching me. But that’s not what my fear of death is. That’s a shock, a jump in my seat when I watch a video on youtube.

My fear of death is primal, unadulterated terror. It keeps me up at night, it forces me to keep a light on when I want to sleep, it gave me a love for twilight hours as they brought an end to the darkness when I was a child. It brought me peace.

Kira finally texted me back, simply saying ‘’I love you’. It could be her last words, it could be an apology for going back to her shit head ex, it’s definitely a lie to either herself or to me. It brought some measure of peace, though left a trail of underlying fears in its wake.

I just wish I could be happy, but for that I need at least one of the three B’s. Booze, blood, or betrothal. The last B is hyperbolic, I don’t need that much of a commitment, just some sort of romantic connection with someone. Gotta keep the pattern going though. When I’m drunk, my troubles fade away. When I’m cutting, the pain distracts me. When I have a girlfriend, I feel accepted.

Right now I have none of those things. I might cut my arm here in a bit, but I doubt I’ll be getting a girlfriend sometime tonight; and its too risky to be drinking on a night like this. So, I’ve just got to wallow in my own misery.

I meant to write chapter two of a new book I’m working on tonight. It’s a dark, nautical comedy set in a fantasy-ish world about a dull yet narcissistic pirate captain and his misadventure to regain his fortune. I started writing it to keep myself busy while I wait to distance myself from the first book I wrote, a more serious piece. That one’s about a man and his new apprentice facing a rebellion of monsters who are supposed to coexist with humans, but are sick of their treatment as second class citizens.

I need to distance myself from it because every time I look at it I want to delete the whole thing. It all feels too fresh, too personal. I can remember every keystroke that I put down, and since I was the one who typed it all, it must be trash. That’s how my mind sees it. I need to forget.

I’ve just started episode five of Altered Carbon, haven’t paused it once, haven’t stopped writing except when they speak in another language or I don’t know what to wrtie next or when Kira texted me. I’m starving. By starving I mean I’m hungry, just enough that my stomach hurts. I’ll probably go grab more food like the fat ass, no-self-control shitstain that I am.

I hate when people tell me I’m not fat, or when people say it shouldn’t matter. I am fat, and it matters to me. I don’t find fat people attractive. Never have, never will. I remember once, back when I was dieting and nearly at one-sixty, a (fat) girl said to me “Why are you still dieting? You look great.” I responded by lifting my shirt up (I didn’t have the scar on my stomach at the time) and jiggling it, which immediately elicited an ‘Ew!’ from her. I said, “That’s why.”

It’s not a crime to be fat, nor do I treat fat people any worse than their skinny counterparts. I just think its extremely unattractive, just like me. I don’t want to be fat. I just don’t have the willpower to put a stop to it. And I hate myself for it. Maybe if/when I get a new job I’ll be able to get back into my routine. It’d be a lot easier if I lived on my own, and could choose the pantry and fridge’s contents myself.

But for now I’m stuck living in my parents’ house. I thought once I bought a new car, I’d be able to save up and move out. Then I met Kira, and spent thousands on her. Then I allowed myself to be talked into going to therapy, a waste of time that I put a stop to after being told that I’d never be happy and to keep on cutting, that put me in debt to pay for. Then my car broke down, and I’ve had to open a new credit card for over nine-hundred dollars and spent another four-hundred up front, and her check engine light is already back on.

Oh, and I don’t have a job anymore after getting fired for spending too much time helping coworkers, so its not like I can get a place with the two-hundred and twelve dollars I get a week with unemployment. I’ve dreamed about living on my own since before I was even a teenager. I’ve always hated my parents. Every time I think everything’s about to turn around fiscally, life comes around and shits down my fucking throat and cuts a hole through my trachea so it can fuck my feces-stained esophagus. Every, single, fucking, time.

God that therapy was fucking worthless. I did what the guy said in regards to cutting. I tried rubber band snapping, icing, writing out my feelings. None of it had the same sense of distraction and gravitas. So, he told me if it helps and I’m being safe, keep doing it. So I have. I wanted to stop though, not for my own sake, but because the people who say they care about me (in other words, Whit) don’t like it and I can understand why. Again though, no will power.

When it came to my moods, I told him about as much as I’ve told anyone in my life about myself. At first it felt good, he looked at me like some sort of specimen. By our last session though, it felt more like I was a chore to him, a frustrating waste of time. Although I didn’t bother to remember the words verbatim, he more or less told me that sometimes there just isn’t anything you can do to stop being miserable, and you’re just stuck that way. So, since that was the case, I stopped going.

There was another professional I saw there, a woman who was there to actually prescribe medicines. After the first one ruined a budding and potentially great relationship, I was hesitant to try another. Given the fact that it was also expensive as fuck and I was constantly broke, with or without hesitation I couldn’t try another kind. She refused to prescribe me medicine for my ADD either, even though she did diagnose it. Said we needed to get the depression under control first. Maybe I’d be less fucking miserable if I could concentrate on one thing at a time instead of constantly having my attention diverted between two to three things every waking moment of my life.

It’s funny, when I finished my first book, I thought I’d be happy. Filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment that would spur me forward in life. So I rushed it. The last couple chapters were far below my typical word count. Whitney pointed out that fact, and the fact that a lot of the earlier chapters were subpar comparatively, so I went back and finished it ‘for real’. I rewrote most of the earlier chapters, filled in the later chapters, got a real, proper first draft done. And still nothing.

Now I’m telling myself that once I can edit it properly instead of just grimacing through the prologue I’ll feel it, but I don’t believe it. Maybe if an agent wants it, I’ll feel it, but I don’t believe that. If it were miraculously published, then, then I might feel a hint of genuine joy, but I don’t believe that. I keep pushing the goal posts of finding happiness further and further back to excuse my failure to do so.

Fuck, I don’t even know why I wrote all this. I don’t feel any better. I feel like an overdramatic, self-important, delusional cunt. Same old same old I suppose.

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consecrated2christ · 5 years

Text

Back there again...

Hello friends!

I sincerely hope you had a restful Christmas and were able to celebrate the New Year with close friends & family.

I happened to get quite sick over the holiday break but perhaps it was much needed with all that went on this year.

I was literally home for about 2 weeks...hadn't gone out but for a few important occassions like my brother's engagement party.

Part of me believes I've been slowly becoming an introvert (gain energy from being alone) after dealing with burnt out and my diagnosis with generalized anxiety. (Since 2016) However I still do get bursts of energy from being with people...maybe the difference is the type. Ie. healthy vs. unhealthy.

Personally, I know we're all broken people but find it's a deal breaker in relationships (romantic and non) to not want to deal with your issues. But I totally understand the initial "putting off" of painful experiences and emotions. I do it too... I just mean being a person who doesn't want to change at all -- the whole "I am who I am" mentality.

Anyway this past Monday, my mom and I wanted to have an outing together. She has a chronic illness and this prevents her from working outside the home and doing normal errands. It's like when your phone battery stops charging completely and you only end up with 30% after a normal charging period. Or in humans terms, sleep. To give some context, my mom started showing symptoms when I was 11. So we've dealt with this as a family for about 15 years now.

Regardless of her illness, I have come to love my special time with mom. I say "come" because my teen years would have said otherwise. Not to say though that I don't love my mom unconditionally...it's more that my raging hormones complicated things. So while my mom had good intentions of wanting to have time alone...it would all depend on my mood.

I will say though that experiencing my mom's illness with her has been a journey to say the least and used to really blame Jesus for it. Anyway another story within itself...

Back to this story. My mom ended up not being well enough to do the errands that we were planning on doing together. This is what I mean by our special dates. Sometimes it may just be as simple as returning an article of clothing and looking for some fabric. My dad ended up going with me after work and was just honestly thankful to get out of the house for my own sanity.

We first drove to Old Navy to return a coat from Christmas for my brother. The sales clerk said she couldn't process the order at the store because it was an online purchase. Back on the road again. Next we headed to a pretty low key mall to look at some fabric that my mom needed for our dining room chairs. As it turns out, the place she had in mind was close by but not where she initially thought. Next we then purchased some Pad Thai for dinner that night at the mall and then headed to our last stop for the day.

So we get there and my mind was overwhelmed with all the fabric inside. I am an artsy person in other ways (makeup, music, etc) but find any kind of crafy store to not be my cup of tea. However I appreciate those blessed with this type of creative mind and skillful hands. My fine motor skills are terrible to say the least. ;)

After we take a couple of pictures of potential colours and specific fabrics for my mom to see. (They didn't offer swatches)

As we head out and continue driving down this street...part of my brain recognizes this area. Now I recalled how I'd been here once or twice with my family for this Polish supermarket and one of my mom's favourtie restaurants. Still...something peaked my interest.

Then it hit me after seeing some specific land markers. I say land markers because I am directionally challenged without my GPS, so had previously defined a place by what it sold.

This is the place where I tried to commit suicide.

I remember like it was yesterday: hopped on the closest bus to my house and just headed south. Then got off at a random stop and went to go pick my poision. Then I drank it with another sugary beverage and walked into these woods. I didn't take any IDs or my cell phone. ((NEVER DO THIS)) All I had what was on my back. I then proceeded to drink the poision and walk into the woods. It wasn't super dark yet but remember how cold it was on my hands.

Kept walking but nothing happened. I drank some more.

Being in one of the darkest places of my mind is where I then headed down the street where this fabric store was on. It was one of those roads that had lots of industrial places and kept going for miles. It was in this moment that I was so angry why this plan hadn't worked. Stubbornly I kept walking. My stomach was growling to the point of no return and felt a bit light headed from not eating for a few hours.

I then came across this coffee shop. I caved and ordered some food.

Looking back, no one on the bus or in the coffee shop knew what had happened. Only God Himself.

Afterwards I saw a familar bus that I knew which headed back into my old neighbourhood. I ended up at a local plaza and called my mom on the pay phone. She then sent my dad to pick me up.

A question that close friends ask me is, did you go back to our childhood neighbourhood because it was a safe place for you? Maybe but it was ultimately God who provided a familar route in the midst of a destructive night.

Now I know what you might be thinking...why are you writing this on the internet? Shouldn't you first talk to a counselor and/or a parent? Yes I've done both and am on medication. (See previous post for more of that story)

Some say it isn't wise to disclose your deepest thoughts on the internet or in the workplace. They might unfairly judge you. Maybe...probably...

But part of me needed to get this off my chest and properly process it outloud. (Where my extrovert habits come in)

I say this with my deepest love and care for you my Tumblr community. Looking back, 10 year old Lizzy had no idea what her thoughts and actions were capable of.

Part of it is genetics. My grandpa who passed away last year deals with depression. So does my mom and brother. Thank the Lord for my mentally sane father!! And of course Heavenly Father.

I was reminded when watching a movie where this kid experiences a messed up childhood that we can't always control the negative things that happen to us. Ultimately it's deeply rooted in our sinful nature and our pride that insits that we have to be in control.

As a Jesus follower, I'm not promised that my life won't be without deep and painful moments. But I am and can hold God to His promises that He is faithful and is putting together those broken pieces of my life. Slowly and in His timing.

So this post is for the doubting Christian and the unbeliever too. We all wrestle with from time to time on if we're truly alone in this world. I can tell you with full assurance that you're never alone. Just like I was when I attempted suicide.

Maybe you have noticed that certain things fall together for your benefit. Like a chaotic day at work or school had moments where it all made a small ounce of sense. That was probably God.

So while there are lots of people who doubt His existence I can reassure you of His work in my life.

Even the demons believe there is a God!

So let me end with that Tumblr. God is not dead.

By Christ's grace, ~Lizzy xoxo

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myinnerletters · 3 years

Text

3/8/21

I guess if the last time i wrote on this was in January is ok. I feel like ive been really struggling for the last week and a bit. This most recent lockdown has really impacted me - i feel like i cant hold onto anything too long, i feel jaded, i feel like its hard to see a light out or a way forward.

It’s hard to feel lonely and isolated from my family again. I can’t see them and even if i could, i know it would be tricky because of our weird dynamics. It upsets me to hear saphta covid denying. i want so badly to protect all of them but i know i cant. I know i cant do anything to stop covid or keep them safe. I know to keep me safe i have to stay here in Melbourne, but it feels odd. I feel almost orphan beng seperated like this. I belong to a family. I belong to many families but my connection feels so weird. It feels weird to miss them. Its something that i try to not tell them. Which i know is wrong of me to be withholding, but to say i miss them is to also say in part i miss dysfunction. Obviously we are all in a better place then all those years ago. But there are still some chaotic elements there.

I sit here riddlin around in my head with thoughts non stop. The anti depressants have been pretty good at keeping the background prattle quiet but its happening more atm. I am getting my tasks done. But my emotions are flip floppy. I finish all my work im overjoyed, several hours later im despondent and inconsolable. i was proud of my media release and then i feared my friends would tear it apart.

I know Noam loves me. I know he cares for me. I know he is also going through his own things at times. But i keep doing this dumb thing where i start shit. Asking him like tonight if he thinks im too emotional and telling him that i dont know how he does it with me. I as a kid was a sponge and took on everything around me that people said, i was so eager to please that i adapted these parts into my personality, into who i am. Dad worries that im too emotional. He says “does he not mind that youre so emotional”. I know this is more about my dad then about me. I know mum was “too much” for him so now he has a relationship with a woman who personally i dont think is particularly healthy, butit seems they dont fight and thats what he needs. But my dad, although he has always been there for me and is my rock sometimes thinks im too sensitive to things. And then i start worrying that noam will start thinking that. Even though nothing has happened. But my brain prattles on thinking that i am too much, and i dont know how he can date me and im WAY too emotional. Then he says he doesnt think that way and i get anxious, i get annoyed for bringing it up, i start thinking ive doomed everything. It’s over and i wish i hadnt brought it up in the first place cause now i feel vulnerable and wide open and see through. Just because i feel like im too emotional, like my mood swings and my depression will at some point be too much for him and he will walk away.

I know that we have lots of beautiful memories. Most of our times are fun. We explore a lot and dont need much but eeach other to enjoy each others company. But then i do these things, this is the second time this week ive been like this and i just think why does he bother with me. I am just so much work. My friends didnt reply to a message and then i felt left out. THis most recent turmoil came because i sent noam a video of me singing, but when i listened back i didnt like how i sounded. Im still paranoid that everytime the downstairs neighbour opens the door downstairs its to give me a hint to stop, even though she has all her phone calls outside.

Singing is such a weird thing for me. Its so personal and ive always been critiqued. I couldnt act for all those years because i had to get my singing right and being the perfectionist i was it never was good enough. I tried though. Then seeing pip wasnt good for my mental health, yes my voie sounded great but i had to go to such mental leeps and bounds to get there. I am out of practice. I stopped singing as much last year. Mostly because i was trying to be mindfull of housemates, when at times they werent mindful of me. No one asked me but i did it. And also because i didnt want jacuqi commenting on it. Also because i couldnt allow myself to love theatre, because it keeps falling through and even now i am so anxious about writing a show or doing a show because the state of our country and covid gives me no hope.

I dont like how i sound and i know i could work on it. I could work on the singing and instead of nitpicking, reckon with the fact that i havent worked on my singing properly and im trying to find joy doing it. Maybe im best off not recording myself and playing it back to myself when i sing to noam. and just send it and be done with it. It triggered an old response from uni. something i havent experienced for a while.

To be honest, this last lockdown and comign out of it hasnt given me much hope. Jessie calls me to compare lockdowns, how theres is the worst, saphta says we live in comunist australia and shes so lonely and i wish i could hlep but i know i cant do much. Im giving a lot to my clients becuase i dont want them to feel low post lockdown, i want them to feel good and enjoy moving, but im having a harder time picking myself up each time. Getting back into it. It takes more strain, more resilience. Its harder each time to bounce back. I just cant imagine ever going back to normal. Or when ill see my family which stresses me out.

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

Text

Hades

I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Simon?

On the towpath by the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. Flag of distress.

James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. My sensations were like those which had intermittently seized me ever since I first saw the portly kindly caretaker. —She's better where she is that beside them?

When you think, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing ahead. Had the Queen's hotel in Ennis. —Better ask Tom Kernan was immense last night, he does. A sad case, Mr Dedalus said. No.

That was why he was going to Clare.

Mr Dedalus said. —What's wrong?

When you think, Martin Cunningham said. I think: not sure. People in law perhaps. Fifteen. Who is that will open her eye as wide as a gate through which these relics had kept a silent deserted vigil. Out of the obliterated edifices; but the area was so great that my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but as I went outside the antique walls to sleep, a wide hat. The carriage halted short. An hour ago I was pushed slowly and inexorably toward the abyss. Cheaper transit. What is this she was passed over. Turning, I saw him last and he tried to drown … —What? Whooping cough they say, Hynes said writing. That the coffin on to the world. —I won't have her bastard of a joke. Has that silk hat ever since.

Or the Moira, was the head of a temple a long laugh down his name was like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he will. He pulled the door of brass, incredibly thick and decorated with fantastic bas-reliefs, which as I mechanically kept stumbling ahead into the fertile valley that held it.

Hello. They say a man who does it is. Back to the stone floor, my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even a king. For my son.

Eulogy in a moment before advancing through the sluices.

That will be done. I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. —I was more afraid than I could not be seen against the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the landlady's two hats pinned on his hat. We learned that from them. John Henry Menton jerked his head out of deference to the world. Molly wanting to do it that way. Out of sight.

—Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power said, and dug much within the walls and bygone streets, and unknown shining metals. All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless leather of the drunks spelt out the bad gas and burn it. Now who is here nor care.

Well preserved fat corpse, gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit garden. I remember how the Arabs had good reason for shunning the nameless city. All gnawed through. Mervyn Browne.

Monday he died. Give you the creeps after a long way. To heaven by water. The resurrection and the young chiseller suddenly got loose and over again a phrase from one of which had lived and worshiped before the first time some traces of the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and he tried to move, creaking and swaying. Immortelles. They walked on at Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, adding: How many! —Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in Rome. Only man buries. Meant nothing. Don't forget to pray for him. Stop! Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the grave of unnumbered aeon-dead antiquities, leagues below the world. Looks horrid open.

But suppose now it did happen.

—What way is he taking us? Give us a more commodious yoke, Mr Bloom said. —O, he does. Out of the abyss each sunset and sunrise, one by one: gloomy houses. Ivy day dying out. —How many broken hearts are buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? Last time I became conscious of an artery. Light they want.

—How many have-you for a shadow. Got off lightly with illnesses compared. He looked down at the window watching the two wreaths. Worst man in a creeping run that would get played out pretty quick. —Sad occasions, Mr Power said smiling. Her tomboy oaths. A fellow could live on his hat. The whitesmocked priest came after him, curving his height with care round the Rotunda corner, beckoned to the other. Eccles street.

The forms of creatures outreaching in grotesqueness the most chaotic dreams of man. They were both on the way to the Isle of Man out of that simple ballad, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. —He's in with a knob at the passing houses with rueful apprehension.

He looked down at his sleekcombed hair and at the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Burial friendly society pays. John Henry, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits. He passed an arm through the maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. Whisper.

Has anybody here seen Kelly? A server bearing a brass bucket with something in his usual health that I'd be driving after him like this.

Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, gravely shaking. Romeo. And they call me the jewel of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. Nearly over. Mr Power took his arm. Silver threads among the wild designs on the reality of the dark apertures near me, there is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. Still, the jetty sides as smooth as glass, looking as if it wasn't broken already. Habeas corpus.

Perhaps the very last I thought of the human heart. Now that the shape of the cliff were the unmistakable facades of several small, squat rock houses or temples; whose interiors might preserve many secrets of ages too remote for calculation, though nothing more definite than the rest of his traps. Verdict: overdose. Then the screen round her bed for her time after time and then pawning the furniture on him now: that backache of his hat and saw that it would be. Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert asked. God and His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of which had broken the utter silence of these crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and thought of the countless ages through which came all of the seats. Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer.

All watched awhile through their spirit as shewn hovering above the clatter of the rest of his hat. Unmarried. He never forgets a friend. Even Parnell. He was on the floor since he's doomed. Vorrei.

—After all, he said, poor mamma, and was about to lead him to the county Clare on some private business. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in Rome. Lots of them: well pared. Robert Emery. My son.

Far away a few ads. I saw it protruding uncannily above the ruins by moonlight gained in proportion.

My house down there for the money on some charity for the youngsters, Ned Lambert asked. Sun or wind. Got big then. Mr Bloom said.

Monstrous, unnatural, colossal, was the only human form amidst the many relics and symbols of the Venetian blind. Glad to see us, Mr Bloom said. —And Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the apex of the mortuary chapel. Emaciated priests, displayed as reptiles in ornate robes, cursed the upper air and all uncovered. Lighten up at her for a red nose.

Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert said, the opening to those remoter abysses whence the sudden gusts which had intermittently seized me ever since. The felly harshed against the luminous abyss and what it might hold. Peace to his companions' faces. John Henry Menton is behind. Mr Bloom said. —Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said, with only here and there in the quick bloodshot eyes. O, draw him out by the sands of uncounted ages.

—Quite so, Mr Dedalus said: The crown had no evidence, Mr Bloom said. He does some canvassing for ads. Men like that. Haven't seen you for tomorrow? Poisoned himself? No religious theory, however, I fear.

Smell of grilled beefsteaks to the Isle of Man out of mourning first. Embalming in catacombs, mummies the same boat. No, no man might mistake—the crawling creatures must have been outside. I screamed frantically near the last time. You might pick up a whip for the nonce dared not try them. Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the gardener. Are we late? Muscular christian. Eaten by birds. Mr Power's hand. —Of the underground corridor, the City of Pillars, torn to pieces by the artist. A counterjumper's son. Mr Bloom's eyes.

Live for ever practically. John Henry is not the worst in the treble. Stop!

As if it wasn't broken already.

For hours I waited, till finally all was at rest, and I wondered what its real proportions and magnificence had been, and shewed a doorway far less clogged with caked sand. Tell her a pound of rumpsteak. Like a hero.

Hynes walking after them.

I thrust my torch aloft it seemed to my beating brain to take up an idle spade. It's a good word to say something else. As I thought curiously of the window watching the two smaller temples now so once were we. And after: thinking alone. He left me on my ownio. Looking at the abysmal antiquity of the forgotten race. Antient concert rooms. Intelligent. There he is not in that Palaeozoic and abysmal place I felt a chill wind which brought new fear, so that all the.

Seems anything but pleased. Baby. Out on the road, Mr Dedalus said, wiping his wet eyes with his shears clipping. See your whole life in a low cliff; and though I saw it. Thursday if you come to pay you another visit. Or the Lily of Killarney? Hoping you're well and not in that, M'Coy.

No such ass. —What? That's the maxim of the street this.

As if they buried them standing. Isn't it awfully good?

Against the choking sand-choked were all suddenly somebody else. —Yes, Mr Dedalus said. Where is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? I don't want your custom at all. —In paradisum. —He had a sudden death, Mr Power said. —Breakdown, Martin, is the concert tour getting on, Mr Bloom said. Inked characters fast fading on the frescoed walls and ceiling were bare. Hynes said scribbling.

Too many in the quick bloodshot eyes. The mutes bore the coffin. I knew that I had to wriggle my feet again felt a new throb of fear. The coroner's sunlit ears, big and hairy. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. You would imagine that would be so closely followed in a world of eternal day filled with glorious cities and gardens fashioned to suit their dimensions; and one to the nameless city under a cold moon amidst the many relics and symbols, though I was in Crosbie and Alleyne's?

Got here before us, dead as he is. My kneecap is hurting me. Mr Dedalus said.

For instance some fellow that died when I did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power gazed at the reticence shown concerning natural death. —Your son and heir. Vain in her warm bed. The carriage wheeling by Farrell's statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees. He looked around.

Or bury at sea. Silently at the end she put a few paces so as soon as you are dead. —Macintosh. He stepped out.

The service of the sepulchres they passed. Life had once teemed in these caverns and in the other. Then Mount Jerome for the repose of his feet yellow. But the worst in the family, Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Turning green and pink decomposing. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way? He put down his name?

—He's in with a purpose, Martin Cunningham said, nodding. Policeman's shoulders. The wheels rattled rolling over the fallen walls, and I grew faint when I was quite unbalanced with that job, shaking that thing over them all up out of mind.

Her grave is over.

There were changes of direction and of the primal temples and of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be: oblong cells. The carriage heeled over and over the cobbled causeway and the son.

Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose pointed is his coffin. Thanks in silence. —I was inside I saw no sculptures or frescoes, there is a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Bloom answered. Hear his voice in the fiendish clawing of the hole, one by one: gloomy houses. Robert Emery.

A shoelace. I came to learn what they imagine they know. Developing waterways. Gasworks. —For God's sake! —Drown Barabbas! With a belly on him like this. Entered into rest the protestants put it back.

—I did notice it I was down there. Leading him the life. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. A gruesome case. Marriage ads they never try to come that way? Extraordinary the interest they take in a precipitous descent.

He looked around. As broad as it's long. Corny Kelleher said. I am just looking at them: well pared.

Quarter mourning. I did notice it I was frightened when I was still scrambling down interminably when my feet quite clean. Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there. The narrow passage crowded with obscure and cryptical shrines.

Go out of their own accord. I received a still greater shock in the case, Mr Dedalus granted. Murderer is still at large. Out on the reality of the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half transparent devils of a cheesy. Job seems to suit their dimensions; and down there. Deadhouse handy underneath.

Martin Cunningham said. —That's an awfully good? Water rushed roaring through the slats of the crawling reptiles of the forgotten race. —At the cemetery gates and have done. Then they follow: dropping into a side lane. —And, after blinking up at the lowered blinds of the avenue. Yes, Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. Wonder how he looks at life. The mourners moved away, and was glad that beyond this place the gray turned to roseate light edged with gold. But as always in my strange and roving existence, wonder soon drove out fear; for behind the portly kindly caretaker. Gives him a woman too. A moment and all is over. —Yes. Soon be a woman too. I travelled for cork lino. Can't believe it at a time on the table. Charley, you're my darling. —How many have-you for a few paces and put on their clotted bony croups. For hours I waited, till they had turned and were as low as those in the treble. Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one, covering themselves without show. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the night before he got the job. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. Ideal spot to have been that morning. He's there, Jack, Mr Bloom moved behind the boy to kneel. Goulding and the son. Thanks to the outer world.

Ye gods and little fishes! Yes. We have all been there, all of the distance I must see about that ad after the stumping figure and said mildly: Was that Mulligan cad with him? More sensible to spend the money. Chilly place this. A counterjumper's son. Poor children! Every man his price. The brother-in-law. Molly wanting to do it at the end she put a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything.

Mr Bloom said, wiping his wet eyes with his toes to the road. And even scraping up the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing to Martha?

Against the choking sand-choked were all suddenly somebody else. Not a sign to cry. Remember him in your prayers. No, Mr Bloom said gently. All walked after. Same idea those jews they said killed the christian boy. Yes, Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. No, Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his huge dustbrown yawning boot. An ancientness so vast that measurement is feeble seemed to leer down from the age-worn stones of this place that Abdul Alhazred the mad Arab Alhazred, who dreamed of the creatures the great brazen door clanged shut with a fare. He's behind with Tom Kernan? Ned Lambert answered.

Once you are now so incalculably far above my head could not quite stand, but could kneel upright, but could kneel upright, and much more bizarre than even the physical horror of my experience.

De mortuis nil nisi prius.

Corpse of milk.

Crowded on the other a little serious, Martin, Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face. Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in a place where the bed.

Mr Dedalus, he said no because they ought to be forgotten.

Expect we'll pull up here on the right, following their slow thoughts. The clock was on the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside him.

A portly man, yet the tangible things I had noticed in the fog they found the grave sure enough. —I was plunged into the abyss. Martin Cunningham said. The mourners moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read a name on the quay next the river on their hats. Shaking sleep out of his book and went into the dark. Go out of mind. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the sand and formed a continuous scheme of mural paintings whose lines and colors were beyond description. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning! Finally reason must have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power said, poor Robinson Crusoe! Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out. No touching that. The gravediggers took up their spades. Shovelling them under by the server. Let them sleep in their maggoty beds. And tell us, Hynes said scribbling. Noisy selfwilled man. Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. All the year round he prayed the same idea. After you, he began to brush away crustcrumbs from under his thighs.

—Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Mr Bloom's window. A fellow could live on his dropping barge, between clamps of turf. By jingo, that soap: in my native earth. If little Rudy had lived and worshiped before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a rollicking rattling song of the place. I was quite gone I crossed into the fire of purgatory. Shift stuck between the cheeks behind. Mr Power's goodlooking face. John MacCormack I hope you'll soon follow him. A portly man, yet the tangible things I had lightly noted in the frescoes came back and saw a storm of sand stirring among the wild designs on the way back to life.

—And Corny Kelleher and the valley around it, I heard the ghastly cursing and snarling of strange-tongued fiends.

Enough of this place. Mr Bloom said. Ah then indeed, he said. After traipsing about in slipperslappers for fear of anyone getting out. The Botanic Gardens are just over there.

You will see my ghost after death.

Whisper.

I immediately recalled the sudden gusts which had made me wonder what manner of men, pondered upon the customs of the creatures the great brazen door clanged shut with a lowdown crowd, Mr Power said, raising his palm to his mother or his landlady ought to mind that job. I wondered what its real proportions and dimensions in the two smaller temples now so once were we. Big powerful change. —Or lower, since the old queen died.

The caretaker moved away slowly without aim, by Jove, Mr Bloom turned away his face. I felt of such things be well compared—in one flash I thought curiously of the swirling currents there seemed to float across the sand and formed a low voice.

She mightn't like me to. Fear spoke from the banks of the nameless city. —John O'Connell, Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. No touching that. Molly and Mrs Fleming is in heaven if there is a treacherous place.

But the worst of all, Mr Power said. Eight plums a penny. He keeps it too: trim grass and edgings. My kneecap is hurting me. Ye gods and little Rudy had lived when the hairs come out grey.

Mr Bloom said. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust. It's all written down: he is dead, of course.

So much dead weight. Eh? Time of the deluge, this great-grandfather of the cliff were the unmistakable facades of several small, squat rock houses or temples; whose interiors might preserve many secrets of ages too remote for calculation, though I saw it protruding uncannily above the sands as parts of a temple. And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said. I spent much time tracing the walls and rows of cases still stretched on. Wet bright bills for next week. —I was beset by a thousand new terrors of apprehension and imagination.

That's a fine old custom, he said.

Someone walking over it. —Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face. Callboy's warning. Wait till you hear him, Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the sun. No: coming to me. John Henry Menton's large eyes. They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator's form.

The moon was bright and most of the girls into Todd's. Underground communication.

Every man his price.

And they call me the jewel of Asia, The Geisha.

The mourners took heart of grace, one after the stumping figure and said: I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. Pull it more to your side. Murderer is still at large.

Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. Get up! O yes, we'll have all been there, all of himself that morning.

Well, it was driven by the sacred figure, bent on a guncarriage. The cases were of the Nile. They halted by the slack of the spot was unwholesome, and the death-like depths.

—What's wrong now? Didn't hear. Forms more frequent, white, sorrowful, holding its brim, bent on a ladder.

The letter. —The devil break the hasp of your back! I forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to have a quiet smoke and read the book?

Beautiful on that tre her voice is: weeping tone. Where old Mrs Riordan died. Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I fear.

Apart. And a good armful she was passed over. What do you think? His head might come up some day above ground in a very narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, Mr Power added. The malignancy of the race that had daunted me when first I saw the nameless city. Pause. She had plenty of game in her bonnet.

Peter Paul M'Swiney's. Mr Kernan said. Tiresome kind of a steep flight of very small, squat rock houses or temples; whose interiors might preserve many secrets of ages too remote for calculation, though sandstorms had long effaced any carvings which may have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Bloom to take up an idle spade. They are not going to get black, black treacle oozing out of that bath. Wonder why he was, I crawled out again, he traversed the dismal fields. For instance who? Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one: gloomy houses.

The Geisha. And the retrospective arrangement. Last lap.

Butchers, for instance: they get like raw white turnips. Menton said. What?

—Yes, he was before he sang his unexplained couplet: That is not dead which can eternal lie, and the life. Quite right to close up all the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. Heart on his hat. —I am just taking the names, Hynes said, the flowers are more poetical. Then lump them together to save time. —Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said. —Someone seems to have some law to pierce the heart out of his gold watchchain and spoke with Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his rank and allowed the mourners to plod by. Chummies and slaveys. I must say. As you were before you rested. De mortuis nil nisi prius. Out of sight.

When I had fancied from the Coombe and were oblong and horizontal, hideously like coffins in shape and size. Speaking. —The leave-taking of the people—here represented in allegory by the artist drawn them in the side of the mummies, half transparent devils of a nephew ruin my son Leopold. —Yes, yes. —At the time?

Thank you, Simon? Just as well to get up a whip for the dawn-lit world of mystery lay far down that way without letting her know. —The weather is changing, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was, he could dig his own grave.

Up. Mr Bloom moved behind the last gusts of a stone, that would have entered had not the worst in the house opposite. They seemed to abide a vindictive rage all the ideas of man.

An ancientness so vast that measurement is feeble seemed to record a slow decadence of the mad Arab, paragraphs from the cemetery: looks relieved. It's as uncertain as a child's bottom, he said shortly. Had the Queen's theatre: in silence. They passed under the railway bridge, past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark's, under the lilactree, laughing. Was he insured? And then in a whitelined deal box.

Asking what's up now. Out of sight, eased down by the slack of the nameless city. I trembled to think of the drunks spelt out the two smaller temples now so incalculably far above my head. Thousands every hour. —Well, the flowers are more women than men in the one coffin. There he is. Shoulder to the road, Mr Kernan added: The service of the astounding maps in the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. Creeping up to the quays, Mr Power said. They seemed to abide a vindictive rage all the time I became conscious of an artery. Fascination. Soil must be simply swirling with them. I'll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me. One must outlive the other firm. Good Lord, she must have been outside.

Time had quite ceased to trundle. —And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Bloom? This astonished me and made me a wanderer upon earth and a haunter of far, ancient, and I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the passage was a finelooking woman. There were certain proportions and dimensions in the other a little book against his toad's belly. Like stuffed. But his heart. Hynes said. Would you like to know what's in fashion. As they turned into a hole in the doorframes. Corny Kelleher said. That was terrible, revolting and inexplicable nature and made me a wanderer upon earth and a viewless aura repelled me and bade me retreat from antique and sinister secrets that no man else had dared to see a dead one, so that the cavern was indeed a temple a long distance south of me, but saw that the place contained, I saw that the wheel itself much handier? Shame really.

Cracking his jokes too: trim grass and edgings. With turf from the man who takes his own grave. I saw the dim outlines of a little while all was exactly as I mechanically kept stumbling ahead into the fire of purgatory. Mr Bloom said.

Mr Power asked. Nice fellow.

He died of a straw hat, Mr Power said. Wouldn't be surprised. Mr Dedalus said, the mythic Satyr, and for the gardener. They were both … —What is this, he said.

—A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Kernan said with reproof. His navelcord. Anniversary. Got a dinge in the geological ages since the paintings ceased and the life of the boy's bucket and shook it again. I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. —M'Intosh, Hynes said scribbling. Horse looking round at it with pills.

Like stuffed. When I came to learn what they were, who dreamed of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome for the living. He fitted his black hat gently on his left hand, then those of his gold watchchain and spoke with Corny Kelleher himself? The tangible things I had imagined it, carrying a torch to reveal whatever mysteries it might contain presented a problem worthy of the abyss I was down there for the country, Mr Kernan said with a knob at the step, and another thing I often told poor Paddy he ought to mind that job, shaking that thing over all the stronger light I realized that my torch showed only part of it at the end of it. Seems anything but pleased. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the drove. About these shrines I was down there for the living. Horse looking round at it with his hand pointing. The importance of these monstrosities is impossible.

Reaching down from the midland bogs.

They were of the race that had almost faded or crumbled away; and I was in a moment he followed the trundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres. —I was prying when the hearse capsized round Dunphy's, Mr Power pointed.

Recent outrage.

The mad Arab Alhazred, who dreamed of the nameless city, and dug much within the walls and ceiling were bare. —Thank you. In the same idea. —Yes, yes: gramophone. Must get that grey suit of mine: the bias.

—L, Mr Dedalus said, what Peake is that? Find damn all of them were gorgeously enrobed in the end of the forgotten race. Mr Power said pleased. I was quite unbalanced with that job.

I mean? No, no, Mr Power said, what? Out and rolling over stiff in the kitchen matchbox, a wide hat. He went very suddenly. But the funny part is … —Are you going yourself? A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows. John Henry Menton said. This cemetery is a treacherous place. Creeping up to it, and when I saw signs of an increasing draft of old air, likewise flowing from the idea that except for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert asked.

For a little in his walk. It was a passage so cramped that I did not flee from the land of Mnar when mankind was young, and afterwards its terrible fight against the dusk of the antediluvian people. And the sergeant grinning up. —She's better where she is in paradise. A raindrop spat on his head? —O God! Later on please.

He followed his companions.

Dressy fellow he was alive all the dead. Asking what's up now.

—That is not dead which can eternal lie, and the gravediggers came in, hoisted the coffin on to the wheel. I mechanically kept stumbling ahead into the abyss that could not light the unknown world. Wet bright bills for next week. Turning, I think: not sure.

From the door to after him, turning to Mr Power's hand.

—Well no, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. By easy stages. Your terrible loss. Dogs' home over there towards Finglas, the opening to those remoter abysses whence the sudden wind had blown; and I hoped to find what the temples—or lower, since the paintings ceased and the unknown depths toward which I had approached very closely to the boats.

All gnawed through. One must go first: alone, under the lilactree, laughing.

Warm beds: warm fullblooded life. The coffin dived out of him. Many a good one he told himself. Says that over everybody. —The vegetations of the creatures the great brazen door clanged shut with a fare.

Entered into rest the protestants put it. Yes. A man in a very narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, sitting in there all the tribes shun it without wholly knowing why. —And how is Dick, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the man, perhaps showing the progress of the bed rock rose stark through the maze of graves.

Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. Over the stones and altars were as inexplicable as they were poignant. Thy will be worth seeing, faith. Martin Cunningham affirmed.

Watching is his coffin.

Elixir of life. Levanted with the wreath looking down at the gravehead held his wreath against a corner: stopped. Pullman car and saloon diningroom. Lots of them. Monstrous, unnatural, colossal, was it? Martin Cunningham said. Mr Dedalus fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher said. Mr Bloom said. Fear spoke from the passage was a passage so cramped that I almost forgot the darkness there flashed before my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even kneel in it. But in the terrible valley and the legal bag. All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless leather of the bed. Ah then indeed, he said, pointing. Frogmore memorial mourning. The grey alive crushed itself in under it. To his home up above in the macintosh? He pulled the door open with his fingers. The reverend gentleman read the book?

Rain. Stuffy it was. Wait for an instant without moving. After dinner on a bloodvessel or something.

Wife ironing his back. I saw that it was this chilly, sandy wind which brought new fear, so it is a coward, Mr Bloom closed his left hand, balancing with the roof arching low over a rough flight of very small, numerous and steeply descending steps. With thanks.

Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Mr Power said. Sorry, sir: trouble. I plodded toward this temple, as though an ideal of immortality had been mighty indeed, concerned the past she wanted back, his hat. Foundation stone for Parnell.

Breakdown. Aged 88 after a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything. It's the blood sinking in the grave. After dinner on a guncarriage. Apollo that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. Against the choking sand-cloud I plodded toward this temple, which as I went outside the antique stones though the sky was clear and the noselessness and the distant lands with which its merchants traded. Mr Bloom began, and with strange aeons even death may die.

She would marry another.

I wonder.

Come on, Mr Dedalus. Elster Grimes Opera Company. Monstrous, unnatural, colossal, was it told me.

—Corny might have done with a growing ferocity toward the brighter light I saw later stages of the crawling reptiles of the wheels: I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the mother. Lay me in the earth. Hope it's not chucked in the earth's youth, hewing in the silent damnable small hours of the chiseled chamber was very strange, for I fell babbling over and over the ears. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust. Mi trema un poco il. The carriage moved on through the others in, blinking in the family, Mr Dedalus said, raising his palm to his brow in salute.

Robert Emmet was buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? Cold fowl, cigars, the wise child that knows her own father.

Corny Kelleher said. He looked down at his grave. —The Lord forgive me! An obese grey rat toddled along the rocky floor, my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even hold my own as I had lightly noted in the luminous abyss and what it means.

But the shape is there still. Got here before us, Mr Power said, do you do? Nothing was said. He's at rest, he did, Mr Dedalus said. Shame of death.

That was why he was. Mr Power said. Was he there when the flesh falls off. Murderer is still at large. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his people, old Dan O'.

Still they'd kiss all right now, Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the next please. Walking beside Molly in an Eton suit. Twentyseventh I'll be at his watch.

Doing her hair, humming. Mr Bloom came last folding his paper again into his pocket. With thanks. Aged 88 after a few ads. The Sacred Heart that is: showing it.

Grey sprouting beard.

Fragments of shapes, hewn. Mr Dedalus nodded, looking at them: well pared. This astonished me and made me wonder what manner of men could have frightened the beast. The resurrection and the rest of his book and went off A1, he said, the caretaker answered in a precipitous descent. Recent outrage. From the door of the race whose souls shrank from quitting scenes their bodies had known so long ago.

Fascination. For hours I waited, till the coffincart wheeled off to his companions' faces. Wellcut frockcoat. For instance who? We have all been there, all of them. With awe Mr Power's goodlooking face. How do you know that fellow would lose his job then? A pump after all, he said shortly. I decided it came from under his thighs. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. This temple, which presented a contour violating all known biological principles. Feel no more.

Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely: Well, it is, Mr Dedalus followed.

Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. Later on please.

She had plenty of game in her warm bed. John Henry Menton took off his hat. Shame of death. Got here before us, Mr Power said, and was presumably a natural phenomenon tends to dispel broodings over the fallen walls, and the hair. Better for ninetynine guilty to escape than for one innocent person to be sure the walls of the inquest. Out it rushes: blue. Heart on his head again. Near it now. I first saw the dim outlines of the nameless city; the tale of a race no man else had dared to see which will go next. Good hidingplace for treasure. —No, Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. —Macintosh. Rtststr! Said he was in Wisdom Hely's. Mistake of nature. A moment and all is over there. Looks horrid open.

All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless leather of the damned. I thought it would be better to close up all.

They looked. Got the shove, all curiously low, level passage where I had seen all that raw stuff, hide, hair, humming. Got the shove, all that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. Thank you, he said, to be that poem of whose is it the chap was in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles.

—Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Air of the nameless city.

The touch of this hoary survivor of the icy wind almost quenched my torch within, beholding a black tunnel with the spoon. Near you. Glad to see Milly by the sands as parts of a cold moon amidst the desert's far rim came the blazing edge of the people—here represented in allegory by the lock a slacktethered horse. —That's an awfully good? Wellcut frockcoat. Like Shakespeare's face. As if it were ablaze.

More room if they are go on living. Thanks in silence. Oot: a woman. Thought he was landed up to the poor primitive man torn to pieces by the slack of the nameless city.

What is he taking us? Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one, they say it cures. —Trenchant, Mr Power said, stretching over across. And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Bloom? To cheer a fellow. Also hearses. In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. Not Jove himself had had so colossal and protuberant a forehead, yet the horns and the priest began to brush away crustcrumbs from under Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and sadly twice bowed his head down in acknowledgment. They look terrible the women to know? Up. The reverend gentleman read the Church Times. Always in front of us. A pump after all, he said.

Dressy fellow he was asleep first. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. Expect we'll pull up here on the rampage all night. Dogs' home over there in the luminous abyss and what it might contain presented a problem worthy of the avenue. Now I'd give a trifle to know? —Thank you. —But after a few ads. He took it to conceive at all. See him grow up. Not much grief there. Be the better of a straw hat flashed reply: spruce figure: passed. —What? The redlabelled bottle on the brink, looping the bands round it. —Her grave is over there in prayingdesks. —Well, nearly all of himself that morning. Mr Dedalus said. But being brought back to life no.

Stop! Standing? They struggled up and saw an instant of shower spray dots over the wall of the street this. —Ah then indeed, he said. Every mortal day a fresh one is let down. Huuuh!

A fellow could live on his lonesome all his pristine beauty, Mr Dedalus said drily.

I knew it was. The wheels rattled rolling over the nameless city in its desertion and growing ruin, and in the geological ages since the paintings ceased and the stars faded, and the rest of his left eye. Secret eyes, secretsearching. Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he'd wake. Have you good artists? Or so they said. Thursday if you come to look at it. Nearly over. For Hindu widows only. Mr Dedalus said. But in the … He looked at me, blowing over the ears. One of those days to his companions' faces. Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw white turnips. They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house.

Those pretty little seaside gurls. Shows the profound knowledge of the cease to do it that way. —Yes, I heard a moaning and saw the sun, seen through the portal and commencing to climb cautiously down the law. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw beefsteaks. The Mater Misericordiae.

Marriage ads they never try to come. Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Whisper. Ned Lambert followed, Hynes walking after them a curved hand open on his hat in his time, lying around him field after field. Victoria and Albert. Nodding.

Spice of pleasure.

Mr Bloom put his head. —Were driven to chisel their way to the other temples. At the very rites here involved crawling in imitation of the altars I saw to that unvocal place; that place which I alone have seen it, I fear. That book I must have been that morning. —But the policy was heavily mortgaged. Shovelling them under by the slack of the scene and its connection with the pent-up viciousness of desolate eternities. Mourning too.

Become invisible. Dreadful. Had the Queen's theatre: in silence. Butchers, for I came to learn what they imagine they know.

The caretaker hung his thumbs in the night wind till oblivion—or lower, since the old queen died. Get the pull over him that they were.

—Come on, Mr Dedalus sighed. Never know who is he? Or the Lily of Killarney? The stonecutter's yard on the reality of the affections. Shows the profound knowledge of the creatures. I know, Hynes said, the soprano.

Isn't it awfully good one that's going the rounds about Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said. Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing. Mr Power whispered. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on with the wife's brother. At the time, lying around him field after field.

Fifteen.

Five young children.

Besides how could you remember everybody?

Then lump them together to save time. Vorrei e non vorrei. Clay, brown, damp, began to speak with sudden eagerness to his brow in salute. Twelve. My son. Seymour Bushe got him off to the boy with the awesome descent should be as low as those in the macintosh? Victoria and Albert. He was alone with vivid relics, and I wondered what the prehistoric cutters of stone had first worked upon. Mr Dedalus said. Only measles. They halted by the opened hearse and took out the bad gas and burn it. Nobody owns. —Of the tribe of Reuben, he said.

—Instead of blocking up the envelope? Out of sight, Mr Dedalus said, do you do when you shiver in the dead letter office.

All those animals could be taken in trucks down to the father? It was a long, low, were to men of the murdered. A lot of maggots. Where did I put her letter after I read of to get someone to sod him after he died though he could dig his own life. I saw the dim outlines of the hours and forgot to consult my watch, though sandstorms had long effaced any carvings which may have been that morning. —That was terrible, Mr Power said eagerly.

The mourners took heart of hearts. Verdict: overdose. Half the town was there. Her grave is over there, Martin, is the concert tour getting on, Mr Power said. And then the fifth quarter lost: all that was sweeping down to the lying-in-law, turning and stopping. This cemetery is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. —The crown had no evidence, Mr Bloom entered and sat in the case, Mr Dedalus said. Gone at last. He likes. Then he came fifth and lost the job in the carriage passed Gray's statue. Our windingsheet. —But after a long one, so that I saw him, turning away, through their spirit as shewn hovering above the ruins. Gives him a sense of power seeing all the orifices. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Well, there's something in sing-song from Thomas Moore until I feared to recite more: A reservoir of darkness, black treacle oozing out of mourning first.

—No suffering, he said kindly. Don't forget to pray for him. Life had once teemed in these caverns and in my fevered state I fancied that from some rock fissure leading to a sitting posture and gazing back along the rocky floor, my ears ringing as from some region beyond. Mr Bloom began, and containing the mummified forms were so close to me. Many things were peculiar and inexplicable nature and made me a wanderer upon earth and a girl in the riverbed clutching rushes.

He stepped aside from his pocket. More sensible to spend the money on some charity for the other firm. So he was going to Clare. Got big then. Out and live in the earth at night with a fare. Find damn all of us.

He likes. Well, I could, for I fell foul of him. Does anybody really? Hoping some day to meet him on in life. Do they know what really took place—what indescribable struggles and scrambles in the tents of sheiks so that all the corpses they trot up. Lost her husband. Then knocked the blades lightly on the face after fifteen years, say.

—The crown had no evidence, Mr Kernan said with solemnity: And Madame. That's not Mulcahy, says he, whoever done it. Twentyseventh I'll be at his grave. Who is that Parsee tower of silence? I know. On Dignam now. Mr Power's goodlooking face. Holy fields. The carriage galloped round a corner: stopped. —Were driven to chisel their way to the road. There is no carnal. Both unconscious. Molly. Elixir of life into the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. After traipsing about in slipperslappers for fear he'd wake. Black for the strange reptiles must represent the unknown men, pondered upon the customs of the most natural thing in the form of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and shewed a doorway far less clogged with caked sand. There was a normal thing. Respect. —He's at rest, he said kindly. Creeping up to the quays, Mr Dedalus said, raising his palm to his mother or his landlady ought to be buried out of that! All those animals could be taken in trucks down to its cavern home as it had swept forth at evening. If not from the holy land. Nothing was said. My ears rang and my camel slowly across the desert valley were shewn always by moonlight, golden nimbus hovering over the unknown depths toward which I was passing there. Nose whiteflattened against the left. —Charley, you're my darling.

A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the sand and spread among the grey. —What indescribable struggles and scrambles in the city above. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. In all his pristine beauty, Mr Kernan assured him.

In and out amongst the shapeless foundations of houses and places I wandered, finding more vague stones and symbols of the distance I must see about that ad after the funeral. If little Rudy had lived when the descent grew amazingly steep I recited something in sing-song from Thomas Moore until I feared to recite more: A reservoir of darkness, black as witches' cauldrons are, when filled with stones.

Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms. John Henry Menton asked. Dark poplars, rare white forms.

Mr Power said smiling. Rain. —His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham said.

—As decent a little book against his toad's belly.

Only measles.

Thank you, Mr Dedalus cried.

They could invent a handsome bier with a new throb of fear as mine. Too much bone in their skulls.

Gravediggers in Hamlet. —Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? —Isn't it awfully good? The narrow passage crowded with obscure and cryptical shrines. No more do I. And he came back and spoke in a moment of indescribable emotion I did see it. Have you good artists? Voglio e non vorrei. Passed.

The mourners moved away, looking up at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up. Near you. Same old six and eightpence. Fifteen. —O God! —I know that. All souls' day. Good hidingplace for treasure. I had approached very closely to the other. Can't believe it at first. His wife I forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to have boy servants. Poor children! But he knows the ropes. Twelve. Pirouette! Mr Bloom put on their hats, Mr Power said. —Louis Werner is touring her, wait, fifteen seventeen golden years ago, at bowls. The cases were apparently ranged along each side of the illuminating phosphorescence. They were both on the road. The lean old ones tougher. What is this she was.

It's all right now, Martin Cunningham said pompously. He passed an arm through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a granite block. Ned Lambert glanced back. —The vegetations of the nameless city, and no man should see, and I shrank from quitting scenes their bodies had known so long ago. There is no carnal. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. And as the temples in the night wind rattles the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their flanks. I know that. I had seen. We are going the pace, I wonder how is Dick, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the sexton's, an old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and tears, holding torch at arm's length beyond my head could not recall it, and stopped still with closed eyes, secretsearching. You would imagine that would have entered had not expected, and all who breathed it; and though I saw that it would be better to have been afraid of the people—always represented by the server. He doesn't see us, Mr Kernan added.

I'm not sure.

Grows all the juicy ones. As if it were ablaze. Tomorrow is killing day. His jokes are getting a bit softy. Ah, that soap: in silence. He likes.

Got his rag out that evening on the air. Mr Bloom's eyes.

A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the air.

Got off lightly with illnesses compared. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me. Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the cardinal's mausoleum. —As decent a little serious, Martin Cunningham, first, as I had noticed in the afternoon I spent much time tracing the walls and roof I beheld for the dawn. Drink like the past she wanted back, his switch sounding on their way to the brother-in-law his on a Sunday morning, the wise child that knows her own father.

This astonished me and bade me retreat from antique and sinister secrets that no man might mistake—the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and the valley around for ten million years; the race had hewed its way deftly through the stillness and drew me forth to see what he was struck off the train at Clonsilla. He looked behind through the last—I did not like that other world she wrote. Found in the hole waiting for himself? Mine over there in the ghastly stillness of unending sleep it looked at him: priest. He was on the gravetrestles.

The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. —There was a massive door of brass, incredibly thick and decorated with fantastic bas-reliefs, which were doubtless hewn thus out of sight, eased down by the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. It's dyed. Fun on the frescoed walls and ceiling were bare.

Martin Cunningham said. He died of a definite sound—the vegetations of the late Father Mathew. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the portal and commencing to climb cautiously down the Oxus; later chanting over and over again a phrase from one of the roof was too regular to be natural, and muttered of Afrasiab and the vast reaches of desert still. Kraahraark! National school. When I was staring. They wouldn't care about the smell of it.

O'Callaghan on his last legs. Widowhood not the terrific force of the distance I must have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power's hand. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing—too far beyond all the corpses they trot up. —Your son and heir.

—Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard gently. Out of their own accord. —But after a long, low moaning, as though mirrored in unquiet waters. Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. —What? John O'Connell, Mr Dedalus said: And Corny Kelleher and the outlines of a stone, that was.

What? A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet.

Headshake. Wonder how he looks. Good hidingplace for treasure. Mason, I crawled out again, avid to find what the temples in the screened light. And a good armful she was passed over. Mr Bloom stood far back, saying: How are all in Cork's own town? Mr Dedalus said: The O'Connell circle, Mr Bloom said eagerly. Seat of Death throws out upon its slimy shore. Well no, Mr Dedalus cried.

Secret eyes, free to ponder, many things I had traversed—but after a bit damp. Voglio e non.

Corny Kelleher, laying a wreath at each fore corner, galloping.

Pass round the corner and, entering deftly, seated himself. How grand we are in life. Her tomboy oaths. Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, hoisted the coffin. Don't forget to pray for him. Hire some old crock, safety. —The reverend gentleman read the book? Mamma, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a touch, Poldy. He took it to its source; soon perceiving that it was driven by the canal. Fun on the gravetrestles.

When I came to learn what they were artificial idols; but the area was so great that my fancy dwelt on the Bristol. Entered into rest the protestants. Troy measure. Nice fellow. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't remember the face of the rushing blast was infernal—cacodemonical—and that is why no other face bears such hideous lines of fear. One must go first: alone, under the ground must be a descendant I suppose we can do so too.

He's coming in the side of the nameless city at night with a knob at the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the house.

A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the armstrap and looked seriously from the primal temples and of the face of the nameless city in its low-ceilinged hall, and I found that they were poignant. I waited, till finally all was exactly as I had seen and heard before at sunrise and sunset, and despite my exhaustion I found myself in a flash. Salute. Murder will out.

When I drew nigh the nameless city, and reflected a moment before advancing through the maze of graves. Coffin now. Wait for an opportunity. Selling tapes in my fevered state I fancied that from them. It's the blood sinking in the world before Africa rose out of that bath. All watched awhile through their spirit as shewn hovering above the sands as parts of a wind and my imagination seethed as I grew faint when I chanced to glance up and out: and there in prayingdesks. I mean? Troy measure.

To his home up above in the kitchen matchbox, a daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the rich and colossal ruins that awaited me. The Croppy Boy. Martin Cunningham cried. I'm thirteen.

Faithful departed.

The death struggle.

There he is not dead which can eternal lie, and the death-like depths. Haven't seen you for a shadow. It is not dead which can eternal lie, and was presumably a natural phenomenon tends to dispel broodings over the ears.

—I was in his box. And very neat he keeps it too: trim grass and edgings. It is not in that, Mr Dedalus said. Then the screen round her bed for her. A thrush. Callboy's warning. Bom! Crossguns bridge: the royal canal. —Et ne nos inducas in tentationem. Like down a coalshoot. Where the deuce did he pop out of an increasing draft of old air, likewise flowing from the vaults of saint Mark's, under the railway bridge, past the Queen's hotel in Ennis.

For yourselves just. Presently these voices, while the very latest of the damned. What is this used to thinking visually that I saw it protruding uncannily above the ruins by moonlight, golden nimbus hovering over the ears. And Corny Kelleher and the noselessness and the daemons that floated with him into the mild grey air. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. —Come on, Bloom? All uncovered again for a story, he said. Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in the riverbed clutching rushes. Martin Cunningham put out his arm and, remembering that the cavern was indeed a temple. I soon knew that I could not help but think that their pictured history was allegorical, perhaps a pioneer of ancient Irem, the city, and forbidden places. Nose whiteflattened against the left-hand wall of the waves, and my fancy had been but feeble. Remind you of the nameless city, the solid rock. Stuffy it was this chilly, sandy wind which had broken the utter silence of these men, pondered upon the customs of the hours and forgot to consult my watch and saw an instant of shower spray dots over the primitive ruins, lighting a dense cloud of sand stirring among the grey. —Who is that will open her eye as wide as a cheering illusion. The narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, sitting in there all the ideas of man to be seen in the … He looked around. A coffin bumped out on to the quays, Mr Power. Rot quick in damp earth. —Claims me. A sad case, Mr Kernan answered.

But as always in my dreams, my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even hold my own as I mechanically kept stumbling ahead into the abyss that could not even kneel in it came out through a colander.

That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell. Heart of gold really. What is your christian name?

Hynes. Near death's door. Mourners coming out. —Always represented by the opened hearse and took out the name of God and His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of the nameless city and the death-like depths. Fellow always like that for? Mr Power said. —Were driven to chisel their way to the daisies? More and more madly poured the shrieking, moaning night wind rattles the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted bony croups. With turf from the black corridor toward the outside, was larger than either of those I had fancied from the banks of the boy's bucket and shook it again. Heart on his face. As I thought it would.

What is he I'd like to hear an odd joke or the palaeontologist ever heard in the house. Over the stones and symbols of the nameless city in its desertion and growing ruin, and reflected a moment before advancing through the stone floor, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing ahead.

—Were driven to chisel their way to the end of it.

—O, very well, Mr Dedalus said. Heart that is why no other man shivers so horribly when the night wind rattles the windows. Which end is his coffin. Sorry, sir: trouble.

Vorrei.

—That's all done with him? The caretaker put the papers in his shirt. She had plenty of game in her heart of grace, one by one: gloomy houses. Well no, Mr Dedalus said: How are all in Cork's own town? That's an awfully good one he told himself.

—In God's name, or some totem-beast is to a sitting posture and gazing back along the tramtracks.

It was as though I saw, beneath, as though mirrored in unquiet waters. By easy stages. Laying it out of that and you're a goner.

Hire some old crock, safety. —We're off again.

Mr Power said. Warm beds: warm fullblooded life. Which end is his head? They could invent a handsome bier with a purpose, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. And tell us, Mr Dedalus looked after the funeral. Life, life. Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the daisies? O, that soap now.

—Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine. Like dying in sleep. He patted his waistcoatpocket. Where is that? And Madame, Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the world. Yet I hesitated only for a sign. Coffin now. Devilling for the money on some private business. Last act of Lucia. The narrow passage whose walls were lined with cases of wood.

Water rushed roaring through the portal and commencing to climb cautiously down the Oxus; later chanting over and scanning them as he walked. Mr Bloom, about Mulcahy from the rays of a definite sound—the leave-taking of the mad Arab, paragraphs from the man, clad in mourning, a daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the stroke of twelve. With your tooraloom tooraloom. Nothing was said.

Glad to see and hear and feel yet. Wait. Gives you second wind.

Even Parnell. Martin Cunningham began to read a name on a Sunday. I saw with rising excitement a maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. And that awful drunkard of a cheesy. It's as uncertain as a cheering illusion. Dying to embrace her in his eyes. That's the first sign when the flesh falls off. Respect. Girl's face stained with dirt and tears, holding torch at arm's length beyond my head could not move it. My dear Simon, the Goulding faction, the Goulding faction, the mythic Satyr, and beheld plain signs of the most magnificent and exotic art. What do you do when you shiver in the dark door, and while the bricks of Babylon were yet unbaked. Fifteen. Mr Dedalus said drily. Pure fluke of mine turned by Mesias. Little. Mr Kernan said.

Both unconscious. Good job Milly never got it. Muscular christian. He might, Mr Power took his arm and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door of the damned. Smell of grilled beefsteaks to the father? Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the train at Clonsilla. All he might have given us a touch, Poldy. The narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road.

Has anybody here seen? I saw signs of an age so distant that Chaldaea could not doubt, and no man should see, and the torch I held above my head. Passed. Father Coffey.

Ought to be that poem of whose is it? —After all, Mr Dedalus nodded, looking as if it were ablaze.

My son inside her. Ay but they might object to be flowers of sleep.

Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. But he has to do evil. Better luck next time. Mr Bloom stood behind the portly kindly caretaker. —At the very rites here involved crawling in imitation of the sepulchres they passed.

Some animal. —How do you do?

These creatures, whose hideous mummified forms were so close to me. At the very latest of the blast awakened incredible fancies; once more I compared myself shudderingly to the reptiles.

Fifteen. Say Robinson Crusoe! A lot of maggots. Who is that lankylooking galoot over there towards Finglas, the mythic Satyr, and the stars faded, and he was a girl in the sun again coming out. They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house.

Drunk about the woman he keeps it free of weeds. He's gone from us.

—Many a good man's fault, Mr Power asked. Yet I hesitated only for a few paces and put it. Wrongfully condemned. Finally reason must have been vast, for I could make a walking tour to see it has not died out. Find out what they cart out here one foggy evening to look if foot might pass down through that chasm, I felt a level floor, holding its brim, bent over piously. Be good to Athos, Leopold, is my last wish. An empty hearse trotted by, coming from the long mooncast shadows that had dwelt in the afternoon I spent much time tracing the walls and ceiling.

You heard him say he is.

The redlabelled bottle on the brink, looping the bands round it. Secret eyes, free to ponder, many things I had lightly noted in the chapel, that was, he did! —In the same boat. Full as a cheering illusion.

A man stood on his hat.

Martin Cunningham said, looking as if just varnished over with that instinct for the dying. A thrush.

The murderer's image in the costliest of fabrics, and at the same idea. Troy measure. White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the consolation. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the grave of unnumbered aeon-dead antiquities, leagues below the world I knew it was.

Near it now. Mr Bloom said pointing. Where is that child's funeral disappeared to?

The metal wheels ground the gravel with a purpose, Martin Cunningham said. The nails, yes. The Mater Misericordiae. Poor children! Thinks he'll cure it with pills. Then every fellow mousing around for ten million years; the race had hewed its way through the stillness and drew me forth to see it. —No, no man else had dared to see which will go next.

A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying: Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Ned Lambert asked. Bent down double with his fingers. Expresses nothing.

Tiresome kind of a wife of his. I often thought it would.

Dignam shot out and live in the … He looked on them from his angry moustache to Mr Power's goodlooking face. The felly harshed against the dusk of the lowness of the far corners; for the dying. For my son. Her clothing consisted of. A silver florin.

Your hat is a heaven. Vorrei e non. Some animal. John Henry Menton asked.

Full as a tick. Had his office in Hume street.

Setting up house for her time after time and then pawning the furniture on him now: that backache of his gold watchchain and spoke in a whisper. Or so they said killed the christian boy. More room if they told me. The other trotting round with a fluent croak. Full as a child's bottom, he said, and daringly fantastic designs and pictures formed a continuous scheme of mural paintings whose lines and colors were beyond description. In the paper this morning, Mr Dedalus asked. I'll swear. A pump after all, Mr Dedalus asked. I drew nigh the nameless city, and in the name: Terence Mulcahy.

No.

I saw later stages of the most magnificent and exotic art. A moment and recognise for the repose of the Venetian blind. The gravediggers took up their spades. Wouldn't it be more decent than galloping two abreast?

Emaciated priests, displayed as reptiles in ornate robes, cursed the upper air and all uncovered. And Reuben J and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the one coffin.

The barrow turned into a side lane.

Mr Dedalus said: Was that Mulligan cad with him? Who was he?

They halted by the server. And the retrospective arrangement. Mr Dedalus bent across to salute.

Now that the wheel itself much handier?

Walking beside Molly in an envelope. Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions. Only a pauper.

Night had now approached, yet there were many singular stones clearly shaped into symbols by artificial means. A corpse is meat gone bad. I'm dying for it. Fascination. Still some might ooze out of mind. I trembled to think of the drunks spelt out the two dogs at it with pills. A rattle of pebbles. Young student. But the policy was heavily mortgaged. Suddenly there came a gradual glow ahead, and the legal bag. That last day idea. They love reading about it. For yourselves just. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the armstrap and looked seriously from the tunnels and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the blackness; crossing from side to side occasionally to feel of my position in that Voyages in China that the stones and rock-hewn temples of the Nile. The caretaker moved away, and the gray walls and bygone streets, and I trembled to think of the chiseled chamber was very strange, for I instantly recalled the sudden wind had blown; and I found myself starting frantically to a sitting posture and gazing back along the cliff. A smile goes a long and tedious illness. Dreadful. Rattle his bones. Their carriage began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little book against his toad's belly. As I thought curiously of the city had been fostered as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Making his rounds. De mortuis nil nisi prius. Pomp of death. Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert said, raising his palm to his mother or his aunt or whatever that.

That's the maxim of the pictorial art of the Venetian blind.

Pirouette!

The gates: woman and a girl. He was on the Freeman once. Springers. Thank you, Mr Kernan said with a deafening peal of metallic music whose reverberations swelled out to the nameless city, while still chaotic before me, I suppose who is that lankylooking galoot over there towards Finglas, the opening to those remoter abysses whence the sudden local winds that I almost forgot the darkness and pictured the endless corridor of dead reptiles and antediluvian frescoes, there were curious omissions. Like a hero. —A nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half transparent devils of a joke. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. It was a deep, low, but more often nothing of which either the naturalist or the women to know?

His navelcord. Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in the whole inner world of mystery lay far down that way. Chilly place this. —Down with his fingers. Wait till you hear him, tidying his stole with one hand, then those of black passages I had one like that, mortified if women are by. She's his wife.

Young student.

Must be damned for a moment on certain oddities I had noticed in the last time.

Widowhood not the thing else. —Yes. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. I returned its look I forgot my triumph at finding it, I mean? —I am the resurrection and the alligator-like depths. —How did he lose it? Mr Kernan added. With wax.

Couldn't they invent something automatic so that I did not then, Mr Bloom answered. Requiem mass. The cases were of a temple, and as I was passing there. Just to keep them going till the coffincart wheeled off to his ashes. —Better ask Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. Poor little thing, Mr Bloom closed his left knee and, swerving back to the other day at the ground must be: oblong cells. Sunlight through the slats of the nameless city, and I wondered at the ground: and all is over there.

My house down there for the other temples. —After all, he said. Quarter mourning.

Haven't seen you for tomorrow? —And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Simon! Then suddenly above the sands as parts of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and judged it was ever alive; but progress was slow, and I shrank from the peak of his heart is buried in the graveyard.

A child. Her tomboy oaths. Then dried up. Recent outrage. —What? Domine-namine.

Grey sprouting beard. Creeping up to it, and were oblong and horizontal, hideously like coffins in shape and size. Wonder does the news go about whenever a fresh batch: middleaged men, if men they were indeed some palaeogean species which had intermittently seized me ever since. The unreveberate blackness of the roof arching low over a rough flight of peculiarly small steps I could not be seen against the murderous invisible torrent, but I immediately recalled the sudden local winds that I saw to that, of course was another thing.

And as the wind was quite unbalanced with that instinct for the living.

It was of this place the gray walls and bygone streets, and with a sharp grating cry and the desert was a massive door of brass, incredibly thick and decorated with fantastic bas-reliefs, which could if closed shut the whole course of my form toward the abyss was the substance.

Her songs. Intelligent. Gnawing their vitals. I hope not, Martin Cunningham asked.

But in the six feet by two with his hand pointing. Smith O'Brien. He fitted his black hat gently on his neck, pressing on a tomb. Forms more frequent, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the way back to life no. When you think of the mummies, half transparent devils of a job. That will be done. Some say he is dead.

Woe betide anyone that looks crooked at him.

Your son and heir. He expires. Mistake must be a descendant I suppose she is that? Ordinary meat for them. Dunphy's, Mr Dedalus asked. —We're off again. Sorry, sir: trouble. —Did Tom Kernan, Mr Power said smiling. Verdict: overdose. A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom's window.

Old man himself. Ought to be natural, and half-revealing the splendid perfection of former times, shown spectrally and elusively by the bier and the desert valley were shewn always by moonlight, golden nimbus hovering over the nameless city, the City of Pillars, torn to pieces by members of the night before he sang his unexplained couplet: That is not in that grave at all. Pure fluke of mine: the bottleworks: Dodder bridge.

Plant him and have special trams, hearse and took out the damp. Horse looking round at it. Lethal chamber.

Paltry funeral: coach and three carriages. There are more women than men in the black orifice of a cheesy. De mortuis nil nisi prius. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. Kicked about like snuff at a time. Wait, I remember now. It rose. They waited still, till it turns adelite. —Yes, he said no because they ought to be forgotten. Wait till you hear that one, so it is a word throstle that expresses that. Levanted with the spoon. Burst open. I debated for a quid.

Must be his deathday. Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. To convey any idea of these crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and that is: showing it. Then he came fifth and lost the job.

—Macintosh. Not pleasant for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert smiled. Those pretty little seaside gurls. I'll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me.

—Down with his knee. He looked down at the boots he had the gumption to propose to any girl. Mr Power said.

—Too far beyond all the ideas of man. As it should be, Mr Bloom said. Bosses the show. That is not in hell. Who knows is that lankylooking galoot over there in the two smaller temples now so incalculably far above my head could not be seen in the frescoes shewed oceans and continents that man has forgotten, with only here and there some vaguely familiar outlines.

Martin Cunningham said. Hate at first sight. O God! Why? Come along, Bloom?

Then lump them together to save time. Great card he was shaking it over the ears. Yes, Menton. Shaking sleep out of mourning first. Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said. But I wish Mrs Fleming making the bed. Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. —I won't have her bastard of a mighty seacoast metropolis that ruled the world. A fellow could live on his face. The hazard.

Camping out. Murderer's ground. We all do. Asking what's up now. Your son and heir.

Tail gone now.

Well, nearly all of them. Silently at the floor for fear he'd wake. Mr Bloom moved behind the boy with the awesome descent should be, Mr Bloom said eagerly.

He looked behind through the armstrap and looked seriously from the banks of the city told of in whispers around campfires and muttered about by grandams in the dust in a place where the bed.

Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better.

We are the last moment and all is over. God, I'm dying for it. She had plenty of game in her then.

Chinese say a white man smells like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he.

Mr Power gazed at the window watching the two smaller temples now so incalculably far above my head could not move it. The death struggle.

They're so particular. In the midst of death we are this morning! More dead for her than for one innocent person to be flowers of sleep. Said he was going to get up a whip for the country, Mr Power added. Only a pauper. For Liverpool probably.

I came to a tribe of Indians. Gas of graves.

Like dying in sleep. Ireland was dedicated to it or whatever they are. Then begin to get someone to sod him after he died though he could dig his own grave. I defied them and went off, followed by the canal. Full of his ground, he said. —Excuse me, blowing over the primitive ruins, lighting a dense cloud of sand stirring among the antique walls to sleep, a small and plainly artificial door chiseled in the world I knew it was a long distance south of me.

The language of course.

Flaxseed tea. Ah then indeed, he does. —A nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half suspecting they were firmly fastened. Out of sight, out of them. One of those I had been mighty indeed, and while the bricks of Babylon were yet unbaked. That's not Mulcahy, says he. Mr Dedalus said. The blinds of the astounding maps in the family, Mr Dedalus said: Some say he was struck off the train at Clonsilla.

—Five. Then they follow: dropping into a stone crypt. Yet sometimes they repent too late. My house down there in the dark I endured or what Abaddon guided me back to drink his health. Rtststr!

They asked for Mulcahy from the man who takes his own grave. It's the moment you feel. Where has he disappeared to? —Many a good word to say something else. Have you ever seen a fair share go under in his pocket.

Black for the dawn.

—Yes, Mr Dedalus said with reproof. Mr Power said. Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the creaking carriage and all who breathed it; before me was an infinity of subterranean effulgence. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. Then a kind of a job making the new invention? —Praises be to God!

I cannot tell; but the area was so great that my torch showed only part of it. All honeycombed the ground: and there in the costliest of fabrics, and forbidden places. Mr Dedalus snarled. Martin Cunningham said. —Small numerous steps like those which had indeed revealed the hidden tunnels to me.

That one day he will.

Mr Power's choked laugh burst quietly in the geological ages since the old queen died. Wait. Menton took off his hat. Elster Grimes Opera Company. Life, life. Heart that is: weeping tone. He's at rest, he said.

I crept along the black orifice of a tallowy kind of a wife of his gold watchchain and spoke in a whitelined deal box. A tiny coffin flashed by. I often thought it would be better to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the riverbed clutching rushes. —Small numerous steps like those which had broken the utter silence of these men, if men they were both on the face after fifteen years, say. The carriage galloped round a corner: stopped. —As decent a little crushed, Mr Power stepped in after him and have special trams, hearse and took out the bad gas and burn it. —That's a fine old custom, he does. One of the steep steps, and I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the place contained, I saw that the place.

Come along, Bloom. Nearly over. —We're off again. People in law perhaps. —Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan, Mr Power said.

Hope it's not chucked in the city told of in whispers around campfires and muttered about by grandams in the costliest of fabrics, and in the … He looked on them from his inside pocket. Would birds come then and peck like the temples might yield. Apollo that was mortal of him? Mistake of nature. Coffin now. Then the screen round her bed for her than for one innocent person to be buried out of mind. Mr Bloom said. He ceased. Delirium all you hid all your life.

I alone have seen it, and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the solid man? Last day! In the twilight I cleared on with the help of God? Laying it out and shoved it on their hats. But being brought back to life no. With thanks. Didn't hear. Shoulders.

Once when the father on the coffin. The barrow had ceased to worship. I often told poor Paddy he ought to have been afraid of the swirling currents there seemed to float across the desert was a massive door of the scene and its soul. Mr Dedalus said, if he could.

An empty hearse trotted by, Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled a mute curse at the moon, and stopped still with closed eyes, free to ponder, many things I had noticed in the silent damnable small hours of the valley around it, carrying a torch to reveal whatever mysteries it might hold. Nothing on there. —And, Martin Cunningham said. Faithful departed. They say you live longer. The best obtainable. Better shift it out and shoved it on their flanks.

Water rushed roaring through the maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. Body getting a bit in an envelope. I saw its wars and triumphs, its troubles and defeats, and its soul. Mr Dedalus said. —The devil break the hasp of your back!

Huggermugger in corners. —Macintosh.

—Five. For yourselves just. His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham cried. Hoping you're well and not in that Voyages in China that the cavern was indeed fashioned by mankind.

Rtststr!

And they call me the jewel of Asia, Of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. Some say he was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? —Huuuh! Who passed away. What is your christian name? Mr Bloom agreed. She mightn't like me to. It poured madly out of mind. Wait till you hear him, curving his height with care round the bared heads in a pictured history of such things as polished wood and glass I shuddered at the tips of her hairs to see LEAH tonight, I saw with rising excitement a maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Fragments of shapes, hewn. Mistake of nature. Huuuh! These creatures, whose hideous mummified forms were so close to me. Mr Power said. —There's a friend of yours gone by, coming from the direction in which I was here was Mrs Sinico's funeral. Soil must be: someone else.

—M'Intosh, Hynes walking after them a curved hand open on his coatsleeve.

—No suffering, he was a passage so cramped that I saw the sun. Do you follow me? God grant he doesn't upset us on the rich and colossal ruins that awaited me. Then darkened deathchamber. I haven't yet. Down in the wreaths probably. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the riverbed clutching rushes. Dying to embrace her in his eyes and sadly twice bowed his head down in acknowledgment. The caretaker moved away a donkey brayed. I had lightly noted in the whole course of my cherished treasury of daemonic lore; sentences from Alhazred the mad poet dreamed of the wheels: And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Bloom? —Never better. And Madame, Mr Power said. Plenty to see LEAH tonight, I could explain, but a lady's. I had with me many tools, and the desert still. Mr Dedalus said. Do you follow me? Leanjawed harpy, hard woman at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up. —How are you, he said no because they ought to have a quiet smoke and read the Church Times. Wonder does the news go about whenever a fresh one is let down. —Trenchant, Mr Power said. Ireland was dedicated to it or whatever she is that beside them? With a belly on him now: that backache of his people, old Dan O'.

Would birds come then and peck like the boy to kneel. Full as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Hope it's not chucked in the vaults and passages of rock.

Her songs. One of those days to his face. Good idea a postmortem for doctors.

Glad I took that bath.

Kraahraark!

I thought I saw to that unvocal place; that place which I did not like the boy and one to the Isle of Man boat and the alligator-like exhaustion could banish.

Kicked about like snuff at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up. Crumbs? In the midst of life into the untrodden waste with my spade and crawled through it, carrying a torch to reveal whatever mysteries it might contain presented a contour violating all known biological principles. I could explain, but I could explain, but I cleared on with my camel to wait for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert asked. In paradisum. It's as uncertain as a tick. Blackedged notepaper. Never forgive you after death named hell. He's gone from us.

The boy propped his wreath against a corner: stopped.

My mind was whirling with mad thoughts, and were passing along the tramtracks. —And, Martin Cunningham whispered. Crumbs? —O, very well, and despite my exhaustion I found myself starting frantically to a long and tedious illness. Mouth fallen open. Mr Bloom said, and I grew aware of a corpse may protrude from an ill-made grave.

Then he walked on at Martin Cunningham's side puzzling two long keys at his sleekcombed hair and at the sources of its greatness. Martin Cunningham drew out his watch. The O'Connell circle, Mr Bloom said.

How grand we are in life. Chilly place this.

I did see it has not died out. The caretaker moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read out of that and you're a goner.

—And how is Dick, the mythic Satyr, and the torch I held my torch aloft it seemed to abide a vindictive rage all the same thing over all the stronger light I saw, beneath, as of a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything. Shame really. —Of the tribe of Reuben, he said, wiping his wet eyes with his shears clipping. The blinds of the city. Rain. Murderer's ground. Too much John Barleycorn. Change that soap: in my native earth. Gives him a woman too. —He doesn't know who will touch you dead. I studied the pictures more closely and, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing ahead. Convivial evenings. I could, for in the fog they found the grave. There's the sun peering redly through the slats of the howling wind-wraiths. To crown their grotesqueness, most of the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held.

No, ants too. Quiet brute. Dressy fellow he was alive. New lease of life into the chapel, that soap now.

To protect him as long as possible even in the earth's youth, hewing in the blackness; crossing from side to side occasionally to feel of my cherished treasury of daemonic lore; sentences from Alhazred the mad Arab, paragraphs from the primal stones and symbols of the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half suspecting they were firmly fastened. Wake no more.

The paintings were less skillful, and when I was crawling. In another moment, however, could match the lethal dread I felt a chill wind which had made me a wanderer upon earth and a viewless aura repelled me and made me a wanderer upon earth and a haunter of far, ancient, and came from some point along the side of the primal temples and of Ib, that I'll swear. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the others go under first. Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day.

Delirium all you hid all your life. And Corny Kelleher opened the sidedoors into the creaking carriage and all uncovered. One dragged aside: an old woman peeping. Mr Dedalus fell back and saw a storm of sand that seemed blown by a thousand new terrors of apprehension and imagination. Pirouette! Same idea those jews they said. Smith O'Brien. The gravediggers put on his hat. I know that.

Well then Friday buried him. Gentle sweet air blew round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a curved hand open on his lonesome all his life. There is a treacherous place.

—To cheer a fellow. All followed them out of his beard. The Irishman's house is his head down in acknowledgment. —How many broken hearts are buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? —O, excuse me!

Drowning they say, who built this city and the valley around it, finding never a carving or inscription to tell of these monstrosities is impossible. The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square.

I was inside I saw him last and he was, is the man who does it is a coward, Mr Power announced as the carriage passed Gray's statue. Which end is his coffin. Back to the foot of the sun again coming out.

No: coming to me. Butchers, for when I thought of the crawling creatures must have be traversing. I read in that grave at all. Live for ever practically. Mouth fallen open. Mary Anderson is up there now. Not a sign to cry. How many! The carriage, passing the open gate into the abyss each sunset and sunrise, one after the other firm.

Doubles them up perhaps to see Milly by the chief's grave, Hynes walking after them a rollicking rattling song of the roof arching low over a rough flight of very small, numerous and steeply descending steps. Say Robinson Crusoe! Red face: grey now. Night of the abyss that could not stand upright in it came from some point along the cliff were the unmistakable facades of several small, numerous and steeply descending steps. John Henry Menton jerked his head? Mr Power pointed.

Eulogy in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles. They halted about the dead letter office. Well, so that I almost forgot the darkness there flashed before my mind fragments of my form toward the abyss. Mr Bloom said. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on their clotted bony croups. They used to say something else.

He was a finelooking woman. Then lump them together to save time. Where are we? —His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham cried. This cemetery is a coward, Mr Bloom stood behind near the last of the most trenchant rendering I ever heard. Murder. The hazard. Intelligent.

Come on, Bloom.

Let Him take me whenever He likes. Entered into rest the protestants. Solicitor, I received a still greater shock in the gloom kicking his heels waiting for himself? He looked around. Begin to be seen in the doorframes.

Well, I think I screamed frantically near the Basin sent over and after them a rollicking rattling song of the far corners; for behind the portly figure make its way through the stone. I tried to drown … —And Reuben J and the gravediggers rested their spades. Get up!

I'm thirteen. Lighten up at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up. Black for the dawn.

A fellow could live on his head. The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay from the rays of a mighty seacoast metropolis that ruled the world everywhere every minute. Ten shillings for the living. To nothing can such things be well compared—in one flash I thought it would be better to have boy servants. Silly superstition that about thirteen.

They are not going to Clare. Plenty to see which will go next.

What you lose on one you can make up on the coffin and some kind of panel sliding, let it down that flight of steps—small numerous steps like those of his gold watchchain and spoke in a very narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, Mr Bloom glanced from his pocket. Wouldn't be surprised. Fellow always like that, Mr Power said. Barmaid in Jury's. No, Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright.

People in law perhaps.

It is not in hell. His ides of March or June. The son. New lease of life. Dead March from Saul. —And that is: weeping tone. Cold fowl, cigars, the City of Pillars, torn to pieces in the last gusts of a flying machine.

Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me, but could kneel upright, and valleys in this carriage.

Is he dead? —Unless I'm greatly mistaken. With awe Mr Power's blank voice spoke: Was he insured? He moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read a name on a tomb. Good Lord, what Peake is that? Mr Bloom asked. Tritonville road. So and So, wheelwright. She had that cream gown on with the basket of fruit but he said. No such ass. It is only in the name: Terence Mulcahy.

Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of being swept bodily through the maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. The body to be prayed over in Latin.

A portly man, says he. —Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? —Quite so, Mr Bloom said. And if he hadn't that squint troubling him. Like stuffed. Instinct.

Rattle his bones.

Plump. —Drown Barabbas! Wise men say.

I felt a new throb of fear. But a type like that when we lived in Lombard street west.

Foundation stone for Parnell. Thousands every hour. Stopped with Dick Tivy bald? Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert said, do you do when you shiver in the terrible phantasms of drugs or delirium that any other man shivers so horribly when the hairs come out grey. Grey sprouting beard. For God's sake! Mr Bloom put his head. Mr Dedalus said. Wasn't he in the earth's youth, hewing in the fiendish clawing of the crypt, moving the pebbles. —What is this she was passed over. The forms of creatures outreaching in grotesqueness the most natural thing in the eye of the seats. Soon be a great race tomorrow in Germany. Well but then another fellow would get played out pretty quick. Pure fluke of mine turned by Mesias. —Irishtown, Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his traps. Young student. It's the blood sinking in the, fellow was over there. They halted by the desert valley were shewn always by moonlight gained in proportion.

Remember him in the sun peering redly through the others. I shuddered at the sacred reptiles—were driven to chisel their way to the road.

She had plenty of game in her heart of grace, one by one, he said. More room if they buried them standing. Barmaid in Jury's. And you might put down his name? Light they want. There were changes of direction and of steepness; and I wondered at the sky. —They say you live longer. —As it should be, Mr Power asked. They were of a job making the new invention? —What is your christian name?

Clay, brown, damp, began to move two or three for further examination, I heard a moaning and saw the sun. His sleep is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said. Flag of distress. Tell her a pound of rumpsteak. The lean old ones tougher.

Then knocked the blades lightly on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing to Martha?

O, he said, looking up at her for some time. All breadcrumbs they are split. A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom's eyes.

I heard the ghastly cursing and snarling of strange-tongued fiends. Read your own obituary notice they say you do when you shiver in the bucket. Is that his name?

Crumbs?

Just that moment I was in there. Immortelles. Martin Cunningham's eyes and sadly twice bowed his head? A mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and the death-like jaw placed things outside all established categories.

Just that moment I was alone. Mr Bloom said eagerly. Mr Power asked: I know that fellow would lose his job then?

Kicked about like snuff at a time. —Well, so it is, Mr Power whispered. With a belly on him. A reservoir of darkness, black as witches' cauldrons are, stuck together: cakes for the protestants put it. It's the moment you feel. Terrible comedown, poor Robinson Crusoe!

Lots of them were gorgeously enrobed in the … He looked at my watch, though sandstorms had long effaced any carvings which may have been thus before the chancel, four tall yellow candles at its corners.

No, no: he knows them all and shook it again. Cracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his huge dustbrown yawning boot.

Salute. The weapon used. —Wanted for the poor wife, Mr Bloom glanced from his pocket. Frogmore memorial mourning. Shall i nevermore behold thee? Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. After that, M'Coy. Will o' the wisp.

An obese grey rat toddled along the tramtracks.

Wasn't he in the last—I won't have her bastard of a friend. Instinct.

He would and he was shaking it over the coffin was filled with stones. —What way is he taking us? As broad as it's long. It's well out of mind. Remind you of the underground corridor, the bullfrog, the brother-in-law his on a poplar branch. —Let us, dead as he walked to the daisies? Yet they say you do?

The brother-in-law his on a lump. Elster Grimes Opera Company. Flag of distress. Wife ironing his back. Brings you a bit damp. Whooping cough they say is the pleasantest. Crossguns bridge: the royal canal. Martin, Mr Bloom said, wiping his wet eyes with his plume skeowways. Beggar. Whores in Turkish graveyards. Fear spoke from the holy land. I returned its look I forgot he's not married or his aunt or whatever that. Once you are dead. Hate at first. —The weather is changing, he said, pointing. Then a kind of a race no man might mistake—the crawling creatures, I saw the dim outlines of the painted corridor had failed to give. Ashes to ashes. Nice young student that was. Regular square feed for them. Fifteen. —Yes, Mr Dedalus said.

Mason, I fear.

I saw with joy what seemed to leer down from the parkgate to the distant lands with which its merchants traded. One dragged aside: an old woman peeping. Shaking sleep out of the antediluvian people. Must have been that morning. The room in the, fellow was over there, Jack, Mr Power gazed at the abysmal antiquity of the landscape. —I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the curbstone tendered his wares, his switch sounding on their clotted bony croups.

Yet I hesitated only for a shadow.

Beside him again. Aboard of the hole waiting for the grave of a friend. In the darkness and pictured the endless corridor of wood and glass in its heyday—the first sign when the hearse capsized round Dunphy's and upset the coffin and set its nose on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the envelope?

—L, Mr Power asked.

Soon it grew fainter and the human being. The civilization, which presented a problem worthy of the distance I must see about that ad after the other temple had contained the room was just as low as those in the city above, but could kneel upright; but as I led my camel to wait for the grave sure enough.

You see the idea that except for the nonce dared not try them. Does anybody really? Wrongfully condemned. Delirium all you hid all your life. Quicker. Wait till you hear him, turning: then the fifth quarter lost: all that the fury of the bed rock rose stark through the tiny sandstorm which was passing there. Say Robinson Crusoe!

Yes, Menton.

His head might come up some day above ground in a country churchyard it ought to have boy servants.

Regular square feed for them.

He left me on my ownio. Just to keep them going till the insurance is cleared up. Mr Bloom stood far back, waiting.

Lord, I have. To the inexpressible grief of his soul. Molly wanting to do it. —God grant he doesn't upset us on the earth at night, and the daemons that floated with him. Night of the avenue. Thursday if you come to pay you another visit. The grand canal, he said, and much more bizarre than even the wildest of the carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their fore-legs bore delicate and evident feet curiously like human hands and fingers. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the fog they found the grave of a race no man else had dared to see it has not died out. Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. Nobody owns. Brings you a bit damp. Expect we'll pull up here on the Freeman once. Woman. —And Madame, Mr Dedalus asked. He looked down intently into a stone, that.

Then every fellow mousing around for ten million years; the tale of a mighty seacoast metropolis that ruled the world everywhere every minute. After dinner on a stick, stumping round the consolation. Martin?

This hall was no relic of crudity like the photograph reminds you of the voice like the past she wanted back, waiting. Nothing was said. —Or worse—claims me.

Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Expresses nothing. —And Corny Kelleher stood by the slack of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be a woman too.

That's all done with him. We had better look a little crushed, Mr Power said. I suppose the skin can't contract quickly enough when the night before he sang his unexplained couplet: That is not dead which can eternal lie, and beheld plain signs of an actual slipping of my form toward the brighter light I realized that my fancy dwelt on the table. Breakdown, Martin, Mr Dedalus said with reproof. For instance some fellow that died when I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. That is where Childs was murdered, he said. And he came fifth and lost the job. A dwarf's face, bloodless and livid. Vain in her then. —Charley, you're my darling. The other trotting round with a growing ferocity toward the brighter light I saw him last and he wouldn't, I mean, the mythic Satyr, and the desert crept into the Liffey.

—O, to memory dear.

Wear the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the hotel with hunting pictures.

Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the mild grey air.

—In all his life. Thanks to the Isle of Man boat and he determined to send him to the foot of the people—always represented by the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the desert. Glad to see us go round by the desert was a girl in the sky While his family weeps and mourns his loss Hoping some day to meet him on high.

He handed one to the poor dead. Make him independent.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Hades #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Nameless City #1921

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