Begun, today, Ulysses. The bowerblue book sat hard by the lamp next the beddindown. There Thoth lay eyes unlidded like the sea's wide foile flashing colour. He did not focus on the tough printed overflowing prose therin.

--Hits my Jacob's in pugilistic splendour, he said, himself hearing only. A literature to dense for me boken fry grinders, the which the last bitter years I slowly have taken to the hardtack philosophies acedemics did praise.

The smell of aged vellum, lye. Beyond the wisp hairs on his wrist holding up the book each page folded on another sedimentarywise. Failure.


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