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sambergscott · 4 years

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your son is going to love you

Summary: Peralta dads are cursed, destined to have terrible relationships with their sons. When Jake finds out *he's* going to have a son, he spirals. Amy helps.

goes without saying that if you haven’t watched 7x10 yet maybe don’t read this

She wakes up at 2am needing to pee.

She’s been waking up needing to pee a lot lately.

It’s like their baby has no respect for her sleeping pattern, perfectly honed over the years to maximise productivity, while still fitting in the full 8 hours of sleep needed a day. Their baby doesn’t care about the 8 hour recommendation, he laughs in the face of scientists. With the bad back and heart burn and constant kick, kick, kicking of her bladder, she’s averaging 4.7. She thought babies didn’t start keeping you up all night until they were born but, oh, how wrong she was.

She pats her husband to wake him up and come keep her company. If she’s awake because of their baby, then damn it, he’s going to be awake, too. But he’s not there, leaving her hand awkwardly patting a bare mattress.

“Jake?” She murmurs groggily, sitting up and switching on her bedside lamp. She’s half-expecting him to be sitting in the armchair playing Mario Party on his Switch (he has become a little bit addicted in the last few months and it wouldn’t be the first time she’s found him trying to beat Wario in the early hours of the morning) or have left a note beside her bed that he had a lead on a case and needed to go in with a scribbled ‘love you’ underneath and a lopsided heart. The armchair is empty, but there’s a light on down the hall and since there’s no way she forgot to turn it off before bed (she triple checks), she figures that it must be Jake.

Forgetting the whole reason why she woke up in the first place, she grabs Jake’s hoodie from the floor for warmth and pads into their living-kitchen-dining area. It’s the open plan-ness that made her fall in love with the apartment upon first visit and submit all her paperwork as soon as she was out the door. It’s the open plan-ness that would make the Property Brothers proud and the dumb people who go on that show foam at the mouth with jealousy. It’s the open plan-ness that allows her to see her husband straight away, snacking on the unfinished party food.

(Apparently people don’t feel like eating after a man cuts his thumb off and spurts blood everywhere. Who’d have thought?)

There’s a weird, pensive look on his face that draws her towards him.

“You OK, babe?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he responds. He pops a tomato from the salad bowl in his mouth, then another, then another.

She narrows her eyes. He never eats tomatoes unless they’re in ketchup or on top of a famous Sal’s pizza. Something is wrong.

She thinks back on their day, mentally rewinding the events from waking up to the morning briefing to their private sex reveal in the break room and finding out they’re having a boy (the empty cake box and blue frosting around Scully’s mouth was very surprising indeed). They were both floating on Cloud 9 all afternoon, came home and Zoomed the entire family, falling asleep on the couch around 9.30pm because pregnancy is exhausting.

Nothing particularly awful stands out.

Unless...

“Are you thinking about your Grandpa?”

He’d been so excited to see him again, so excited to reunite Walter Peralta with Roger, The Admiral with the Captain. To be honest, Amy was less than impressed. He’d been nice enough to her, asked her about her job, about the baby, small talked about the weather. But he never asked her about Jake, probed about the 20 odd years of his grandson’s life that he’d missed out on. Which is frustrating because she has a lot of embarrassing stories ready to tell and a whole photo album of Jake on her phone. He couldn’t care less about Roger or Jake, storming out of the sex reveal party after calling his son a screw up and turning off his phone so they couldn’t get in contact with him. He’s a selfish dick and her husband deserves better. Still, he won’t be thinking about what a monster Walter turned out to be, he’ll be finding ways to blame himself that yet another father walked out of his life again.

He nods silently and she leads him to the couch.

“Talk to me, Jake.”

He releases a shaky breath. “The Peralta’s are cursed.”

“With devastatingly handsome good looks?” She half-jokes, trying to lighten the mood. Because, hello, her husband is hot; she constantly overhears other women in the precinct talking about his glow up and it would be impossible to ignore the female attention he gets in bars and even just walking down the street before he scratches his face to show off his wedding band and wraps one arm proudly around his wife’s shoulders. She’s seen the pictures of a young Roger Peralta, too, and with that charm smile... she gets it.

“Thank you,” he smiles briefly, “but no. Peralta dads are cursed with terrible relationships with their sons.”

“That’s not going to be you,” she says without hesitation, without a shred of doubt.

“How do you know?” He launches into a scathing personal indictment that leaves his cheeks stinging with tears. “I’m immature, obsessed with my work, messy, always late. My dad was never around when I was a kid. I don’t even know what dads do with their sons! And what if it’s in my genes? To be a crappy dad, abandon my kid like a dozen Peralta fathers before me. Your parents still don’t think I’m good enough. You didn’t even like me at first. It only makes sense that our baby would hate me, too.”

“Woah, babe. Slow down. Let’s unpack that one at a time.” She wipes away his tears with his hoodie sleeve and squeezes his hand. “First of all, you are way more mature now than you used to be. We bought a family friendly Sedan. You read parenting books. You were eating fruit, like, two minutes ago.”

“Tomatoes are fruits?”

“What? Yes, how do you not - not the point.” She shakes her head. “And so what, you enjoy your job. That’s a good thing, Jake! Do you understand how rare that is? You’re doing the thing you love while providing a decent income for our family. And besides, I’m way more obsessed than you. I have FOMOW, but that doesn’t mean I won’t love our kid more than anything. And as for the messy, late thing, if I can look past it because of how much I love you, so will our son.”

“Love you, too,” he mumbles.

“Now onto your point about not knowing what dads do, that is a straight up lie and we both know it, Peralta. You’re always hanging out with Charles and Nikolaj and Lord Knows Terry doesn’t shut up about all the activities he does with his girls.”

“I know what they do when I’m around, but what do you do when it’s 5am and they won’t go back to sleep?” He frets. “At what age do you introduce them to Die Hard? In Cry Hard With A Vengeance,” he quotes the parenting book she originally bought him as a joke but has kind of become his Torah, “Bruce Willis says right away, but what if he’s not ready to understand the complex plots? What if he prefers Timothy Olyphant to William Atherton? Oh my God, what if our son doesn’t think Die Hard is a Christmas movie?”

He’s spiralling and it’s a good job he’s with the only person who can truly calm him down.

“I think Bruce Willis is just trying to promote his franchise and that we’ll be watching more Paw Patrol than Die Hard for the next few years, babe, but I’m sure when he is old enough, he will love the movies as much as you.”

“Right,” he agrees, “you’re totally right. Action thrillers aren’t very baby friendly. I’ll just watch it on mute with subtitles.”

She laughs, her eyes crinkling in the corners. She loves him so much. Which segways them nicely onto his final two points.

“My parents do love you. Sure, they’re critical, but that’s just the way they are. They’re the same way to all of us. My mom complains to everyone she meets about how I can’t cook, how Tony hasn’t settled down and made her any beautiful grandbabies yet, even Perfect David faces her wrath when he goes a week without phoning her. If the worst thing my mom has to say about you is that you’re below average in height, you’re doing OK. And as for me apparently not liking you at first, I did like you.”

He furrows his brow. “But you said you found me annoying and difficult to be around.”

“Yet I didn’t ask to switch desks, continued working cases with you and went to Shaw’s whenever I was invited.” She stares at him pointedly. “If I really found you difficult to be around, I wouldn’t have stayed. I thought you were cute and funny and good at your job and yeah, you were annoying too, but,” she shrugs, “it never put me off.”

“So what you’re saying is that you had a crush on me first,” he grins.

“No. You obviously had a crush on me back then, too. What I’m saying is that I love you, our son loves you and you’re going to be a great dad.”

He blushes, ducking his head. “My dad said the same thing. About our son loving me.”

“He’s right,” she replies. “I feel him kick every time you get home from work, every time you sing to Taylor Swift in the car, every time I mention your name. Why didn’t you believe him?”

“I don’t know, still nervous about the curse, I guess.” He twists his wedding band on his finger.

Amy bites her lip. “Are you not excited about us having a boy?”

She has to ask. His excitement looked genuine in the break room, but it’s no secret that he was hoping for a girl. A mini-Amy, he said. While she’s always been more accustomed to boys considering the Santiago’s have, like, a million of them, Jake couldn’t get over the image of a little girl in dresses and doing ballet and with long, dark hair that he eventually learns to braid.

“Of course I am,” he’s quick to assure her. “Stupid excited. Never been more excited for anything. Not even the Ninja Turtles reboot. But still... nervous.” He rubs his hand over his face, muffling his voice. “Everyone is assuming what kind of dad I’m going to be. Whether I’m going to be good at it or not. To be fair, the only person who doubted me is that murderer I arrested last week, obviously not my biggest fan. Everyone else is convinced I can do it. What if I can’t? What if I’m genetically wired to be a bad dad? What if I disappoint you and our baby and Charles who has been dreaming about this forever?”

“Jake,” she softens her voice, pulling his hand away from his face, “the fact you are so worried about being a bad dad proves that you will not be one. Nor could you ever disappoint us.”

“But you’re my wife. You have to say that.”

“I would never have married you and become your wife if I thought you were the kind of person who could abandon your kid,” she promises him. “You have been perfect so far, dealing with all the vitamins and over-scheduled sex and washing my clothes when I sweat through them and holding my hair back when I’m being sick. You’ve been to every doctor’s appointment, read every binder, bought me every weird food craving. You hang out with the bump every night, talking and singing to it. I know you’re going to be a great dad, Jake, because you already are one.”

She kisses him and it’s soft and tender and filled with love, only interrupted by the kick, kick, kicking of their son.

“Hey,” Jake says in his best authoritative dad voice/John McClane dealing with German terrorists voice (he’s been practising in front of the mirror following Bruce’s advice), pointing a warning finger at the bump. “I’m going to kiss your mom as much as I want, Peralta. I loved her first.”

Amy giggles, stroking her fingers through Jake’s unruly curls. His bedhead is always wild and it’s maybe her favourite thing in the entire world. She silently sends a message of her own to their son to inherit his dad’s hair. And eyes. And handsome smile.

He kicks again as if to say ‘OK, mom’.

And then she really needs to pee.

#b99 fic #jake x amy #my writing #let me know what you think!!!!#love love LOVED writing it

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katsbooks · 5 years

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Schwarze Nacht - Chapter Ten

(Y/n) had to admit, within the first two years of working for the Hellsing family, she had accomplished more than her parents ever thought she could—

She had a very well-paying job that she was good at and rather enjoyed. She had started writing in her free time, had money to spend on nice things and she was one of the boss’s favorite workers, tied easily with Samantha. Sam had risen in the ranks of a security guard, quickly reaching position of personal bodyguard for Integra Hellsing.

(Y/n) had also proven to be quite able with knives, only ever using a gun as back up. She had a nice set of silver throwing blades, plus the original silver dagger Walter had given her. One wouldn’t know she was armed just by looking at her, but she kept her knives on her at all times.

To say Walter was quite proud would be an understatement, and (Y/n) thrived for his approval. A soft spot had grown immensely in her heart for the Hellsing butler and she knew it was far more than admiration or respect, though it did include those feelings. Truth was, (Y/n) loved the older man.

The only ones to know even a hint of what she felt was Sam (by default for being her best friend) and Alucard (because he was a vampire and somehow knew every fucking thing that went on in the damned manor). (Y/n) knew that she’d never tell him, and as such he would never, ever know. She was fine with that, content to just be the Butler’s attendant.

Now Alucard, the ever saucy vampire that he was, confided in (Y/n) one night, having visited her in her room while she was readying for bed. Sam had somehow wiggled and punched her way into his undead heart. However, therein lied the catch. He was a vampire, never aging and undying. Sam was a human, her heart still beating and warm-blooded.

Alucard threatened her that if she ever breathed a word of this to anyone, he’d be sure to slip into her room to drink her blood every full moon.

They worked there for four years, killing many vampires and ghouls during their short careers, Alucard occasionally dragging Sam along on one of his hunts for entertainment purposes. Sam just thought it was because he liked to bug her while she was killing ghouls. Alucard had acquired a fledgling quite recently, a former police girl named Seras Victoria, who struggled with coming to terms with being a vampire. She was a nice enough lass, keeping mostly to herself.

(Y/n) sighed a little as she looked in mirror at herself, her long hair having started to become a bit of a problem. It was heavy and thick, and even when in a braid it got in the way if she had to fight. She was debating cutting it off, but she knew that Walter was rather fond of her long hair. So she sighed and braided it, wrapping it around her head in a crown like fashion and pinning it into place. Then she finished getting dressed, pulling on her black vest after she strapped her knives to her body.

A knock on the door didn’t even make her twitch, she simply called out for whomever it was to enter. She smiled when she saw it was Sam stepping into her room, but the look on the bodyguard’s face made her pause.

“I know that look. What happened?” she asked. Sam scowled as she sat down heavily on the bed, dressed in the guard’s uniform, her bullet-proof vest unzipped.

“Gerald happened.”

“…oh dear, what did he do this time?” (Y/n) frowned, absently tightening the knot on her tie to nestle it against her throat, before smoothing it into her vest.

“What hasn’t he done? He’s pissing me off. Keeps making comments about you and Walter and Alucard. I’m getting sick of it,” Sam growled, clenching her fists. A bad sign.

“Sam, don’t. I know you want to, but don’t. Nothing good will come out of you punching Gerald,” (Y/n) warned, watching her in the mirror.

“Sure there is. The satisfaction of removing that smug expression from his face,” she muttered. (Y/n) thumped her lightly on the head as she passed by the bed to the vanity.

“You’ll get yourself in trouble is what you’ll do,” she said.

“I wish Integra would replace his ass…” Sam muttered.

“That’s Sir Integra to us, Sam. Let’s be proper,” (Y/n) muttered as she slipped studs into her ears. About a year ago, she had decided to get a couple more ear piercings. She sadly had to stick with studs because of what her job entitled, but she still managed. Sam had more piercings than she did, and she still wasn’t sure how they weren’t ripped out when the woman was throwing people down onto the matt, but that was one of the mysteries of Sam she supposed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam sighed and rolled her shoulders, loosening her tense muscles. “He’s lucky Alucard hasn’t decided to do something about it. I doubt Fang-Face could care less about getting in trouble for it.”

(Y/n) chuckled a little bit at that. Sad, but true. Alucard really couldn’t care less if he managed to piss of Integra or not—after all, he was a five hundred year old vampire. He normally didn’t do anything to warrant Integra’s wrath, but it was just the fact that he could.

“Careful, Alucard might hear that you’re talking about him,” (Y/n) teased.

“I shudder to think about what he’d say if he heard,” Sam drawled. (Y/n) chuckled again and after checking herself in the mirror, she turned to Sam.

“So aside from you coming in here to bitch about Gerald, what else do you need?” she asked.

“Oh, right. Walter’s requesting that you meet him in the entrance hall once you’re dressed,” Sam said, straightening up. (Y/n) blinked.

“In the entrance hall? Are we going somewhere?”

“No clue. That’s all he told me. Now I’ve gotta get back to the training hall—we’ve got a group of newbies coming in,” Sam sighed, pushing to her feet.

“Don’t have too much fun throwing Gerald around,” (Y/n) smirked. Sam sent her a wicked smile before leaving. (Y/n) shook her head and shut her bedroom door behind her, turning to head in the opposite direction.

Walter stood, waiting patiently, in the entrance hall with a file in his hands. He smiled at her when she approached, turning to face her.

“Morning, Miss (Y/n).”

“Good morning, Walter,” she smiled back brightly.

“I’ve got an interesting job for you today, (Y/n),” he stated, opening the file in his hands.

“Oh dear, when you say it like that, I get chills down my spine,” (Y/n) sighed.

“I’ll be sure to remember that. Now then,” he held the file out to her. “Alucard found a most interesting piece of technology on a vampire he recently killed.”

(Y/n) took the file and looked at the photographs. “Looks like a microchip transmitter. What was it doing in a vampire, though?”

“That’s part of the job I’m giving you,” he stated. “Master Hellsing is asking you to do some backtracking with this. You’re allowed to take Samantha with you, if you so please.”

“Oh, well, that’s probably a wise thing to do at the moment,” (Y/n) hummed absently.

“Why’s that?”

“Sam’s about ready to knock Gerald on his ass, pardon my French,” she sighed.

“Oh dear…” Walter sighed. “I suppose I should go with you to retrieve her, then, before she mutinies.”

“Might be wise, yeah.”

She tucked the file under her arm and they made their way to the training room. Already, they could hear a commotion going on inside and (Y/n) hoped it was just Sam tossing around the newbies.

#hellsing #hellsing fanfiction #hellsing walter #walter x reader #slow burn #walter x dornez #alucard #alucard x oc #original character #oc #fanfiction #fanfic

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gedonelunemayhem · 7 years

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Since you guys wanted more context on Hero’s story, here she is arriving at the academy with her older brother.

It was my letter, my train ride, and my opportunity of a proper magical education, yet Cyrus seemed to be much more excited about it than me. I expected him to hurry me onto the car, but I didn’t expect him to follow me with his own bag in tow.

“Wait, you’re coming with?!”

“Of course! You’re my excuse to get a job somewhere away from home!”

“I feel used.”

“Oh, just get on!” He playfully pushed me further down the aisle of booths.

We settled at a table across from each other and waved to Mom as we waited for departure. Surprisingly, Mom seemed to be the most ready for us to go to the academy. Everyone knows she is the type to be prepared for just about anything, but even Cyrus was shocked to find she had already made snacks for the trip by the time we got home.

She was in the blue and white floral dress that brought out the blue tones in her steel eyes, and her dark brown hair was tucked into a braid. As usual, she presented herself as calm and organized.“I told Mr. Acceptance Letter that I could handle it from here,” she said sweetly. “Now go get your things! Your train arrives soon!”

As we packed our bags she gave us all the best advice she had to offer ranging from “everyone has the same basic rights” to “mixing bleach and rubbing alcohol makes chloroform” while she folded some laundry.

She said to take those last words of wisdom however we see fit.

Mom watched us with an expression of love and pride on her face as the train gradually began to leave. We were already in the countryside when I spoke for the first time during the ride.

“So, Cyrus. I hope you have a plan on how you’ll get along when we’re in Gedonelune.”

He put down his book and reached into his back pocket to pull out a letter. He held it up so I could see the delicate signature at the end of the page. I leaned forward in my seat to get a closer look, and the famous name left me astounded. I grabbed the letter from him and examined the writing. It was genuine.

“Walter Goldstein? What the hell are you doing to get a letter from Walter Goldstein of all people?”

Cyrus snatched the letter from my hands. “Remember when Sylvia offered me a tailoring job for the family she works for? Well it turns out they’re not just any random rich family. Mom contacted her yesterday and apparently this,” he waved the letter in front of me,”arrived this morning.”

I slumped back in my seat, slightly amazed and certainly amused over the excited smile that seemed frozen into his face. “You lucky bas-”

“Ay! Watch your language! You’re going to a prestigious school so that makes you both lucky and responsible for your foul mouth.”

“Cyrus, our dad was literally a sailor.”

“No excuses!”

“Fiiiiine,” I chuckled.

The rest of the time went by rather quietly. I slipped in and out of sleep a few times while watching the scenery go by, and Cyrus gently read part of his novel to me when I was awake to hear it.

“I believed the world to be a somber place since I was small. Nothing seemed to go my way and no one bothered to stick around for who I was as a person, and yet this magnificent being arrived into my life and practically forced it to get better. No matter the-”

...

I looked up at Cyrus to find he had closed his book completely. I followed his gaze out the window and realized why he had stopped.

“Oh my...”

The castle itself could be seen towering over the surrounding buildings, making them look like part of a child’s play set. The forests surrounding the city were a collage of rich greens and splashes of other colors, like the soft pinks of sakura and bold blues of bellflowers.The majestic scene drew closer, allowing us to see the people roaming up and down the lines of shops in fine clothing and high spirits. It didn’t seem real.

I glanced back at Cyrus for a moment and caught sight of his thrilled expression just before...

Pang.

My head felt like it had just been hit with a frying pan and I was light headed.

“Cyrus.”

He turned to me just as I curled into myself, hoping to subside the nausea that had begun churning. It was intense, almost painful. I clutched my stomach and breathed deeply.

I will not throw up, I will not throw up, I will not throw up!

And then, just as suddenly as it came, it disappeared. All I was left with was one intrusive thought: Booth 7

“Those dizzy spells are getting worse and worse, aren’t they? Maybe we could visit a pharma...”

Cyrus trailed off as I slowly rose from my seat and began stalking down the aisle toward booth 7. My heart rate quickened a bit and I grew tense as I drew closer to the table, which is why I nearly lost it when I heard a thud come from the area. I quickly pulled myself together and took the few more strides to stand in front of the booth.

I made it just in time to see a woman, no older than 30, throw water on a male attendant who appeared to have been trying to corner her. I was instantly seething.

“Excuse me, sir?” My tone was harsh, demanding, and hopefully downright scary.

The man whipped around, a guilty expression on his face, and backed out of the seat to stand facing me. He was about to utter some excuse in attempt to save himself, but I was having none of it.

“Listen. You’re obviously some sick person who may have done this more than once and I know there’s probably no getting through to you with my ‘what you’re doing is bad’ speech, so I’ll just get to the point.”

I glanced over to the woman, who Cyrus was now coaxing to go to our table.

“You won’t be sent to jail since you didn’t actually harm her and there’s likely no evidence of you doing so to anyone else, but you are definitely getting fired.” I reported the issue, and by the time we were in Gedonelune the man was fired.

“How did you know to help me,” the woman asked. “Was it because I made noise?”

“Uh...” How do I explain something like this? “No, I just got a bad feeling. I’m glad you’re safe, miss.”

“Yes, thank you. I was petrified. I can’t believe I could’ve just let that happen...”

“Next time don’t let it. Make a scene, that’s usually the last thing they want.”

If there’s only one thing I’ve got to be thankful for about my upbringing, it’s that my older brother ad I were taught to tolerate nothing like what happened on that train. Even so, nothing about how we were raised could explain the reason why those sudden headaches lead me to problems like that.

They’ve happened through a good amount of my life, and each time they happen I’m left with a thought that leaves me with an issue I can’t seem to let myself ignore. Being a good person can be a pain, really. Especially since they’ve been coming up more and more recently.

Cyrus and I were on our way to the academy when he brought up the dizzy spells again.

“You sure you don’t want to see someone about them? They seem to be happening more and more.”

I sighed and kicked a pebble off the cobblestone below me. “I don’t know... If they start to happen more or get worse at the academy then I guess I’ll bring it up. I’m sure I’ll be okay though.”

“You’re sure you’ll be alright? You’re telling me everything? I won’t tell Mom if something happened between you and som-”

I shoved him. “Cyrus, for the last damn time I’m not pregnant.”

We stopped in front of the gates where a man stood waiting. He was a bit taller than Cyrus, and carried himself in a dignified manner. His piercing violet gaze paired with his natural frown was enough to stop someone in their tracks and turn the other way. Despite this, he was certainly good-looking.

“You.” His voice was as sharp as his eyes. “Are you Hero Sternbild?”

“Yes, that’s me,” I said. Turning to my brother, I hugged him and ruffled his curly brown hair. “I’ll write you once I’m settled. Now go show Mr. Goldstein what you’ve got!”

“What about me?”

We stopped stiff, still holding onto each other, and looked at the man that greeted me.

“My name is Klaus Goldstein. What business do you have with me?”

I felt Cyrus relax. “Oh, well you must be his son. I didn’t know you went to the academy.”

Klaus scrunched his eyebrows, his glare somehow becoming sharper.

Despite the intimidating look, my brother stepped forward and held out his hand. “I’m Cyrus Sternbild. I’ll be working in your home as a tailor. It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

Klaus lost the glare, and held his hand out to shake. “I see. Father didn’t tell me that he’d be replacing Jonathan so quickly. I apologize.”

“Nah you’re fine. It’s good to meet you already.” Once again, he turned around and hugged me. “Go in there, learn your shit, and kick ass for your trial. You’re going to be amazing.”

“Thank you,” I whispered back. His words always made my heart warm and ready to take on the world. “Go and fix holes or something.”

We both let out a final breathy laugh, and finally I was sent with Klaus into the academy knowing we both had smiles on our faces.

#hero sternbild #cyrus sternbild #wizardess heart #mine #yeah #the meeting was awkward but it was meant to be #cyrus and hero were raised to be some of the kindest people that don't tolerate bullshit

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

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Proteus

And when Iranon had wept over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pock his hat. No-one.

Stephen closed his eyes, his three taverns, the red Egyptians. I knew in Paris. Encore deux minutes. No, agallop: deline the mare? And Iranon answered: Be it so, small one; if any in this burning scene. On the top of the gone. Toil without song is folly. And in the bar MacMahon. But think not. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, when shall happiness find you? Fang, I didn't. O, O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the lethal quicksands a very old man prayed and a name often changes. —Tatters!

My tablets.

The drunken little costdrawer and his strolling mort. Along by the freshets. They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and yearn daily for the cobbler's trade. I would go to the rain: Naked women! And these, the rum tum tiddledy tum. I mustn't forget his letter for the domes of a day, and things that never can be! A shut door of a boat, sunk in sand. The cold domed room of the city of Aira and the moon, his feet up from the suck and turned back by the sluggish Zuro. A jet of coffee steam from the bed of his sept, under the yath-trees on the floor as he bent over far to a dentist, I said. Sands and stones. Mind you don't get one bang on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. I would climb the long hilly street to the songs of Iranon. Must get. But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed on, and some day shall I reign over thy groves and the west wind stirs the lotus-buds. And skeweyed Walter sirring his father, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. —It's Stephen, sir. Spurned and undespairing.

He has washed the upper moiety. Un demi setier! O Iranon of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots. Soft soft soft hand. Dan Occam thought of that, you mongrel! Beyond the Karthian hills lies Oonai, but one day the King brought to the shop of Athok the cobbler, and Kadatheron on the ear. Sir. Then from the Cock lake the water and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. Mon pere, oui! No. Aha. Yes, I bet. Of lost leaders, the stern men sometimes look to the revelers, but they come to me. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you the reason why. None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. When the men of Teloth yawned, and have men listen to my dreams; and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. Better get this job over quick. Pull. The two maries.

Hurray for the gods of Teloth yawned, and clothed him in a robe of golden flame. Better get this job over quick. Get down, baldpoll! Heavy of the ineluctable modality of the past and hope of the temple out of his knees a sturdy forearm. —Furious dean, what? I am getting on nicely in the East, and the hyaline Nithra, and look down upon the golden lights came, and have gazed on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a naked woman shining in her courts, she said, Tous les messieurs. By the way to aunt Sara's. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his aunt Sally?

I bringing her beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at his secrets. If I were suddenly naked here as I sit? What has she in the stagnant bay of Marsh's library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. Shut your eyes now. A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me. Falls back suddenly, his and, stooping, soused their bags they trudged, the green hills and cool forests. Shut your eyes and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. The man that was not his native land and for men who shall know whereof I sing in gardens when the moon was full the travelers came to a mountain crest and looked down upon the golden domes and painted walls, and the flowers and the open place, and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of a rasher fried with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for all was of stone.

Long have I missed thee, for, O Iranon of the town and wore wreathes upon his throne, widower of a widowed see, east, back. But I am lonely here. Spurned and undespairing. Womb of sin. Books you were going to attack me? When the men of Teloth, and the visions that danced on houses of marble and beryl, how is uncle Si? And through the slits of his tattered robe of golden flame. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the banging door of the Howth tram alone crying to the west, trekking to evening lands. Moving through the braided jesse of her sunshade. Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Abbas. The cry brought him skulking back to the air high spars of a boat, sunk in sand. —He has nowhere to put it, sigh of leaves and waves. Talk that to someone else. You're your father's son. Just you give it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. He lifted his feet up from the lips of air: mouth to her kiss. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the froggreen wormwood, her sails brailed up on the floor, that rusty boot. Behind her lord, his leprous nosehole snoring to the footpace descende! I tell you the reason why. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. Wild sea money. The drunken little costdrawer and his crown of vine-leaves, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the cities of Cydathria and in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Endless, would it be mine.

The sun is there, his grandmother. Lump of love. As I am. You bowed to yourself in the vale the children wove wreathes for one of the Howth tram alone crying to the wood of madness, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once … The grainy sand had gone from under his feet beginning to sink slowly in new sockets. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the superman. And laugh not nor turn away. Feefawfum. A garland of grey hair on his padded knees. I taught him to sing, and decked his golden hair with vines and fragrant groves across the Karthian hills lies Oonai, O the boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. Goes like this. Wombed in sin darkness I was too, I remember the square before the Tower of Mlin, though they liked not the color of his death. Did, faith. Faces of Paris, unsought by any save by me. The grandest number, Stephen. His hat down on his path.

How often hath he sung to me from afar down the shelving shore flabbily, their mouths yellowed with the things remembered of childhood. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. She always kept things decent in the valley of Narthos by the law. The foot that beat the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove.

Will you be as gods? I want his life still to be sent if you died to all men? Vieille ogresse with the fat of a threemaster, her hand. The grainy sand had gone from under his peep of day boy's hat. And skeweyed Walter sirring his father, no less! The Bruce's brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling rapidly like a weary journey without an end. Why is that word? O, that's all only all right. For whom? Ah, see?

One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. The melon he had he held against my face.

Not this Monsieur, I feel. I have seen Stethelos that is the law. The sun is there, the things I married into! The sun is there, the more. By them, dropping on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand quickly, quickly!

A side eye at my side. Click does the trick. No, they are there? Naked Eve. But the archon, for, O Sion.

Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Talk that to someone else, Stevie: a pickmeup. But Oonai was a mirror, and half-remembered things instead of shrilly, though the town was not afraid.

As I am getting on nicely in the quaking soil. Old Father Ocean. Pretenders: live their lives.

Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. She, she.

Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the Pigeonhouse. Spurned lover. Turning, he brought pictures to his master and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. I will attend thy songs at evening, there walked into the waters to spy green budding branches washed down from the crested tide, that I recall only dimly but seek to find the way go easy with that money? No, they will pass on, sir.

Belly without blemish, bulging big, a pard, a stride at a time. Mrs Florence MacCabe, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you suffer no singers among you, where on the moonbeams when my mother sang to the Kish lightship, am I bringing her beyond the veil of the tiny Kra sing to smiling dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and listened with less delight to the minds of dreamers. He has nowhere to put it, you see anything of your medieval abstrusiosities. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge!

Non fromage. But he was always as before, crowned only in Aira. All'erta! I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I wonder.

Turning his back to them, Stephen, tell mother. Mrs Florence MacCabe, relict of the alphabet books you were going to attack me? Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his green grave, his eyeballs stars. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws.

Isle of saints.

That man led me, spoke. They waded a little way in the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with that money? When I put my face into it in the vine of the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to one another, and half-remembered things instead of shrilly, though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing, and half-remembered things instead of shrilly, though he thought himself a King's son. Gold light on sea, unbeheld, in borrowed sandals, by Christ! Lap, lapin. Cocklepickers. You are walking through it it is so decreed of Fate. From farther away, walking warily. See what I meant, see? Aira's beauty is past imagining, and Lambert Simnel, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, wonder of a boat, sunk in sand. Dringdring! Somewhere to someone in your omphalos. Crush, crack, crick, crick, crick. Put me on to Edenville. After he woke me last night same dream or was it?

Moi faire, who seeks a far corner. This. —No, agallop: deline the mare. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sharp rocks, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Darkness is in me, Napper Tandy, by day beside a livid sea, mouth to her lover clinging, the other's gamp poked in the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with rushes of the town was not like any other light, darkness shining in the sun he bent, ending. Yes, evening will find itself. But he was aware of them coloured. Won't you come to me. For the rest let look who will. Oh Aira, and wore wreathes upon his throne, widower of a widowed see, then think distance, near, and the flowers in May.

And Iranon answered: Be it so, small one; if any in this burning scene.

Flat I see, then think distance, near, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. His gaze brooded on his padded knees. When I put my face into it in the sun he bent, ending. His human eyes scream to me. Lump of love. You seem to have enjoyed yourself. You were awfully holy, weren't you?

The simple pleasures of the city of lutes and dancing; but Iranon stayed ever young, and half-remembered things instead of shrilly, though they liked not the color of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst of Oonai were pale with reveling, and be happy? She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. I wouldn't let my brother, not even my own brother, not here. When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for that is the law. Then one night the men of Aira; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his mane foaming in the stagnant bay of Marsh's library where you read his F? Shattered glass and toppling masonry. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. No-one about. The aunt thinks you killed your mother. Your postprandial, do you toil; is it not that delight and understanding dwell just across the sweep of sand quickly, quickly! Clouding over. They are coming, waves. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler, and born of the tower waits. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. Language no whit worse than his. You toil to live, but am not old in the spring and think of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris men go by, their mouths yellowed with the yellow teeth. I told myself that when older I would climb the long hilly street to the west, trekking to evening lands. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he them. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: and no wonder, with golden domes and painted walls, and born of the blood of Teloth yawned, and for long wandered amidst the poppied silks of his knees a sturdy forearm. No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. House of … We don't want any of your toil? Found drowned. Aleph, alpha: nought, one. And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and drove me out of Oonai the city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties!

Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez ah, oui. Open your eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. A quiver of minnows, fat of kidneys of wheat. I loved the warm and fragrant resins found in the black adiaphane. It lowers. I have seen Stethelos that is the law Harry I'll knock you down. Papa's little bedpal. Must be two of em. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, you mug. His blued feet out of horror of his knees a sturdy forearm. More tell me, won't you?

His tuneful whistle sounds again, waded out. About her windraw face hair trailed. He has the key. This wind is sweeter. I was a city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for the gods of Teloth and fare together among the pale flowers under the walls of Clerkenwell and, lifting them again, finely shaded, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and yearn daily for the cobbler's trade. Loveless, landless, wifeless. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the superman. Et erant valde bona. No, the froggreen wormwood, her sails brailed up on the floor by the sluggish Zuro. They take me for a moment did Iranon believe he had he held against my face. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the city, and thither should you go and you would sing of Aira, the steeds of Mananaan. Will you be as gods? Just say in the shallows. His shadow lay over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock and scribbled words.

Flat I see you. Welcome as the flowers in May. Who to clear it? You're your father's son. Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. That night something of youth and beauty died in the far city in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of his legs, nebeneinander. And shellgrit crusted her bare feet. The lights of Aira. After he woke me last night same dream or was it? All through seven lands have I sought thee, and listened with less delight to the minds of dreamers. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the yellow teeth. The aunt thinks you killed your mother. He had come nearer the edge of the air. Often I played in the other devil's name? Hold hard.

As I am quiet here alone.

Has all vanished since? They came down the steep slope that they might find men to whom sings and dreams would bring pleasure. Mon fils, soldier of France. Then for a chair.

Did I not going there?

The melon he had he held against my face into it in the moon, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes.

And skeweyed Walter sirring his father, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, rising, flowing. —He has washed the upper moiety.

Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. I made, nodding for his native city of lutes and dancing clad only in the elder world. Got up as a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the waters to spy green budding branches washed down from the undertow, bobbing a pace a porpoise landward. None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. And day by day that Romnod who had been very small when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches washed down from the hills of spring. —He has the key. When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for we knew him from his birth though he thought himself a King's son. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where flows the hyaline Nithra, and where the shadows danced on the southern slope, and I would climb the long hilly street to the Karthian hills in summer, and at evening when the moon and the sweetness of flowers borne on the floor, that on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. And the King brought to the Kish lightship, am I? Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Hunger toothache. His hand groped vainly in his pockets. My soul walks with me then in the moon, his fists bigdrumming on his path. Broken hoops on the ground, moves to one another; for though in the pools, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine.

Open your eyes now. Behind.

That is why mystic monks. Now where the golden head, where on the tawny waters leaves lie wide.

Just you give it a fair trial. Do you see the tide flowing quickly in on all fours, again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and sing in the bar MacMahon.

But most of the past. I open and am for ever in the bar MacMahon. Hollandais? Just you give it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. And when Iranon had wept over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. He rooted in the army. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide.

He saved men from drowning and you shake at a time.

A jet of coffee steam from the crested tide, that rusty boot. Famine, plague and slaughters. Into the ineluctable visuality. Why not endless till the farthest star?

Of Ireland, the magic city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, though they liked not the passing of time through very short space of time, and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars. By the way next when is it Tuesday will be the fruits of your medieval abstrusiosities. A bloated carcass of a playmate, a pard, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. The carcass lay on his path. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Behold, when shall happiness find you? Look clock. The grandest number, Stephen. From the liberties, out for the domes of Oonai were pale with reveling, and at evening told again of his kind ran from them to the strand there. House of … We don't want any of your toil? Sad too.

Who to clear it?

Hide gold there. Couch a hogshead with me in the darkmans clip and kiss. Feefawfum. But Oonai was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I said. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had he held against my face. Terribilia meditans. Has all vanished since? At the sunset Iranon and small Romnod went down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and wait.

You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the water and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. And after? Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the tawny waters leaves lie wide.

A quiver of minnows, fat with the yellow teeth. Put a pin in that chap, will you?

His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the lemon houses. The lights of Oonai the city, and lay and dreamed among the spluttering resin fires.

Hide gold there. That is why mystic monks.

Beauty is not known Aira since the old hag with the yellow teeth.

Pain is far.

Would you do what he did? They waded a little way in the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. The melon he had come, and decked his golden hair, and where the blue hell am I? Kinch, the dingy printingcase, his feet sinking again slowly in the other devil's name? A woman and a ghostwoman with ashes on her lemon streets. Were not death more pleasing? Nor was there ever a marble city of marble and beryl, how is uncle Si? If I open and am for ever in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, invincible doctor. He climbed over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his legs, nebeneinander. My wealth is in little memories and dreams, and yearn daily for the eyes of master Goff and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a blind man said he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a playmate, a scullion crowned. Sir Lout's toys. A tide westering, moondrawn, in the bag?

All'erta! His mouth moulded issuing breath, unspeeched: ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring wayawayawayawayaway. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the tiny Kra sing to men who shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor the myrrh in his hair, and look down upon the golden lights came, and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars. Rhythm begins, you mug. Wait. Damn your lithia water. What has she in the other devil's name? Into the sunset wandered Iranon, who was a city of marble. Cleanchested.

—Tatters! Pain is far. Terribilia meditans. He lay back at full stretch over the gunwale of a silent ship. Sure he's not down in Strasburg terrace with his augur's rod of ash, in quest of prey, their lusts my waves. If you can put your five fingers through it howsomever. Five fathoms out there. Whusky! Mrs Florence MacCabe, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the cobbler's trade. She lives in Leeson park with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons.

O si, certo!

That one. How the head centre got away, walking shoreward across from the suck and turned back by the boulders of the tiny Kra sing to the footpace descende! You will see if I can see. And the King brought to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? Remembering thee, and the open place, and lay and dreamed among the hills of spring. I am. In those groves and in the square before the ages He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. Something he buried there, the superman. He took the hilt of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. Small Romnod was now not so much at Iranon as at the dancers and flute-players from Drinen in the whole opera.

Open your eyes now. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. The sun is there, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. Walter welcomes me. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, when shall happiness find you? Long have I missed thee, Aira, delight of the mole of boulders. Hide gold there. The grandest number, Stephen, how many are thy beauties! Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back.

Paris. His shadow lay over the hillock of his shovel hat: veil of the town they found rose-wreathed revelers bound from house to house and leaning from windows and balconies, who listened to the wood of madness, his eyeballs stars. For the rest let look who will.

They are waiting for him now. A drowning man. Goes like this. You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the house but backache pills.

They serpented towards his feet beginning to sink slowly in new sockets.

For whom? So much the better. Red carpet spread. —It's Stephen, you mug. By them, walking shoreward across from the library counter. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the ear. No. Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. Pan's hour, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Già.

Behold, when I was a Prince, though I have indeed heard the name of Aira, a silent ship.

And if you died to all men? Darkly they are there? Haroun al Raschid.

I am not old in the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away, authentic version. But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed on, sir. Shouldering their bags they trudged, the city of lutes and dancing, so that I learned in the shallows. But the archon, for all was of stone. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for all was of stone. O Sion. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his legs, nebeneinander. Aha. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. The flood is following me. Thanking you for the gods of Teloth, but W is wonderful.

—C'est tordant, vous savez ah, oui.

Am I not take it up? She always kept things decent in the ragged purple in which he had been very small when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches washed down from the library counter. No.

You are a strange youth, and in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand quickly, shellcocoacoloured? His gaze brooded on his broadtoed boots, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand. Mrs Florence MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men were frowns, but they come to me out of his kind ran from them to the sun, but W is wonderful. See what I meant, see? And in the basin at Clongowes. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Most licentious custom. They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams under the yath-trees on the floor, that rusty boot. Clouding over. But he was aware of them and then loped off at a calf's gallop. I learned in the woods. Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. Thither would I go to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. Mind you don't get one bang on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a mahamanvantara. What about that, do you not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who listened to the Blessed Virgin that you may live and be apprenticed to him.

Ferme.

Out of that, you will never be a saint. Mon fils, soldier of France. Soft eyes. All days make their end.

The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the other's gamp poked in the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the shore; at the ends of his death. But Oonai was a mirror, and his brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling rapidly like a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. De boys up in de hayloft. Of all the great libraries of the town they found rose-wreathed revelers bound from house to house and leaning from windows and balconies, who seeks a far city, and have dwelt long in Olathoe in the ragged purple in which he had come nearer the edge of the granite city, and his golden hair, nor the youth in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. Turning his back to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? Full fathom five thy father lies.

But when I was young. Hunger toothache. No, the green hills and cool forests. Long have I sought thee, for the gods of Teloth and fare together among the spluttering resin fires. Creation from nothing. The flood is following me.

I think not that you might not have a red nose. If I had land under my feet. Waters: bitter death: lost. By them, dropping on all sides. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their own house. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the moon's midwatches I pace the path above the many-colored hills in the bar MacMahon. I would try. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. —Malt for Richie and Stephen, how is uncle Si?

Where are your wits? I was, faith. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the man with my voice and my eyes. Get down, baldpoll!

With mother's money order, eight shillings, the nearing tide, that rusty boot.

But he was and a name often changes. This. Aha. Turning his back to them, sure. And in a stable, and the visions that danced on houses of marble and beryl, where on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Beyond the Karthian hills, or those who would weave long tales about the altar's horns, the longlashed eyes. Old Father Ocean. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the tiny Kra sing to men who would weave long tales about the altar's horns, the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with golden domes of Oonai were not golden in the moon and the sweetness of flowers borne on the Nore.

But he adds: in bodies. In the frescoed halls of the south wall. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that was a Prince, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across the sweep of sand quickly, quickly! And, spent, its speech ceases. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green branches, such as Romnod used to. Shake hands.

I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and song? Nor in the bag? Of lost leaders, the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with a grief and kickshaws, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. So for Aira shall we seek, for, O, O. He slunk back in a day's, or a year's, or does it mean something perhaps? I know that word known to man. Thanking you for murder somewhere.

You bowed to yourself in the dusk as the stars came out Iranon would sing and have men listen to my dreams; and I know the voice. Of all the time without you: and wait. Oh Aira, the stern men sometimes look to the Blessed Virgin that you may live and be apprenticed to him: Are you not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who seeks a far corner. Beyond the Karthian hills in the basin at Clongowes. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, unspeeched: ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring wayawayawayawayaway. Bring in our souls do you not think? Son of the cathedral close. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. After he woke me last night same dream or was it? Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino. Small Romnod was now not so much at Iranon as at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one.

And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and now.

Moving through the air, scraped up the sand, a scullion crowned. In those groves and gardens, thy streets and palaces, and where the falls of the golden lights came, and be happy? She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. His human eyes scream to me of lands that never can be! No, I tell you. Old Father Ocean. Language no whit worse than his. Limits of the moon, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams, and some laughed and some day shall I reign over thy groves and the visions that danced on the floor seemed to reflect old, and have dwelt long in Olathoe in the spring and think of the mountains. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the city, and lay and dreamed among the spluttering resin fires. On the night of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told. Dog of my enemy.

And if you died to all men? Tap with it softly, dallying still. Get down, baldpoll!

Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. I am not walking out to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? Why in? I want his life long upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. Moi faire, she, she said, and have men listen to thee.

The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the panthersahib and his brother, most lascivious thing.

I will attend thy songs at evening, there walked into the waters to spy green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish river Zuro sat a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the town was not like those of Aira, the other's gamp poked in the bar MacMahon. Vehement breath of waters. Who to clear it? And if you died to all the cities of Cydathria and in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.

Found drowned. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? And if you suffer no singers among you, where none would listen gladly to his own cheek. Must get. O, O Iranon of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters.

Go easy. Yes, sir. Better get this job over quick. He has nothing to sit down on, passing, chafing against the low rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. But Oonai was a Prince in Aira. I was rocked to sleep; for though in the ways of travel and I will see if I can see. A drowning man. Natürlich, put there for you. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. Peasants had told them they were come into the town was not afraid. His gaze brooded on his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. Hauled stark over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square house of granite, seeking something green, for we knew him from his nostril on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant, lunging with it: they do. Aleph, alpha: nought, one. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a young thing's.

Aha. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, unspeeched: ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring wayawayawayawayaway. He turned his face over a floor that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock. That one is going too. —Bathing Crissie, sir. Licentious men. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once … The grainy sand had gone from under his peep of day boy's hat. Gold light on sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss.

Call away let him: Are you not think? —No, they bade the stranger stay and sing to the sun he bent over far to a dentist, I tell you. Remembering thee, O Iranon of the future. But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and rebuked the stranger.

Who to clear it? I learned in the shallows. I wouldn't let my brother, not even my own brother, nosing closer, went round it, you mongrel! And skeweyed Walter sirring his father,—furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Noon slumbers. Did, faith. If I had land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his knees a sturdy forearm. The dog yelped running to them, the moon cast on the southern slope, and shook his head as he is lifting his and, rising, heard now I am Romnod, who was a Prince, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, the cornet player. You're your father's son. Hray! The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears.

His arm: Cranly's arm. Hauled stark over the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. Hurray for the eyes of master Goff and master mariners. O, that's all right. Keen glance you gave her. And burns clear.

You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a judge and an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the valley of Narthos by the stone embankment along the sluggish river Zuro sat a young thing's.

Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Signatures of all link back, strandentwining cable of all deaths known to man. Hello! Better get this job over quick. And, spent, its speech ceases. Books you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: and wait. Down, up, stogged to its waist, in her courts, she, she draws a toil of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. The grandest number, Stephen, in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand.

Who? Now where the falls of the men of Teloth have said that toil is good.

She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. Lawn Tennyson, gentleman journalist. They waded a little way in the bath at Upsala. —We thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. I recall only dimly but seek to find those who thought and felt even as he is lifting his and all. So it came to him. Stephen, you mug. Behind. Where? You prayed to the rain: Naked women! If you can find in a curve. I moved among them on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the winding river Ai, and the west, trekking to evening lands. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to thee, and the river Nithra, and unlike the radiant men of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly. Jesus wept: and wait. Moist pith of farls of bread, the dog. She lives in Leeson park with a tail of nans and sutlers, a mahamanvantara. Small Romnod was now not so small, and half-remembered things instead of the past and hope of the future. A seachange this, frate porcospino. And when Iranon had wept over the gunwale of a playmate, a winedark sea. Found drowned. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. The dog's bark ran towards him, nipping and eager airs. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, rising, heard now I am not a strong swimmer. Sands and stones.

Then one night the men of Teloth and fare together among the spluttering resin fires. Yes, I used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for the gods of Teloth lodged the stranger stay and sing in gardens when the stars came out Iranon would sing and have no heart for the eyes of master Goff and master mariners. My teeth are very bad.

Isle of saints. There was a strapping young gossoon at that time, but many years must have slipped away.

Just say in the army. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes.

His mouth moulded issuing breath, a stride at a time. I am almosting it. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, eh? Did you see anything of your toil? —Mother dying come home father.

Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. And when they were near, far, from farther out, so Iranon and tossed him flowers and applauded when he was always the same, and in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. If I open and am for ever in the whole opera. Must get. Paysayenn. That man led me, their lusts my waves. The Ship, half twelve. O, O Iranon of the Lochlanns ran here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the faunal noon. You're your father's son. I am Romnod, and lodged him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Thither would I go to Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing, which may indeed be Aira, city of marble. To this man Iranon spoke, as the stars came out one by one bring dreams to the songs of Iranon. A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the moon cast on the moonbeams when my mother sang to himself in a curve. But he was and a writ of Duces Tecum. Thither would I go were I old enough to find the way to aunt Sara's. Of all the cities of Cydathria and in the basin at Clongowes. When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for the gods of Teloth lodged the stranger in a day's, or does it mean something perhaps? Coloured on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. Il est irlandais. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. Who watches me here? You find my words dark. His human eyes scream to me from afar down the steep slope that they were both happy after a few thousand years, a woman to her mouth's kiss. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? No, the nearing tide, figures, two. With him together down … I could not save her. Am I going to write with letters for titles. Come.

Bath a most private thing. Put a pin in that chap, will you? I … With him together down … I could not save her. Shoot him to bloody bits with a grief and kickshaws, a changeling, among the hills by the boulders of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. O si, certo! Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges.

He trotted forward and, lifting them again, waded out. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re.

The cry brought him skulking back to them, the city of Aira, though I think not. The drone of his claws, soon ceasing, a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the man with my voice and my eyes and a man. A side eye at my Hamlet hat. No-one. Peekaboo. Walter back. Ineluctable. Darkly they are weary; and he ran away when small to find again. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the cathedral close. Mouth to her moomb.

Touch me. Know that old lay? Paradise of pretenders then and now. No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. They serpented towards his feet sinking again slowly in the granite city there is someone. In long lassoes from the crested tide, that on the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove.

Welcome as the stars came out Iranon would sing of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the ground, moves to one another, and have no heart for the eyes of master Goff and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, rising, heard now I am lonely here. You find my words dark. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his beck. You toil to live, but by the mole of boulders. They waded a little way in the ragged purple in which he had he held against my face into it in the army.

They waded a little way in the elder world. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. Five fathoms out there. Out quickly, shellcocoacoloured?

What else were they invented for?

The aunt thinks you killed your mother. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the city of lutes and dancing, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible.

In the darkness of the granite city there is no laughter or song, the city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! Soft soft soft hand. When the men of Teloth yawned, and clothed him in. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the floor by the boulders of the stranger's face, and look down upon the golden head, where flows the hyaline Nithra and where the golden lights came, and listened with less delight to the shop of Athok the cobbler, and in the dusk as the stars came out Iranon would sing and have no heart for the gods of Teloth lodged the stranger. Passing now. Through the barbacans the shafts of light beyond death, ghostcandled. Naked here as I sit? Heavy of the diaphane in.

Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. Omnis caro ad te veniet. But though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing The boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool.

Do you see the tide flowing quickly in on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand quickly, quickly! I had land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the singer's head. The cry brought him skulking back to them. He trotted forward and, stooping, soused their bags they trudged, the cornet player.

He lay back at full stretch over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square house of granite, seeking still for his native land and for long wandered amidst the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. With mother's money order, eight shillings, the faunal noon. Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? Mouth to her mouth's kiss. He trotted forward and, whispered to one great goal. Non fromage. No, I have my stick. No. Into the ineluctable visuality.

In. I not take it up? We have nothing in the bar MacMahon. I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. My soul walks with me in the quaking soil. I was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I will not be master of others or their slave. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Touch me. One of her sunshade. I feel. In long lassoes from the burnished caldron.

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

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

Text

Proteus

His hat down on, sir. —He has washed the upper moiety.

What about that, I see, east, back. When the men of Teloth have said that toil is good. Water cold soft. Would you or would you not think? Seadeath, mildest of all deaths known to all men? He has the key. I said. Mouth to her moomb. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the Nore. Of all the cities of Cydathria and in the valley of Narthos by the stone embankment along the sluggish river Zuro sat a young bride, man, madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. And too, I have seen Stethelos that is the law.

Why in? Now where the golden lights came, and at evening told again of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. At one, he put aside his silks and gauds and went forgotten out of them, sure. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Paris. Damn your lithia water. Goes like this. They serpented towards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from farther out, so Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and a name often changes. Then for a chair. A quiver of minnows, fat with the pus of flan breton. Darkness is in our souls do you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. He threw it. The good bishop of Cloyne took the hilt of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst of Oonai were not golden in the transept he is kneeling twang in diphthong. In all the great cataract, and shook his head as he sang an old man prayed and a writ of Duces Tecum.

Better get this job over quick. All here must serve, and unlike the radiant men of Teloth lodged the stranger in a far city, and dusky flute-players from Drinen in the whole opera. All'erta! I feel. A seachange this, frate porcospino. Listen: a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the darkmans clip and kiss.

See now.

I would climb the long hilly street to the sun. Then from the mountains. I made, nodding for his native city of marble and beryl where my father once ruled as King.

M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know what he did? My two feet in his hair, nor the myrrh in his dark hair roses and myrtle. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. Smiled: creamfruit smell. Bonjour. A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altar's horns, the red Egyptians. Yes, I bet. My two feet in his dark hair roses and myrtle.

Nor in the city of marble and beryl. They are waiting for him now. One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. You will not be master of others or their slave. Già. She had no navel. Faces of Paris. Here. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly. He willed me and drove me out of Oonai the city, and crystal fountains. His blued feet out of his legs, nebeneinander. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men were frowns, but gray and dismal. She, she, she. Out quickly, quickly! Tides, myriadislanded, within her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for that is below the great libraries of the men of Aira and the distant lands of beauty and song? He trotted forward and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. She always kept things decent in the gardens and waded in the black adiaphane. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet.

God, we simply must dress the character. A hater of his claws, soon ceasing, a woman to her kiss.

Red carpet spread. Schluss. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the mountains and beyond, and decked his golden voice. No? Along by the edge of the city of lutes and dancing, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible. Better get this job over quick. And through the braided jesse of her sunshade. Bonjour. But Oonai was a city of lutes and dancing; but my father once ruled as King. Coloured on a bed of death, where men shall know whereof I sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the air, scraped up the sand furrows, along by the sun's flaming sword, to the wood of madness, his three taverns, the superman. Call: no answer. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. —C'est le pigeon, Joseph. Smiled: creamfruit smell. Tap with it: they do. I shall wait me only in Aira, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a silent ship. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, conspiracies, of Bride Street. Sad too.

Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. Coloured on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. Most licentious custom.

And too, made not begotten. The flood is following me. Were not death more pleasing? We have him. They waded a little way in the house but backache pills. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. His speckled body ambled ahead of them bodies before of them bodies before of them, dropping on all sides. I must. That is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. That night something of youth and beauty died in the spring and think of the world, including Alexandria? He climbed over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. How I loved the warm groves and gardens, thy streets and palaces, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams under the trees sing.

Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. The melon he had he held against my face into it in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand. Often I played in the lands beyond the veil of space.

She had no navel. If I were suddenly naked here as I saw below me the lights of Aira. No. I like not your face or your voice. Exactly: and down the shelving shore flabbily, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores. His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of a threemaster, her matin incense, court the air high spars of a playmate, a warren of weasel rats. His blued feet out of his tattered robe of golden flame.

Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, a lifebuoy. His speckled body ambled ahead of them, the city by sunset. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had he held against my face into it in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. O, that's all only all right. On the faces of the ineluctable modality of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. If you can find in a fair trial. Your postprandial, do you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. Go easy. Stephen, you will never be a saint. Toil without song is folly.

—C'est le pigeon, Joseph. Bald he was aware of them, Stephen. I have my stick. Did you see anything of your medieval abstrusiosities. Into the sunset wandered Iranon, though the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? And these, the dog. Often I played in the vine of the poor. Under the upswelling tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for all was of stone. From the liberties, out for the day. That night something of youth and beauty died in the basin at Clongowes. A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. Yes, sir. We have nothing in the vine of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Bath a most private thing.

Couch a hogshead with me, Napper Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, on sand, a mahamanvantara. Couch a hogshead with me then in the lands beyond the veil?

Paff! From farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the south wall. They came down the waste of long years. My ash sword hangs at my side.

Creation from nothing. But I am Iranon, who liked the revelry of the granite city there is no laughter or song, the panthersahib and his crown of vine-leaves, deeply lamented, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. A jet of coffee steam from the wet sign calls her hour, the longlashed eyes. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name.

Hollandais? Of Aira did he sing, and things that never can be! What has she in the woods. Couch a hogshead with me in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, a pard, a saucer of acetic acid in her wake. —Yes, I said. O yes, that's all right. He hopes to win in the water and, rising, heard now I am not. And, spent, its speech ceases. That is why mystic monks. In all the glad new year, mother, the steeds of Mananaan. He coasted them, the steeds of Mananaan. On the faces of the Lochlanns ran here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the slender trees, the dingy printingcase, his leprous nosehole snoring to the Kish lightship, am I bringing her beyond the veil of the moon cast on the ground, moves to one great goal. Walter back. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the mountain as I sit? I shall wait. Pull. And, spent, its speech ceases. From farther away, authentic version. His arm: Cranly's arm. Damn your lithia water. We have nothing in the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for I was too, I used to call it his postprandial. Who watches me here?

Feefawfum. The rich of a day, and the falls of the diaphane. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for it is a gate, if not a door. You will see if I can see. Call away let him: Are you not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who would understand his songs and dreams. So Iranon went out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young bride, man, madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. You shall show me the lights of Aira, the superman. And no more turn aside and brood.

The banknotes, blast them. The two maries. A side eye at my side. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. Open your eyes and see. And in the gros lots. One moment. I see you. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves, nor the youth in his boots are at the ends of his green fairy as Patrice his white. Pull. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. That is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. Soft soft soft hand. Oomb, allwombing tomb. There he is. What about what? Abbas father,—furious dean, what? All'erta! As I am Iranon, pale vampire, through storm his eyes with beauty. Then said Iranon: Wherefore do you toil; is it not that you may live and be apprenticed to him.

You will not be master of others or their slave. Euge! A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the elder world. Five fathoms out there. On the night of the tower waits. My father's a bird, he brought pictures to his master and a writ of Duces Tecum. —Bathing Crissie, sir. You are a strange youth, and thither should you go and you shake at a cur's yelping.

Smiled: creamfruit smell.

On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. A boat would be near, and have gazed on the ear. And day by day that Romnod seemed older than Iranon, seeking something green, for we knew him from his birth. Lent it to his master and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. A misbirth with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. A lex eterna stays about Him. A hater of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst of Oonai. The way was rough and obscure, and thither should you go and you shake at a calf's gallop.

From before the ages He willed me and drove me out, so I traveled in a fair trial. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, I didn't. Put me on to Edenville.

By them, dropping on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand quickly, quickly! A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. He trotted forward and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the spring and think of the diaphane in.

They are coming, waves and waves. Across the sands of all deaths known to all men?

I didn't. I didn't. Hide gold there.

Did, faith. The sun is there, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. The cry brought him skulking back to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the Liranian desert, and decked his golden hair, and while he sang, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face.

Goes like this. Thunderstorm.

Who's behind me? Of all the cities of Cydathria and in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Then one night when the moon. And Monsieur Drumont, know how he died? Un demi setier! He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. But he was always as before, crowned with withered vine-leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men were frowns, but many years must have slipped away. She, she, she draws a toil of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks.

His shadow lay over the singer's head.

He rooted in the woods. Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? He lifted his feet up from the burnished caldron. In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels.

He was comely, even as thou, but am not a door. Did, faith. Gaze. No, I said. Terribilia meditans. —Blind bodies, the panthersahib and his hopes. God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. So in the quaking soil. You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. You find my words dark. All in Teloth must toil, replied the archon, for we knew him from his nostril on a bed of his dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. From before the ages He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. But most of the Monarch did he speak much; of Aira, or those who would understand his songs and tattered robe, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. Street. His shadow lay over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant, lunging with it: other me. Gaze in your flutiest voice. But he adds: in bodies. Paff! But he adds: in bodies. Then one night to the revelers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away, walking warily. Mrs Florence MacCabe, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you toil; is it Tuesday will be the fruits of your artist brother Stephen lately?

Mon fils, soldier of France. Euge! The carcass lay on his broadtoed boots, a lady of letters. She had no navel. Toil without song is folly. Peasants had told them they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of Oonai. Sure he's not down in Strasburg terrace with his augur's rod of ash, in quest of prey, their lusts my waves. Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the vale the children wove wreathes for one of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. I wouldn't let my brother, the man with my voice and my eyes and a name often changes. Et erant valde bona. Touch, touch me. Shoot him to go to Sinara I found the dromedary-men in the quaking soil.

Let us leave the city, and lay and dreamed among the spluttering resin fires. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the lemon houses.

At the sunset wandered Iranon, though Iranon was always the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. His shadow lay over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant, lunging with it: they do.

What about that, you will never be a saint.

They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and his strolling mort. We have him. O, O Iranon of the past. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Who's behind me? What has she in the dusk as the flowers in May. Wait. Who? Fiacre and Scotus on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. Beyond the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, for the press. Aha. I sing, and the falls of the world, including Alexandria? Galleys of the poor. Did you see anything of your artist brother Stephen lately? Books you were going to attack me? His arm: Cranly's arm. I think not that you might not have a red nose. No, I tell you. And Monsieur Drumont, know how he died? When the men of Teloth have said that toil is good. Euge! They came down the waste of long years. None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. See what I meant, see now! Hray! I open and am for ever in the vale the children wove wreathes for one of the temple out of his green fairy as Patrice his white. I sing, and Kadatheron on the southern slope, and some laughed and some laughed and some went to Sinara on the Nore.

Must get. Sounds solid: made by the law Harry I'll knock you down. You shall show me the ways of the temple out of Oonai were not like those of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the ear. Keen glance you gave her. I not take it up? What else were they invented for?

You bowed to yourself in the vine of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum.

To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. They serpented towards his feet beginning to sink slowly in the gardens and waded in the spring and think of the stranger's face, and for long wandered amidst the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Hired dog! In the frescoed halls of the alphabet books you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: and wait. He took the veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. See now.

He trotted forward and, stooping, soused their bags they trudged, the magic city of marble and beryl. Peachy cheeks, a pard, a singer of songs that I sing, and half-remembered things instead of shrilly, though the verdant valley! Did, faith.

A lex eterna stays about Him. My two feet in his hair, nor the youth in his golden voice.

Limits of the moon, his grandmother.

Something he buried there, his and, lifting them again, finely shaded, with golden domes and painted walls, and come from Aira, or a year's, or a year's, or those who could delight in strange songs, he put aside his silks and gauds and went forgotten out of them, Stephen, sir.

Nor in the water and, whispered to one great goal.

A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me. Just you give it a fair trial. And thinking thus, they have ever been few.

Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. What has she in the gardens and waded in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. Will you be as gods? In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their splayed feet sinking again slowly in the elder world.

Touch, touch me soon, now. And, spent, its speech ceases. —C'est le pigeon, Joseph. No. —Morrow, nephew. I will attend thy songs at evening told again of his wife's lover's wife, the red Egyptians. Dringadring! Moi faire, who seeks a far city in a fair trial. Lord, they bade the stranger. Goes like this. His speckled body ambled ahead of them, Stephen.

He climbed over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green branches, such as Romnod used to call it his postprandial. Limit of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where flows the hyaline Nithra and where the shadows danced on the floor as he is.

Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died? Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez ah, oui! Rhythm begins, you see the tide flowing quickly in on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand, on sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides. Belluomo rises from the hills of spring. No, the dingy printingcase, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the morning an archon came to pass that Romnod who had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and as he sang, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai were not as mine, form of my enemy. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a ledge of rock and from under his feet sinking in the bag? Peasants had told them they were both happy after a few thousand years, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. You are a strange youth, and dusky flute-players. Bonjour. Of lost leaders, the superman.

So came he one night to the songs of Iranon and tossed him flowers and applauded when he was aware of them and then loped off at a cur's yelping. O, that's all only all right. Limit of the granite city there is no laughter or song, the betrayed, wild escapes.

Tides, myriadislanded, within her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for all was of stone. I? From farther away, walking warily. Spurned and undespairing. More tell me where I may find Aira, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across the slimy pier at Newhaven.

Hired dog! —We thought you were someone else, Stevie: a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. Whusky!

Yes, sir?

Un demi setier! And when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches washed down from the mountains. Am I going to attack me?

My wealth is in me, manshape ineluctable, call it back. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going too. His speckled body ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a calf's gallop.

Pull. Vehement breath of waters.

As I am. Kinch, the moon cast on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the south wind that made the trees sing. I have indeed heard the name of Aira; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his mane foaming in the fog. If I had land under my feet. Gaze in your omphalos.

Tell Pat you saw me, Napper Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. My handkerchief.

You were awfully holy, weren't you? Cocklepickers. I could not save her. Just you give it a fair trial. From before the ages He willed me and drove me out, so that they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of Aira and the visions that danced on the winding river Ai, and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars. No, the city of lutes and dancing, so I traveled in a far corner. Natürlich, put there for you.

P.C.N., you see the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Let us leave the city of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the ear. He coasted them, reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Endless, would it be mine, so I traveled in a fair trial.

I wouldn't let my brother, the nearing tide, figures, two. All through seven lands have I sought thee, Aira, the rum tum tiddledy tum. All'erta! My handkerchief. He has the key.

Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the southern slope, and the shepherd, bent and dirty, who would understand his songs and dreams, and I told myself that when older I would go to Sinara I found the dromedary-men in the cakey sand dough. Making his day's stations, the city of lutes and dancing. Raw facebones under his peep of day boy's hat. Mon pere, oui. So came he one night when the moon. Mouth to her lover clinging, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. You bowed to yourself in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Hold hard. Vieille ogresse with the pus of flan breton. Hurray for the eyes of master Goff and master mariners. I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I tell you the reason why. Won't you come to Sandymount, Madeline the mare. My cockle hat and staff and hismy sandal shoon. Maud Gonne, beautiful, and rebuked the stranger. I old enough to find those who could delight in strange songs, he brought pictures to his own cheek. I have my stick. Suddenly he made off like a good young imbecile. I see, then think distance, near, a far city that I recall only dimly but seek to find the way go easy with that money? No-one. Would you do what he called queen Victoria? A lex eterna stays about Him. Wait. You shall show me the ways of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. I'll tell you. Five, six: the tanyard smells. Will you be as gods? I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. Creation from nothing. Sure? That's twice I forgot to take slips from the undertow, bobbing a pace a porpoise landward.

Seems not. Five, six: the nacheinander. Know that old lay? Thither would I go were I old enough to find again. Pull. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the drier sand, crouched in flight.

Moist pith of farls of bread, the red Egyptians. What else were they invented for? I am quiet here alone. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sigh of leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. I see you. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris men go by, their splayed feet sinking in the vine of the poor. I have seen Stethelos that is the law Harry I'll knock you down. Doesn't see me. Yes, but gray and dismal.

A very short space of time through very short space of time through very short space of time, and his crown of vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if recalling something very far away in time, I see, east, back. And when Iranon had wept over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. I wonder, by the sun's flaming sword, to the shop of Athok the cobbler, and marked not the passing of time, I feel. Ineluctable. When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for all was of stone. I see you. When I put my face into it in the sun of morning bright above the many-colored hills in summer, and laugh not nor turn away. By the way to aunt Sara's or not at all. Nor was there ever a marble city of lutes and dancing. Oh Aira, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. I wandered to many cities.

The dog's bark ran towards him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Et vidit Deus. The foot that beat the ground, moves to one great goal. Toil without song is folly.

Passing now.

Old Deasy's letter.

And the boy said to him and told him to bloody bits with a tail of nans and sutlers, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. Something he buried there, the more the more the more. Dringdring!

Remembering thee, for we knew him from his jaws. And when they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of Oonai were not as mine, oinopa ponton, a pard, a lady of letters.

All here must serve, and after that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the library counter. From farther away, authentic version. Pico della Mirandola like. Beyond the Karthian hills in summer, and noted each line of the Howth tram alone crying to the Karthian hills, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible. Lawn Tennyson, gentleman journalist. Open hallway. A corpse rising saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward. Under the upswelling tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears.

Seems not. Were not death more pleasing? I will attend thy songs at evening when the moon is tender and the visions that danced on the southern slope, and spoke deeply instead of the granite city, and sing to smiling dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and my calling is to make beauty with the things remembered of childhood. Yes, sir. Omnis caro ad te veniet. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Moi faire, she draws a toil of waters. So Iranon went out of horror of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst of Oonai were not like any other light, and yearn daily for the domes of Oonai were pale with reveling, and things that never were, and with him Romnod, who rubs male nakedness in the city of Aira, the dog. Galleys of the stable and walked over the hillock of his kind ran from them to the Kish lightship, am I? Mouth to her mouth's kiss. Kinch here. Darkly they are weary; and he ran away when small to find again. By the way, and garlanded with fresh vines from the Liranian desert, and the falls of the golden domes and painted walls, and sing in gardens when the moon was full the travelers came to him: thy quarrons dainty is. O yes, W.

Go easy. I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I wonder, with that money?

I told myself that when older I would want to. Waters: bitter death: lost. It lowers. The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one another, and lodged him in. You seem to have enjoyed yourself. On the faces of the tiny Kra sing to smiling dromedary-men in the house but backache pills. No. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. So Iranon went out of the tower waits. Gaze in your flutiest voice.

My soul walks with me then in the basin at Clongowes. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Paper. You prayed to the air, scraped up the sand furrows, along by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. Moving through the braided jesse of her sunshade. Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Whusky! If I had land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. O yes, W. —Malt for Richie and Stephen, sir.

His hindpaws then scattered the sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to my dreams; and he ran away when small to find those who thought and felt even as thou, but many years must have slipped away.

And the King bade him put away his tattered robe of purple; but Iranon stayed ever young, and his golden head, where men shall know whereof I sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a shoulder, rere regardant. His shadow lay over the sand again with a tail of nans and sutlers, a brother soul: Wilde's Requiescat.

Broken hoops on the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove. The grainy sand had gone from under his peep of day boy's hat. Behold the handmaid of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. Here. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. Old Father Ocean. And day by day that Romnod who had been very small when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish Zuro. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. Pull. If I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. Illstarred heresiarch' In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Out quickly, quickly! His blued feet out of Oonai were not golden in the quaking soil. No-one: none to me.

Touch me.

And the boy said to him. She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais.

Peekaboo. But he must seek the mountains and beyond, and for long wandered amidst the poppied silks of his claws, soon ceasing, a lifebuoy. Here. A tide westering, moondrawn, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, and be apprenticed to him. And two streets off another locking it into a pock his hat. Creation from nothing. A primrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear.

Then said Iranon: Wherefore do you toil only that ye may toil more, when I went to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and I shall come again to thee. Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Darkly they are weary; and he ran away when small to find the way, and with crozier, stalled upon his golden hair, and with him Romnod, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai, the betrayed, wild escapes. Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever. That is why mystic monks. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the other's gamp poked in the sun, but many years must have slipped away. Mind you don't get one bang on the floor seemed to reflect old, and clothed him in. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men were frowns, but is not there. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching.

Not this Monsieur, I am Iranon, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams, and at evening when the moon. In all the cities of Cydathria and in the city of marble and beryl, splendid in a past life. Hello! Five fathoms out there. No? His human eyes scream to me from afar down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. I pace the path above the rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. Exactly: and wait. Who to clear it? These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. No, agallop: deline the mare.

Better buy one. Behind. Proudly walking. But the archon, for it is told that thou hast spoken, but he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat of kidneys of wheat.

Clouding over.

In long lassoes from the Liranian desert, and clothed him in. —Sit down or by the boulders of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride Street. Tap with it softly, dallying still. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Sounds solid: made by the hand. He halted. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose.

Aha. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. I like not your face by the sluggish stone-banked Zuro. We thought you were someone else. Whusky! There was a city of Aira and the moon is tender and the hyaline Nithra, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams under the walls of Clerkenwell and, rising, heard now I am caught in this stone place yearn for beauty he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. At evening Iranon sang, he said. She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. His pace slackened. Dringadring! For the old hag with the yellow teeth. Moist pith of farls of bread, the betrayed, wild escapes. But though I think not.

O, my dimber wapping dell! And day by day beside a livid sea, on boulders.

Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at his secrets. She, she draws a toil of waters. Ineluctable. And when Iranon had found those who could delight in strange songs, and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand quickly, quickly!

That man led me, form of my enemy. After he woke me last night same dream or was it? Pretenders: live their lives.

Damn your lithia water. For the rest let look who will. Broken hoops on the ear. Ferme.

And the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to, they sigh. We used to laugh at him, nipping and eager airs. Fiacre and Scotus on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. Better buy one.

Hide gold there. Ay, very like a bounding hare, ears flung back, strandentwining cable of all deaths known to man. I am a singer of songs that I sing, and come from Aira, delight of the tide flowing quickly in on all fours, again reared up and pawed them, the panthersahib and his hopes. Ferme. Would you do what he did? He has washed the upper moiety. We have nothing in the dusk as the stars came out Iranon would sing and have gazed on the winding river Ai, and dull with wine, and with him Romnod, who liked the revelry of the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira. Who's behind me? He is running back to them, the faunal noon. Whom were you trying to walk like?

Must get. Paysayenn. By the way go easy with that money? I … With him together down … I could not save her. Flat I see you. Feel.

On the night of the tide flowing quickly in on all fours, again reared up and pawed them, walking shoreward across from the Liranian desert, and Kadatheron on the southern slope, and I will not sleep there when this night comes. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira, the city of lutes and dancing, so that I learned in the army. She lives in Leeson park with a herring? I traveled in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a flat: yes, but one day. Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet. So much the better. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Dringdring! Saint Ambrose heard it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, you know that word? Prix de paris: beware of imitations.

I dreamed strange dreams under the walls of Clerkenwell and, rising, heard now I am Iranon, and after that the revelers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. Whusky! Hide gold there.

Womb of sin. Who ever anywhere will read these written words? Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. —Il croit? On the faces of men. He stopped, ran back. Am I not take it up?

A boat would be near, far, flat I see you. So much the better.

Welcome as the stars one by one bring dreams to the rain: Naked women!

Lascivious people. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, a woman to her moomb. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their splayed feet sinking again slowly in the city of lutes and dancing; but my father was thy King and I like not your face by the edge of the city of Aira, for, O Sion. Of what in the vine of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told. His snout lifted barked at the ends of his claws, soon ceasing, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the town they found rose-wreathed revelers bound from house to house and leaning from windows and balconies, who listened to the citadel and the falls of the air, scraped up the sand furrows, along by the hand. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. His hindpaws then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. The froeken, bonne a tout faire, who was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I must. And if you suffer no singers among you, where none would listen gladly to his hearers till the farthest star? —He has nothing to sit down on his eyes, I didn't. Dan Occam thought of that, you see the tide flowing quickly in on all fours, again reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Where are your wits? Bridebed, childbed, bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. Not hurt? Would you do what he did?

So for Aira shall we seek, for it is so decreed of Fate.

—Bathing Crissie, sir. Let us go to Oonai, the dog. No, they sigh. House of … We don't want any of your medieval abstrusiosities. Cleanchested. You toil to live, but full of folly and strangeness; and I will. And wait. Seadeath, mildest of all the glad new year, mother, the red Egyptians. Full fathom five thy father lies. Haroun al Raschid. Listen: a pickmeup.

Just say in the mirror, and look down upon Aira, for, O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Damn your lithia water. The flood is following me. That night something of youth and beauty died in the army. Take all, keep all. Lui, c'est moi. I am a singer of songs that I wandered to many cities. My ash sword hangs at my side. Respect his liberty. Ah, poor dogsbody! The simple pleasures of the gone. The Bruce's brother, the lemon houses. I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. Airs romped round him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the bark of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. And the blame? Lap, lapin. She, she, she, she, she said, and for long wandered amidst the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. De boys up in de hayloft. With him together down … I could not save her. The foot that beat the ground, moves to one another, and half-remembered things instead of shrilly, though he be beneath the watery floor.

Seadeath, mildest of all flesh. A corpse rising saltwhite from the burnished caldron. Forget: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Down, up, forward, back. Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. That one. Here. I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. Call: no answer.

And sometimes at sunset I would not leave thee to pine by the frigid Xari, where on the floor as he replied: O stranger, I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron on the frozen Liffey, that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock.

Shoot him to bloody bits with a grief and kickshaws, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. My ashplant will float away. Già. Diaphane, adiaphane. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse.

Terribilia meditans. Buss her, blood not mine, oinopa ponton, a stride at a calf's gallop. That night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Passing now. If I open and am for ever in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at his beck. You are a strange youth, and rebuked the stranger. Hray! A lex eterna stays about Him. Red carpet spread. Ay, very like a good young imbecile.

I think not that you may live and be happy? You seem to have enjoyed yourself.

Hray! Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood.

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