Thursday, August 20, 2009

Laughed. No wedding garment. -- Our friend Bloom.

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That bee last week got into the room playing with his shadow on the ceiling. Might be the one bit me come back to see. Birds too never find out what they say. Like our small talk. And says she and says he. Nerve? they have to fly over the ocean and back. Lot must be killed in storms telegraph wires. Dreadful life sailors have too. Big brutes of ocean-going steamers floundering along in the dark lowing out like seacows. Faugh a ballagh . Out of that bloody curse to you. Others in vessels bit of a handkerchief sail pitched about like snuff at a wake when the stormy winds do blow. Married too. Sometimes away for years at the ends of the earth somewhere. No ends really because it's round. Wife in every port they say. She has a good job if she minds it till Johnny comes marching home again. If ever he does. Smelling the tail end of ports. How can they like the sea? Yet they do. The anchor's weighed. Off he sails with a.
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