#i hope every daw ever kills itself

[technicolorxsn]

why are bandlab drums stuck in 4/4 I'm gonna fucking kms

[ryehouses]

sadflkjlk;j i was tagged by both @goatsandgangsters and @meyerlansky, so i definitely have to do it! sorry for how nonsensical the following wall of text is going to be, i am incorrigible and pursue every idea i ever have but only until i have another idea 

rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. send me an ask with the title that most intrigues you and i’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it. and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

broken into CATEGORIES, because my gdocs are a nightmare: 

fic stuff 

1. a simple thing, which i’m gonna finish if it kills me  2. everything is illuminated, ast ‘verse bonus content  3. the air and its ease, ast ‘verse bonus content  4. all of knuckles ‘verse, including:       a. knuckles itself        b. the obligatory “echo joins the batch” fic in the context of knuckles ‘verse, tentatively titled first aid       c. the equally obligatory “put this band of misfits back together or so help me” third installment. untitled.  5. the “the bad batch has to get real jobs” au i hope to write for brito’s birthday  6. .... the semi-ubiquitous “clone rebellion” au but with Hal Flavor (read: too many feelings about Star Wars politics), tentatively titled one quick moment that was noble or brave (dawes slaps, okay)  7. temper, a dinluke fic i want to take a stab at before my Star Wars hyperfixation fizzles out. we’ll see if I make it there.  8. the Dishonored/HDM AU I started then abandoned like four years ago, #sorrybillie  9. the problem with jaskier  10. foundling  11. like four awful darklina fics, it’s fine. the only one with any bones to it currently is the “fuck or die” one, because there’s a dreadful lack of that out there in general 

original stuff

1. dragon-slayer, currently in her.... fifth draft?  2. bowsprit  3. king sam 4. erianna and the birds  5. the queen of the air  6. the last dragon west of the sea  7. sparrow & spire 

That’s a lot of projects and I don’t, like, know if that many of you are writers with active projects, so in lieu of tagging please assume this is an open tag and if you want to participate, please do!! 

[bounward]

DAW | 1,623 words - but still not enough [re: everyone]

Dawson… was ready. He (thought) he knew what would come next, and he was prepared for it. Or, rather, as prepared as a man could be, before ultimately facing death.

Then death walked through the doors, alive as ever.

The folklorist stared, his head reeling as he tried to make sense of the situation. Listened, as his peers spoke - voices somehow more real than ever before, when they had been mere ghosts of themselves. Waited, for the questions about his crime, for O'Malley to pull away, for the escape via punishment that… seemed like it would not come. Not yet.

Shaking and miserable, Dawson was not. A man wrestling with his convictions… perhaps that was more apt.

His heart ached, seeing Dola again. Lucita again. Chirin again. Vixen and Chuck again. Basil again. He’d had no way of knowing that they’d be returning, somehow, some way. If he had, would he have held back? Dawson felt the familiar sting of loneliness, of loss - now more than ever, seeing them here, in the flesh. It was right that the people he longed to reach out to most sat furthest from him, out of reach. (Not that they would consider reaching back, at this point.) He watched their emotional reunions, aching for one of his own. Dawson withdraws his hand from O'Malley’s entirely, and places it in his lap.

Well, he’d made his bed. He could lay in it later - for now, answers.

“Ah, I suppose any questions I have can come later, hm?” he asks, green eyes slowly drifting from person to person. “You want to know the how, and I assume Prix’s not going to give us much time for the remainder of our discussion, so… Allow me lay it out plain, then. No point in hiding it, and no time to waste hashing it out.”

After inhaling deeply, he begins speaking, and does not pause for questions or sidelong glances. Dawson keeps his eyes trained to the table in front of him, as if looking anyone else in the eye might cause him to falter.

Even as he spoke, their words flooded his mind.

“This wasn’t as methodically planned as you probably assume. I didn’t sit and stew over wanting to kill [Basil] for weeks, plotting out my plan of attack. You saw the hasty cover-up - death hadn’t been my intention. Not at first.”

“I spoke to Basil a few weeks ago, about… more or less the same topic. The Wardens, whether our association with them might be able to lend itself to some use in understanding the tapes. I’ve been mulling those things over, since I realized they existed. How do they work? Why do they work? What combination of technology and magic allows these artifacts to function, and could we glean some sort of information from them? I’d hoped Basil would be able to assist.”

“… The conversation didn’t go anywhere, and I felt as though he’d been hiding things. Understandably, in hindsight, considering his feelings toward the Wardens - ah, and towards me.” You’re a real fuckin’ dick now. “Both of which I have been oblivious to, it seems. And since I seem to be rather skilled at drawing the ire of my peers around the topic of the tapes, I took it to the living members of my crew.” You cooooooooouldn’t wait until I was cold in the ground before pissing me off again. "Dola and Lucita were gone, but this was something we might be able to do. The three of us talked it over, decided to try and question Basil further. I asked [O'Malley] to stay behind, knowing that I didn’t want to put him into the middle of my own theories - and knowing his closeness to Pan. However, we decided Fievel would tag along, just in case anything did go awry - and to be a second set of ears to hear what Basil might have to say.“

"The plan was to question him, then bring the information back to the rest of the group to discuss and figure out how we’d handle it from there, together." …But you have never listened to me anyway. "Fievel and I went to the theme park to test out his abilities in a larger body of water. If anything went wrong, we wanted to be able to stun Basil - not kill him. You saw the results of those tests - the People Mover was drained of power, the fish in the lagoon had been killed. Not exactly a thorough means of training, but good enough to know how much or how little charge to use in the moment.”

“… I met with Basil that night, in the lobby of the Modern building. We were headed toward the Old Time Bar via the Oasis, and I stopped to discuss things there, where Fievel had hidden himself. I brought the tranquilizer gun with me, tucked into a pocket, just in case. The conversation… didn’t go anywhere, again. Ah, it got a little heated.” Yo-ou gave him no escape, forced him to dig up terrible memories for your own satisfaction, to satisfy your own theory crafting–! “I pushed Basil into the pool, and yelled out to Fievel. I think what happened next is obvious. We quickly retrieved Basil from the water, and restrained him with the bedsheets I’d cut earlier, preparing for an interrogation once he woke up. I’d tossed most of them into a bucket of bleach, not anticipating needing them all… but ended up using them, anyway. I’m not a master of tying knots.”

“Which is clear, since Basil broke free from his restraints upon waking up, after Fievel had already left to recharge. I pulled out the gun, but didn’t shoot. Basil started to use his powers - light radiated from his hands. It was bright, I dropped the gun, I, ah… I panicked.”

Beneath the table, Dawson knits his hands together. He wouldn’t force O'Malley to comfort him through this. He could hardly look to Smee for support, now that Dola was back with them. He’d put enough on Tanya, after killing her close friend. His quadmates couldn’t be expected to carry him anymore.

But still, the image of the light… It seared through his memory, like a seven-year-old boy, back in the forest amidst a thunderstorm. His heart beat faster with every clap of thunder, until he saw that flash of light, and everything went dark. His mind turned to static, and his body moved on its own. Dawson squeezed his hands together, knuckles draining white.

“I rushed Basil. He was still weak from the shock. I thought his reaction to my questions was proof enough that he might have had something to do with the tapes as a whole. The traitors. And… I figured that the only way our group would be able to make an actionable decision would be here, in the boardroom, with a vote.” If you don’t want what happened to [Chuck] to happen to Fievel or Dawson, vote for me. "Even if it meant facing my own death in exchange for murdering an old colleague, I… wanted to bring us back here.“

Finally, he pauses for longer than a breath between paragraphs. It’s a lot to take in. It’s a lot to put out. There’s no catharsis, no release of the weight from his shoulders. They droop, as if holding more weight - as if each explanation only adds to it, rather than allowing it to lift.

”… I’m not going to re-hash all the details about trying to cover it up. Most of you saw it, anyway. And I’m not going to excuse my actions, either. Ah… What was it I said, last time we were here? ‘Every single one of us has something that can justify the crimes we might commit, or the crimes we might overlook.’“ You didn’t get it none. Guess, guess you do now. ”I suppose in that moment, I felt that the ends justified the means, despite being unforgiveable.“

His eyes pan to Knuckles, next to him. A gaze that reads, I understand now, affixed to an expression that laments, I don’t want to.

After a few moments of this, he turns his face to meet the eyes of those who had asked him questions. To Campion, to Chirin, to Dola - a pause, however brief - to Tanya, to Chuck, to… as many faces as he could, before returning back to the table.

"I think the connection of the case to the traitors is clear, isn’t it? I wanted to question [Basil] based on my assumption that he could have done something to help explain - or at least more effectively look into - the tapes, and how they worked, perhaps lead us to a connection to the traitors. I killed him because of his reaction; I assumed he was one of the traitors, and wanted to bring us back here to discuss and vote on it. If I was going to kill anyone, at least it would have been…”

He trails off. Easier? Better? One fewer person to have to kill later?

“… one out of the two traitors. I know that so many of us were content to living here for however much longer - but why would we trust Prix on her word, or lack thereof? And none of us knew that we’d be reunited at all, let alone so soon.”

“I would not have done what I did, had I known everyone would return. That we might have been able to get this chance without the need for such drastic action. But I can’t undo my mistakes, so ah, perhaps all I can say now is…”

The regret permeates throughout his body as Dawson finally allows his eyes to settle on Basil.

“Welcome back.”

[wheremytwinwatches]

[Where My Twin Watches]: Puella Magi Madoka Magica Episode 12

I don’t want to do this.

I haven’t seen the next/last episode yet this week, each time saying there was some conflict or other keeping me from sitting down and watching. But looking back it’s mostly pretty weak excuses.

In reality, I have to accept the main reason that I’m typing this out rather than pulling up Crunchyroll: As long as I don’t see the finale, I can avoid the truth. I can avoid seeing whatever ending Urobuchi’s cooked up, and live in blissful ignorance that somehow this all works out ok. That despite each and every time before Madoka somehow survives this and doesn’t go Witch. That even after coming to the brink of despair Homura will get a happy ending. That I won’t have to see an ending that I keep imagining gets worse and worse, except that whatever I can fear I know the Urobutcher will manage to surpass.

Goddamnit, I just wanted a cute little show! I knew PMMM was a magical girl show, and I knew that for whatever reason it was incredibly popular. Music, animation, cute moments, whatever. I started PMMM thinking it’d be a good, happy time. Jesus was I wrong.

This show has put me through an emotional wringer. All this death and despair… without any warning from you jerks!

Do I think that it’s good I’ve seen this show? Yes. The production value is excellent, the twists were very engaging, and the philosophical discussions it has prompted are far more than I expected from it. Maybe when this is done I can sit back and enjoy watching others encounter the show, contribute to the discussion.

But I sure as hell don’t want to push the play button this time. I don’t want to see the end result. One way or another, Madoka’s story is coming to an end. The longer I put it off, the longer I can imagine that she survives and is happy. Despite everything…

Damn it. I want to put it off, but I can’t. I’m here, the finale is pulled up, and I’m out of excuses.

Let’s get this over with.

PMMM Finale Ep 12: My Very Best Friend

We open where we left off. The city is devastated, the technicolor Walpurgisnacht hovers in the distance, Homura is trapped under rubble, and Madoka looks towards the Witch with the Incubator at her side.

“Homura, I’m sorry. I’m going to become a Magical Girl.”

Homura looks on in horror as Madoka calmly talks about how she finally found a Wish she truly wants granted. And just as calmly says that she’s going to use her life for it.

GodDAMN it, Madoka! Stop being so fucking calm about selling your soul! Stop being so calm and peaceful and nice and AAARGH! Stop being such a hero! Be selfish for once in your life!

Yes, thank you Homura! Use every tool you have left to stop this travesty. Guilt-trip her with the countless times you’ve tried to save her, ask what the hell it was all for if Madoka insists on being the hero each and every time.

Madoka walks over and hugs Homura as the Magical Girl music starts up. She apologizes, but says that she’s the person she is now because Homura tried to protect her for so long. And asks that Homura trust in “the answer she has found”, swearing that she won’t waste everything Homura’s done for her.

“Now, Kaname Madoka. What is the Wish that you will pay for with your soul?”

Alright. Wish time. What’s it going to be? Wish for your friends back? Wish for Homura to find peace? Wish for the Incubator to go die in a fire?

“I wish…”

Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.

“I wish to erase all Witches before they are born. All the Witches in all the universes, both past and future. With my own hands!”

Wait.

What?

Waitwhat? What just- Can she-

Um. There’s a bright pink glow. That Wish is valid? She’s turning into a Magical Girl?!

The Wish to fucking erase all Witches is VALID?!?!

WHAT?!?!?!

“That prayer… If a prayer like that were granted, it could unravel the fabric of time itself! It would go against the very force of karmic destiny!”

No shit, Sherlock! Holy crap, this isn’t just Homura’s multiverse-hopping, this a core aspect of all of the universes! A Wish can do that?!

Did… did I just get out-minmaxed by a pink-haired middleschool girl?

Did this seriously just happen?

Did Madoka just effectively tell the DM “Yeah, no. I’m rewriting your setting”?

“Do you truly intend to become a god?!”

Holy crap. Madoka just wished to replace the DM.

I… I can’t even…

“I don’t care what I become. All those who have fought against Witches, who believed in hope as Magical Girls… I don’t want to see them cry. I want them smiling to the very end. If any rule or law stands in the way of that...I will destroy it. I will rewrite it. That is my prayer… That is my wish.”

…

Don't underestimate us! We don't care about time or space or multidimensional whatevers. We couldn't give a damn about that. Force your way down a path you choose, and do it your way! That's the way Team Dai-Gurren rolls!

I did not expect PMMM to have a Badass Creed rivaling fricken Simon the Digger.

“Now, grant my wish, Incubator!!”

The powerful glow around Madoka explodes, and the screen whites out.

And then the title comes up? Showing the reset of All Time, then?

Oh, the episode title finally appeared.

Final Episode: My Very Best Friend

A piece of cake? Mami’s place?

“Kaname… do you truly understand how fearsome a Wish that was?”

Yeah, Mami’s place, one of her customary tea parties with elaborate cakes. So is she alive again, as there was now never a Witch to kill her?

“It means that for all the past and future, and throughout all of time, you will have to continue fighting forever.”

Is that how it works, then? Madoka Wishes for the power to destroy all Witches, so she has to do it personally?

“In doing so, you will certainly wind up losing all traces of your individual self.”

Aw crap. The downside. There I was getting all optimistic, thinking that “Holy crap we actually get a happy ending?” But nope, Madoka will wind up essentially a completely different person.

“Simply dying would be a kinder fate. For all eternity, you would continue merely as a concept, a principle that destroys Witches.”

Damn it Urobuchi, I get it. You can stop hammering the point home.

But of course, our Protagonist is fine with that.

“If someone says it’s wrong to have hope, then I’ll tell them they’re wrong, every single time. And I know I’ll always tell them so.”

Wait. So… she’ll keep her core? She’ll stay Madoka at her heart, with her belief of hope? She won’t completely lose herself? Can I hope for that, or is Urobuchi going to step on that again?

“Then it’s fine, isn’t it?” Kyoko! Chowing down on a slice of cake. She’s serving as the determinator of the bunch, pointing out that now Madoka’s found her reason to fight, all that’s left is to run full steam ahead.

Daw, and now Mami gives Madoka back her old notebook of drawings.

“You aren’t just giving us hope. You’re becoming hope, itself… The hope of us all.”

Whiteout again. And here’s Magical Girl Madoka, in all her glory. Homura’s all but blinded by the light, the Incubator stares ahead, and… oh yeah. Walpurgisnacht. That’s a thing.

The orchestra begins to swell as Madoka readies her bow. A great sigil appears in the sky, and Madoka shoots it to blast away the stormclouds, revealing a bright blue sky. It then shoots out ALL OF THE ARROWS.

Cut to someone falling in grass? Oh, another Magical Girl. With a dark Soul Gem beginning to crack. She looks scared and begins to cry… when a burst of pink light falls from the sky and reforms as Magical Girl Madoka? Who purifies the Soul Gem… and then the Gem disappears? Hold up, what just happened? The Soul Gem vanished and the girl looked happy for a moment before closing her eyes. Is she sleeping, no longer a lich? Or did she just ‘die’ because Madoka took her purified soul somewhere else? Urobuchi, stop distracting me with this amazing music, I’m trying to figure this out.

Ok, the girl’s body just faded away before the screen went white. So Madoka’s stopping Witches by going back to just before the Soul Gem breaks? And then does something to the soul, takes it away somewhere? If she’s powerful enough to be a god now, is she… what, taking all these girls to Magical Girl heaven?

Many, many more bursts of pink light, more scenes of Madoka appearing to siphon away despair and vanish Soul Gems.

“I won’t let your prayers end in despair. None of you have to hate anyone, or curse anyone. I will bear all of that cursed destiny for you. So, please. To the very end, keep believing in yourselves!”

Ok, two things: one, I wanna see Madoka and Kamina meet up now to try and outdo eachother regarding “believe in yourself” speeches. Two, the scenes of magical girls are including I believe Cleopatra and Joan of Arc.

Back to the present, countless Hope Arrows continue to fly about, many shredding the madly laughing Walpurgisnacht until it’s only the giant gear. And still Madoka calmly speaks to it, staying that it no longer has to hate or curse. Because she’ll go back before it began and take the burden. Which creates a humongous explosion. Homura covers her face, the screen whites out again…

Weird technicolor lights, like a corrupted Soul Gem…

Homura opens her eyes. Does a rapid turn. Is on the moon?

She rightfully wonders where the heck she is. Hmmm, who do we know who could provide some exposition on the result of a Wish?

“The universe is in the process of reordering itself, based on Madoka’s new laws.” Homura’s present because she can control time-crossing magic. And so the Incubator says they’ll see

NO. NO NO NO FUCKING

NO

“-what kind of end the existence called Madoka Kaname will meet.”

GOD. DAMN. IT. We were SO CLOSE. We ALMOST had a good ending, but NOPE. UROBUTCHER STRIKES AGAIN! “Let’s see, we’ll just set things up with some inspiring hope quotes, show Madoka taking on the burdens of every Magical Girl ever… yes, that should do nicely for a literal god-damned Soul Gem.”

Because yeah. Madoka took on all those cursed destinies. She brought forth enough hope to create an entire universe. So for things to balance, that universe will now be destroyed.

“It’s only natural, right?” Fuck off, Incubator.

And the Super Soul Gem cracks, creating a Witch that dwarfs even the tower from Homura’s last timeline. Welp, I know what’ll be in my nightmares tonight.

The maddened laughter begins again.

“No, it’s all right.” Wait, Madoka?! But- the Super Witch-

Oh. Oh yes. YesyesyesYESYESYES

Wait, Puffball?

“My Wish was to erase all Witches…”

New outfit? Huge white dress and Rapunzel-length hair?

“And if that prayer really comes true… then even I… should have no reason to despair… ever!”

Super Magical Girl Madoka (?) readies her bow, another friggen big sigil appears, and ALL OF THE ARROWS blast away at the Super Witch, causing another huge explosion, the Witch is blasted away, Homura is- blasted away?! Hold up- the screen whites out again…

Did Madoka just blow up reality?

Screen comes to a shifting background of pinks, purples and whites.

“Madoka. With this, your life has ceased to have either a beginning or end. No trace of your life on Earth, nor a single memory of you will remain anywhere. Your existence has shifted onto a higher plane, and all that will be left of you here is a concept. No one will ever be aware of your presence again, and you will never be able to interact with anyone. You will have ceased to exist in this universe.”

...so it’s a mix of Madoka staying true to herself, but also elements of Mami’s warning?

Homura speaks up whoa ok, glad I’m not watching this when anyone could walk in. I thought you guys said there weren’t any questionable scenes?

“What are you saying? That Madoka wished for such an ending?! You think this is a fair reward for everything she’s done?! Don’t be ridiculous! This… is even worse…than death would have been…!”

God-damn it. (Or is it Madoka-damn it now?) Madoka’s safe and free from the cycle of Witchification, like Homura was aiming for. But she’s done it in such a way that Homura can never see her again.

“No, you’re wrong, Homura.” Madoka! Please put on some clothes, this is getting awkward!

Madoka says that as she is now, she can see everything that ever has or will happen. Universes that could have been, and might be. And now she knows all Homura’s done for her, in all the different timelines.

Guys, I’m really digging this scene, the great music and colors, the culmination of Homura’s efforts and Madoka’s growth… but seriously, Urobuchi? You couldn’t have this while they were in their uniforms? I’m loving the scene, but the awkwardness has to be mentioned.

“I’m sorry I never knew until now… I’m so sorry.” Homura breaks down crying.

(Is… is it safe for me to ship again? Because if so, all aboard the MadoHomu!)

It wasn’t until Madoka became what she is now that she truly understood Homura. “To think that I had such a precious friend with me all this time…!”

Wait. God-Madoka damn it, are you really shooting down my ship with “friend” now? I think this scene goes a little beyond friendship!

Also, I think Sayaka might be a little miffed about all these “best friend”s being thrown about.

Homura raises a good point, that as sweet as this scene is Madoka no longer has a home, and she’ll be separated from everyone she loves (*cough* like her *cough*) to live all alone in a psychedelic realm like this forever.

To which Madoka just smiles and giggles. “But I’m not alone. All of you will always be with me. Because I will be everywhere at every moment from now on.” (Oh my God-Madoka, she’s Santa Claus! Or the NSA!) “So even if you can’t see me or hear me, know that I’ll be by your side, Homura.”

But Homura will still forget her… “It’s too soon to give up yet.”? After all, she managed to follow her all the way there…

So there’s a chance? There’s hope? Urobuchi’s not going to swoop in and ruin this?

Madoka unties her ribbons and gives them to Homura, saying that maybe she’ll still be able to remember.

“After all, Magical Girls make hopes and dreams come true! And I’m sure that if it’s just a little one, real miracles really can happen. Don’t you think?”

They’re floating apart now, Madoka has to go meet all the others.

“I’ll see you again one day, Homura. So for just a little while until then, I’ll say good-bye.”

Not gonna lie. Tearing up right now.

Scene change, city at night. Concert hall, person walking on stage. Kamijo? An audition it looks like, performing “Ave Maria”. An excellent piece!

Hey, Sayaka and Madoka are listening from the seats! Sayaka apologizes for causing “a lot of trouble”. But of course Madoka says that she’s the one who should apologize. Actually, seems she’s apologizing for leaving her “dead’ in order to save her. As… oh! If she did save Sayaka, then Kamijo wouldn’t have been healed, and that’s not what Sayaka would want.

Heh. Funny moment of one judge trying to talk to another, only to get a “Shush, I’m listening to the music.”

Sayaka talks about how she just wanted to hear him play again, for others to hear him play. Well, she is bothered about one thing (Hitomi watching from behind the curtains stage left). Ha! Sayaka says that Kamijo doesn’t deserve such a great girl. But she’s sure they’ll be very happy.

The two girls fade away as Kamijo finishes “Ave Maria.” And damn boy looks good older, in a tux in a schmancy concert hall in front of a huge audience. Sudden start? “...Sayaka?”

Cut to a Witch burning away, Homura snaps to along with Mami and Kyoko, the latter asking where Sayaka went. Mami says that she’s gone, led away by the Law of the Cycle. She used all her remaining power in that last attack. So from now on Magical Girls ‘fade away’ from using up their power, instead of turning into Witches? But then how do they get more Witches to fight?

Kyoko calls Sayaka an idiot, letting herself vanish just for some boy she liked. Sorry Kyoko, but Ship of Death, remember? “Idiot… just when we were finally getting to be friends…” Friends. Right. Seriously, what is with this finale and Urobuchi trying to sink my ships?

So the new rule is that before the hope of their Wish summons an equal amount of misfortune, they have “no choice but to vanish from the world.” Instead of the Incubator’s ‘balance’, we get a greater amount of good over harm then. That’s good for humanity!

Hey, the ribbons! Homura opens her hand to show the two red ribbons, then breaks down crying. “Madoka…!”

The others turn. Is this the first time Homura’s shown emotion in the new reality in front of them?

“Akemi? ‘Madoka’...?”

“Who’s that?”

Ouch.

We’re in a park with light piano music. WAIT, hold up. It’s the kid, the little brother whose name I can never remember! Madoka’s brother! He’s drawing in the dirt/sand, it’s a picture of Magical Girl Madoka! Does he remember too?!

Homura stops by and daw, she’s wearing one of the ribbons in her hair. That’s a good look! And yup, little bro is babbling “Madoka, Madoka!” now. Does he not remember, but Homura tells him stories about his ‘sister’? In any case, she compliments him on the drawing.

He starts to reach for the ribbon, but Dad to the rescue (with a name, Tatsuya!). Aw, but he thinks that he was about to pull on Homura’s hair. Although they seem confused when he babbles about ‘Madoka’. (Not going to cry, not going to cry…)

Later that afternoon (as Tatsuya plays with his dad in the park, guh that’s adorable) it seems that Homura’s explained that ‘Madoka’ is Tatsuya’s imaginary friend. Mother makes idle conversation about the name, how it “seems to have such a nostalgic ring to it”. (Not going to cry, NOT GOING TO CRY…) And then remarks that the loves Homura’s ribbon, that it’s almost shockingly like something she would like. Homura offers it to her, Mother waves it off, saying she’s too old for it. Maybe if she had a daughter who could wear it… (Not. Going. To…)

It’s a full moon now, and WHY?! Why did you leave the Incubator in the new reality, Madoka?! Grrr… Wait, is that Homura’s Soul Gem? Surrounded by a bunch of small black cubes, drawing darkness away from it?

The Incubator’s remarking that a system like Homura apparently just described could theoretically have worked. She idly picks up one of the cubes, says that the system was real, and tosses it back, for the Incubator to catch in its back. What, is it a mini-Grief Seed? Anyways, it seems that the Incubator has no way of verifying the story that Homura’s saying. And since she’s the only one who remembers that world, well… he puts it less bluntly, but there’s no way of telling if her memories are real or if she’s crazy. Homura just tosses back another cube.

Oh, so Soul Gems shatter now when they become “too sullied?” Which would prevent a Witch being created, and the Magical Girl dies instead of changing. But what do they fight, if there aren’t any Witches?

Ugh, but the Incubator is focusing on the “Witches” of Homura’s story, as an ‘appealing’ method of gathering emergy. But since they aren’t in this new reality, the Incubators didn’t follow that method. Instead they do something with cubes?

Wait, ‘wraiths’? So there is something about this reality for Magical Girls to fight. Is that what was burning when Homura woke up, then? And they’re connected to collecting curses?

“Just because Witches are no longer born into this world, it doesn’t mean the curses of mankind have ceased to exist. The distortions of this world have merely changed form, and now attack people from the depths of the darkness…”

Guh, white Ringwraiths! So these are the ‘wraiths’ then? Not corrupted Magical Girls, but some other sort of creature? Based from humans, or just creatures of darkness? Details, please?

The Incubator remarks that the ‘miasma’ is pretty thick tonight, the wraiths just keep coming. Homura admonishes it for complaining, and steps off the construction site for a dramatic monologue.

“Though this irredeemable world continues repeating its hatred and tragedies… this is still the place that she once tried to protect.”

Whoa, big purple wings arrest her fall, she lands and is immediately surrounded with wraiths. But she just pulls out… her weapon is a bow now.

“I remember that. And I will never forget it. That is why… I will keep fighting.”

End credits.

...wow. Just… wow.

Guys, I went into this episode fearing the worst. I was just bracing myself for Urobuchi to make everything terrible. But then, things looked ok? Then they looked awful again. Then the looked good, but with some major downsides. Up and down and up and down… and then we reached the ending.

I’m going to need some time to process all this, to write up my overall thoughts on the ending. But damn me if this wasn’t an amazing show. I- hold up, started typing this while listening to the credits music for the last time. There’s an after-credits scene?

After credits, opens on a windy black and yellow setting, one person with long hair (Homura?) walking in the distance.

“Don’t forget.

Always, somewhere,

someone is fighting for you.

As long as you remember her,

you are not alone.”

Zoom in to yup, that’s Homura. Facing a crowd of wraiths. She holy fudge what is that. I expected the pink wings from before, but these are more like tears into a witch’s labyrinth. Homura what the hell are you doing?

Madoka’s voice. “Do your best…”

Homura smiles, and the tears spread across the screen. Camera backs out to show her with her freaky wings, she then leaps forward and then bursts of blackness start exploding everywhere. Screen blackens- all five magical girls, facing away? Sound of film reel spinning loose? Girls fade away? Final picture of a Soul Gem?

...What the fuck was that?!

[secondfromtheright]

Daredevil is over but we got a chance there could be some kind of something kastle in season 2 of punisher right? But then the big glaring omission of Frank completely from season 3 when karen was nearly getting killed repeatedly after he moved heaven an earth to save her at the hotel, seems like they may be making sure to shut down Kastle'ers completely. What you think?

Hey, I’m sorry this is late and obviously now it has been officially confirmed that DAW will be in Season 2, so we know for sure we will indeed get something.

Though I will say that personally, I’m not expecting much. If for nothing else than the fact that it will not have been written or filmed with it being the end in mind. DAW’s comment about there being ‘more to tell’ is in line with that. It’s a could be, and will now remain a could be, I think. I think if they knew it was the end, it may have been different. But I don’t expect the Kastle relationship to really move forward, or progress. I expect it to be much of the same, which is this awesome blend of seriously established importance and something. So that’s where I’m at right now.Having said all that, while I’m basically fucking heartbroken at the cancellation and don’t expect too much, it doesn’t mean I’m not hyped for it. Kastle has existed in the nuances. It’s the power of the quiet and the intensity of their stare and has always been this totally unexpected huge and unique thing out of such otherwise normal moments. And I think Punisher has given has more than we could have ever dreamed already. So much of Kastle is canon. They’re something, something they take with them into their lives, their days even without each other. They’ve impressed this place for themselves as individuals and as a together, into each other and it marks and they carry it. That’s all already there. I don’t think either show has been subtle or lacking in that and it can’t just be erased, no matter what does or doesn’t happen in Season 2. She’s there. That’s what matters, too, I think.To your real question regarding DD3, I don’t think that was shutting down Kastle at all. Or, actually, I’ll rephrase. I don’t think it had anything to do with Frank Castle at all. I think simply, he is not a DD character (anymore). Different showrunners, different writers, all prioritising their own characters and the relationships of the individual show.I think DD3 was about the trio of DD characters and that’s it. I think they especially wanted to strip back to the basics of the dynamics of that trio after criticism and the complications of certain storylines before DD3.I think the lack of Frank Castle in DD3, and the lack of all the Defenders to be fair (a whole bunch of folks who should have given a damn that Matt was back, enough to be popping up) was completely because it is not their show and they are not the focus and the showrunner/writer wasn’t going to tell those stories over the relationships of the show itself.And I think that’s the problem you have when you have 1 universe, but a bunch of different shows, with different showrunners and writers. No one is going to put not-their-characters before their own. The cameos work fine because they’re fun and they link, but when there’s a real debate about the involvement of some of those characters in each others lives, I think there’s problems. I think we first saw that with Claire, whom originally was so established with DD characters, but then was placed first and foremost on other shows and so when Defenders happened there was a big wtf there. And I think we saw that with Kastle because that relationship is two different characters on different shows. Matt Murdock’s story no longer involves Frank Castle. Foggy Nelson’s story no longer involves Frank Castle. And DD3, minus flashbacks, wasn’t Karen’s whole life, it was her life within the crossing story of Matt and Foggy.I think it was poorly done and it was very obvious something was missing, but I also understand why the folks of DD would put DD characters first. Remember DAW’s comment about how she had to remind them ‘I know you weren’t there but I just went through this big thing’ before filming? They had to be told that because that was not their focus, it was not their story, or their character.

To be fair, Matt nor Foggy are mentioned in The Punisher, you know? Because it was not their show. The difference is Punisher was Frank at the centre, and we could imagine unsaid, unseen things happening in Karen’s life (like maybe she saw Foggy one of those nights after everything) so it got away with that lack in a way I don’t think DD3 did.But I really don’t think it was about shutting down Kastle at all. In fact, I think what was to me, the utter lack of romantic Karen and Matt and instead such focus on each friendship dynamic in that trio, would be encouraging for the possibility of Kastle. And I think if there was intent to shut down Kastle, they would have really done it. Again though, in the same vein that they weren’t telling a Kastle story, I don’t think they were speaking on behalf of it either. I think a lot was sort of implied without saying anything, like us going ‘where the fuck is Frank?’, but I think that’s a consequence of them putting DD characters first, not an intended statement about Frank or Kastle, two things that are ultimately now of another show. The DD3 Frank mention was purely of Frank’s involvement in DD2. “I didn’t judge Frank” (”Frank, I can’t judge you”) and Matt’s restating that he sees Frank as a killer. No mention of anything Frank post-DD2, you know?I hope Season 2 gives explanation to the lack of Frank in DD3, like he’s totally inaccessible and couldn’t be there (like DD3 having Matt being bedridden and so explaining why he couldn’t be there even though someone was going after Karen in Punisher). But on the other hand, like with DD, that’s not really on the writers of Punisher to explain. Again, it’s the issue with 1 universe but multiple shows. Arrowverse has the same problems sometimes where shit is going down and really, given relationships with people on other shows it’s like ehh, wouldn’t such and such be looking in right about now? Different shows with different characters with writers and showrunners that put their own characters first.It was disappointing as fuck. Seriously. Every episode I was hoping he’d somehow, someway turn up. But I also didn’t take it as any opinion or hint to the future of Kastle. Just that it was about the trio.Again, so sorry this was so late. I hope my ramble at least sorta answered your question? Ha.

[drunklander]

Drunj!Der Yells About Outlander

Thoughts on Ep. 305

That’s it. That’s my thought. I have nothing more to say about this episode.

Obvi kidding. BUT SERIOUSLY, THE END OF THIS EPISODE!

This episode, for me, is like last year’s finale in that I liked it, but it made me dislike the Claire stuff in the prior episodes even more by comparison. Like from now on my own personal headcanon is that Claire’s story goes from ep. 213 straight to ep. 305 and I feel like I wouldn’t really be missing out on anything super important. Except I *do* feel like I’m missing out on super important stuff, but what I feel like I’m missing can’t be found by watching the previous episodes.

Everything in this episode feels like the culmination of things the show chose not to go into. So like we get the destination, but without the depth and meaning that would have come from seeing the journey.

Like Claire and Joe are obviously awesome friends. But we know literally nothing about Joe except that he’s Claire’s friend. We can infer a bunch of stuff about him and their friendship just based on the fact that he’s a black man becoming a surgeon and she’s a woman doing the same, but that’s not the same thing as actually investing in and building that relationship, and showing how they’ve become so close that he’s the only person Claire will talk to about Jamie. Geillis and Mary and Louise all got to be more fully formed characters in prior seasons in addition to being Claire’s friend. And I’m really bummed we didn’t get the same with Joe.

We see Claire being badass as a surgeon, but like none of what it took to get her there. Healing is at the core of who Claire is. To jump over her reaching the peak of her calling seems like a wasted opportunity to really get into how fully embracing that part of herself gave her purpose in her 20th century life when she didn’t feel like she had any.

Bree and Claire have some really intense conversations and we see them bond and Bree manages to not make me hate her. But we are missing 20 years of their relationship. What was it like between them when Claire was in med school? What was it like between them after Frank died but before they went to Scotland? Bree has said she noticed that Claire had walls up or was distant, but we don’t see that as Bree is growing up because we really don’t see Bree growing up.

So yeah. Overall I liked the episode (seriously, the end of it is basically perfect!), but I feel like all the pieces leading up to this episode are missing. And that makes me a bit sad. But what’s aired has aired and fanfic exists so I guess that’s what I’ll be diving into during the week off before ep. 306.

Rambling and nonsense under the cut...

I am so here for crafty!Claire. Like this woman makes ornaments for her daughter’s first Christmas! She makes Halloween and pageant costumes! Claire is not someone who has been into crafts before, but it’s clearly something she does for her daughter because she loves her. It’s adorable and shows just how great a mom she is. *side eyes a certain other parent who implies otherwise and is wrong*

I know there’s more to being a parent than making ornaments and costumes but shoosh, let me love that Claire made all these things for Bree.

The surgery scene is great not just because it’s awesome to see Claire in her element, but because it shows so much about her as a character. She’s meant for this shit. This is who she is. And she’s damn good at it and knows what needs to be done and is confident enough in her abilities to do just that even if it’s risky and others wouldn’t make the same call. Fuck yeah Dr. Claire!

The history lecture could probably be shorter, but I’m a Masshole who loves history and lives along Dawes’ route, so I’m here for on the nose story time.

Bree’s professor is literally the one dude in this whole season (excepting Joe and Roger, of course) who isn’t a complete piece of shit. Like he’s literally doing the bare minimum in caring about Bree as a student and the daughter of a friend, but comparatively it makes him seem awesome. Like high fives for recognizing and validating Bree having earned her spot at the school and knowing there’s clearly something going on rather than just being like oh hey, a lady student is failing. Because lady brain.

Bree remembering Frank when she gets back to the house and is smelling the pipe and looking at the pictures and stuff is like the perfect amount of Frank. In that Frank’s not even there and yet we get everything we need, haha. Like look how much comes across with no dialogue. It’s clear she loves and misses him, and that they had a close relationship. And since he’s dead now and doesn’t matter anymore, that’s really all we need to know about the two of them. And Claire’s side of that marriage is also pretty clear from what we’d already seen outside of eps 301-303. So like yeah, Frank should have been in some of the earlier episodes, but it was kind of a waste to spend as much time on him as they did at the expense of the relationships with people and things who aren’t dead and irrelevant by a quarter of the way through the season.

So even though we don’t know anything really about Joe, he *is* basically what Claire needs in this episode. Claire until this point has been like doing nothing but trying to please other people for the past two decades and she’s going to be making a huge decision that’s something *she* wants to do and kind of needs that validation that this doesn’t make her a selfish or bad person. So yeah, I wish we had more of their relationship, but I’m always and forever going to be #TeamJoe.

The change in Claire’s face in between “as Scottish as they come” and “as serious as it comes” kills me. Like she’s openly talking about Jamie! And smiling about his memory! And then look how sad she gets because of what she lost and what she might never have again! *throws awards at Balfe*

*debates getting fuck fate tattooed somewhere*

But yeah. The three convos with Joe throughout the episode are almost like therapy for Claire. (Which like, don’t treat your friends like your therapist. Get an actual therapist.) But show!Joe doesn’t seem to mind, so I’m still here for any screen time they’ll give him. But as he keeps asking Claire questions, it’s clear he’s asking because he cares, not because he feels like he’s owed an answer. Unlike some other character we’re acquainted with. *side eyes Frank’s ghost*

And Claire opens up a bit more each time as she gets more and more committed to going back. Because like it’s becoming more real and talking about Jamie is no longer something that she can’t do like it has been for so long. Like how fucked up must it have been for her to be friends with this dude for 15 years and never be able to share such a massive part of her life with him? I want that story. I want to see them becoming friends and Joe sharing about his life and the toll it takes on Claire to really like this person but never fully be able to open up.

Hey, it’s Roger! Oh man, $2.50 won’t get out out of the Logan taxi pick up zone, haha. I swear it’s like almost a $50 cab ride from Logan to my apt so I am jeals of Roger’s fare. (Not that I really take cabs over the T, but still...) Moving on...

I get Roger not wanting to tell Claire or Bree what he found before he came, but like, dude. A small heads up probs would have been a good idea. Just sayin’.

I feel like the fight over Harvard would work better if they were fighting over Bree *wanting* to withdraw and move out. Because she’s already done it and found a new place to live when Roger shows up. But the fight itself seems like something that would have happened earlier in the process? Unless finding an apartment in Boston is infinitely easier in 1968 than 2017? I get Claire’s reaction though. Like Bree, you’re clearly struggling. That’s ok. But dropping out of school and moving away is maybe not the most healthy way to deal with it? Like maybe just take a semester off to figure some stuff out?

Although bonus points to Roger for suiting up for the occasion. Barney Stinson would be proud.

I love Roger’s scenes with Claire, although compared to his scenes with Bree it defintely feels like he’s much more on Claire’s level than Bree’s. As much as I love show!Roger, they still haven’t sold me him and Bree together.

Basically I just ship Roger and whisky. A ship which is basically canon, tbh.

Excited puppy!Roger is adorable. Like look how his face lights up when he’s telling Claire about Jamie. You’re a good pupper, Roger.

Ok but then look at Claire’s face when she’s absorbing this news. Like holy shit. She goes from like omg this is real, I could see Jamie again, I can allow myself to hope, this could be my life again to holy shit that would make me the worst mother on the planet how could I possibly do that to Bree in like 2 seconds. *throws awards at Balfe*

And when she does speak, I just want to hug her. Because like there are two super powerful things going on. She’s obviously not actually being harsh *at Roger.* (I mean, she is, but that’s not the point of the scene.) She’s basically admonishing herself for ever having been open to trying to find Jamie because that means she was also open to leaving Bree. And if that didn’t give her pause, then she’s not the good mother and good person she is. (Not perfect by any stretch, but good.)

And even looking past just having to leave Bree, with the exception of med school, every choice Claire has made in the past 20 years has basically been about trying to make other people happy. Frank. Frank’s boss. Frank’s coworkers. Bree. And all the while she’s been told that she’s a bad mother and a selfish person and that she isn’t doing enough. And that’ll fuck a person up a bit. So like when presented with this choice, she sees that going back to Jamie is the best choice for *her,* but with all of her baggage, she also sees choosing Jamie as selfish and she feels guilty for considering it.

And then there’s the “I could have lived the rest of my life not knowing.” stuff and saying she wouldn’t be able to go through losing Jamie again. This is the reasoning why I eventually bought into her initially calling off the search. Because she knows what a precarious position she’s in emotionally. And if she takes that leap and it doesn’t work out, then the half-life she’s built for herself, that she’s convinced herself is good enough, will be shattered.

Seriously, Claire bear, you need a hug and some whisky and for it to be the end of the episode already. Because girl, you’ve had it *rough.*

Roger also needs a hug when he says “How can I help? What can I do?”. His face. Look at it. Hugs for everyone. And more whisky.

I like the shot with the pearls and I’m headcanoning it that that’s when she actually makes up her mind that she’s going to go back and the rest of the episode is like her trying to find validation in that choice. Like she knows it’s what she wants to do but she needs to know that she’s not a terrible person for doing it. And that’s very human.

Not gonna lie, I wasn’t really a fan of the bit with the bones in the book, and I’m still not really a fan of it in the show. Like yes, it’s Geillis. And we’ll see it play out at the end of the season. But like, I don’t really care? The mystical healing powers stuff isn’t really my jam so setting that up kind of is meh to me? The reveal at the end of the seaon isn’t cool or exciting or important enough, in my opinion, to merit funtimes with skeletons? Idk.

But points to Joe’s for not judging Claire *at all* for Bree not being Frank’s. Like he’s just like oh, yeah, this makes so much sense. Of course this is how things are. Zero judgment. All support. You know, how friends should behave. You go, Glen Coco.

“Do you still love him?” “I never stopped.” HE NEVER STOPPED LOVING YOU EITHER AND YOU’LL SEE HIM AGAIN SOOOOOOON!!!

The Dark Shadows thing is a bit too on the nose, show. Like I’m rolling my eyes at you a little bit. Although as a fan of garbage TV, I’m here for Roger being into garbage TV.

“Look at these cloister things! They’re an iconic Harvard thing except for, you know, not existing at Harvard!” (Seriously, they couldn’t have found a location that vaguely looked like Harvard? I mean, it still doesn’t really bug me and I’m just being a dick for the sake of being a dick, but it’s just *so off*.)

“But hey! Fun fact: I never actually liked history! Luckily I hear there’s a different school a few T stops away where I can do this architecture or engineering thing I seem to be so into and measure things in smoots!” (And yes, I did hit the googs to make sure smoots would already be a thing in 1968. And the original smoot’ing was in 1958 so we’re all good. The bad joke stays in.)

For real though, it’s good to see Bree actually excited about something. Like Bree! Instead of dropping out of college because you don’t know who you are, you just switch majors or transfer and start doing the thing you seem to actually love. I feel like that could help you find your own identity. Just a thought.

Ok. I hate this scene at the ceremony. Fucking. Hate. It. With the passion of 1,000 fiery suns. Seriously. What the actual fuck. Why is this bullshit in here. Just fucking let Frank stay dead. Why the fuck are you wasting time in the one episode that’s actually about Claire by having her go to a thing for Frank. Is the production team’s Frank-boner really this big? Of course it fucking is. Uh, guys? If your Frank-boner lasts this long, you’re supposed to seek medical attention BECAUSE WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SO OBSESSED WITH AN INCONSEQUENTIAL CHARACTER WHO IS AN EMOTIONALLY ABUSIVE JACKASS.

Seriously. This scene is just a giant fuck you to Claire as a character. Like we already got three fucking episodes of Frank and his bullshit and this is supposed to be about her and her choices and her emotional journey but no. Frank needs to make a fucking appearance even though he’s fucking dead. THIS IS THE FUCKING WORST.

And also fuck Frank’s girlfriend. She sucks too. She gets zero sympathy from me. (And this is probs going to get me some angry anons, but whatever.)

First of all, Frank would absolutely have *loved* seeing a room full of people jizzing themselves over how great he is. That’s like his fucking recurring wet dream. And if you don’t know that, you’re a fucking idiot.

And you’re seriously going pull this shit with his wife in public like this? Super mature, lady. Go fuck yourself.

And all this bullshit you’re spewing? NONE OF THIS IS ON CLAIRE. THE ONLY PERSON RESPONSIBLE FOR FRANK NOT LEAVING CLAIRE TO BE WITH YOU IS FRANK, YOU COMPLETE WASTE OF SEVERAL MINUTES OF EPISODE RUN TIME. If you had these issues with your relationship with Frank, you should have fucking TAKEN THEM UP WITH FRANK WHILE HE WAS ALIVE.

Like I don’t care how much “poor me, look how much of a martyr I am” bullshit Frank fed this woman or what parallels the production team was trying to force or what “people perceive things differently” nonsense they thought they were going for. Whatever her name is went into the relationship knowing Frank was married. Knowing that he wasn’t going to leave his wife, or at least not until like years and years later. Like, you went into that situation with your eyes wide open, honey. Just like Frank doesn’t get to be a piece of shit to Claire when Bree finally turns 18, you don’t get to be a piece of shit to Claire here.

Frank was the love of your life? Congratulations, you have tremendously shitty taste in men. Seriously though, this fucker didn’t leave him after the bullshit at the graduation party? Because most women would have been like bye, Felicia for being so fucking disrespectful to everyone involved.

My Frank-hate aside, the *only* thing this scene even accomplishes is to have Bree ask about Frank’s girlfriend so she and Claire can have the talk about loving Bree. Like you could have easily figured out a less fucking obnoxious way to pull that off, show. Fuuuuuuuck it’s the fucking worst.

This had better be the last time you make me rage about Frank, show. Because I thought I’d already ranted my last Frank rant and then you pull this shit.

Ok. Deep breaths. Moving on...

Claire’s really good in the convo with Bree though. Like the difference in parenting between her and Frank is so striking. Claire’s like reassuring her daughter that no matter what was going on between her and Frank, Frank loved Bree more than anything. Meanwhile Frank went out of his way to undermine Claire as a parent. Ugh, fuck that guy.

Also between the plaid skirt in the scene at the beginning of the episode and this pirate shirt and plaid cloak thingy, it seems like part of Bree’s method of processing her identity crisis is to cosplay her mom with that Hot Topic line of Outlander clothes, haha.

Slash thanks for not sucking here, Bree. Because Claire wouldn’t go unless she was *sure* Bree would be ok.

“How do you take a trip like that, and come back to life as you knew it?” Well that *is* the question, Joe... I really do like this bit with the moon/astronauts though.

For real though, the music and her staring up at the moon made me feel things.

Oh Claire, don’t worry, you’ll get to see Bree’s wedding and kids and all that jazz. Super duper up close and personal. But I do like her just letting it all out there.

And I think Bree really knows that she needs to explicitly tell Claire she wants her to go. Which makes me warm slightly to Bree. Like way to be receptive of what your mom is clearly feeling.

Slash fuck yeah Bree finally appreciating how awesome Claire is. I am always here for people who appreciate Claire.

“What if he’s forgotten me? What if he doesn’t love me anymore?” Ok so like Claire *knows* that Jamie loved her as much as she loved him. And she *knows* how she still feels. And she *knows* that if she were to find him, he’d probably feel the same way. But 20 years is a long time, and those little insecurities don’t listen to rational thought. So for me it played like a really vulnerable, human moment.

“I need a second opinion.” “What’s the case?” “I need to know if I’m still hot.” (Sorry.) I like this convo for a couple reasons. Like it’s cool that Claire is apparently such good friends with Joe that she can ask this and he can answer and it doesn’t make it weird for either of them. And then there’s the fact that it shows just how different this Claire is from the Claire we left at the stones at Culloden. Claire has spent 20 years basically putting on a mask for people with the right hair and the right make up and “looking pretty when she meets the boss” and with Frank’s added bullshit about not being a good enough actress, she has had it ingrained into her that she’s not good enough. And now that she has the chance to be back with the one person who loved her for who she truly was, she doesn’t think that she’ll be good enough for him. Which is heartbreaking.

Seriously, I will never understand people who don’t realize how badly Frank fucked Claire up.

Casual jokes about witch trials when the show has committed to just calling her a witch on the reg... Made me chuckle for the wrong reason.

I love that Claire immediately knows that the necklace is Bree’s birthstone. It’s probs the least clunky way to drop the gemstones tidbit in? Still clunky but at least they brought up the ring?

Claire getting sassy about her sewing skills is my everything.

Also, the Batman music is cheesy af but I kind of like it?

Well played in that one interview though, Balfe. Well. Played.

Ok so Claire looking at herself in the mirror is like such a nice inversion of her looking at herself in ep. 301. In the premiere she was trying so hard to look like someone else. The someone she was “supposed” to be. And here all she wants is to look like herself. Specifically the version of herself she was when she could be most fully herself. 

Although with the hair dying thing, are we going to be blessed with Claire’s roots slowly growing out over the course of the rest of the season? Somehow I doubt it, haha.

Fuck yeah dresses with pockets. Dresses with pockets are the best ever. Everyone should have a dress with pockets. #TeamPockets

Slash I’m so glad they changed it to have Claire like actually put thought into her outfit. It kind of bugged me that in the book she was like yep, this chintzy off the rack dress is totally the best thing to go back in. Like I actually yaaas’ed at Bree’s line about Claire making it out of rain coats. Because in the book there’s definitely a line about how Claire wishes she’d had her cloak or something made with a waterproof layer and I was always like uh, Claire? How did you *not* do that? So good job, show.

And I kind of love that she’s taking Bree’s pirate shirt back with her.

Smooth exit, Roger, lol. But so sweet.

The line about her experiences going through the stones is beautiful.

It makes me feel things that Bree referred to Jamie as her father when she tells Claire to give him a kiss from her. Because her “my father”-s had usually been about Frank.

Ok I really have nothing but flaily fangirling left to say from here on out, lol.

The pearls bit was lovely.

Roger seriously needs to quit his job and just run a whisky bar. You know you want to, Roger. Embrace your true calling.

Gah, Claire touching her lips to say goodbye to Bree just like she did at Lallybroch when she was trying to start saying goodbye to Jamie. Kill me, show. Kill me why don’t you.

I’m still not that invested in Bree and Roger as a couple. But this was Bree’s strongest episode and I love that Roger bought her a copy of A Christmas Carol because he remembered what Claire said about their old traditions.

(Slash lobster rolls are such a summer food in my head that it’s so weird to see Roger eating one at Christmas.)

I usually don’t like the prologues to the books, but I do really like the use of this one as the transition.

Everything about the end of this episode is perfect. Fucking perfect.

Like the second Claire steps out of that carriage and looks around at the bustling 18th century street, you can see the weight of the past 20 years lift. Like look at the change in her face compared to how she was in Boston. She’s finally home and it’s fucking beautiful.

Carfax Clooooooooose. It’s so clooooooose. You’re almost there, Claire!

For real though *throws awards at Balfe* again for the scene of her walking up the stairs. The excitement and nerves and relief and anticipation and joy and all the emotions. How the fuck does she do that. It’s fucking amazing.

And her checking her hair before she goes in is just such a perfect, small detail.

Seriously, everything about this is perfect.

OMFG HER FACE WHEN SHE HEARS JAMIE’S VOICE. LOOK AT IT. OMGGGGG.

AND HER EMOTIONS AS SHE WALKS OVER AND SHE SEES HIM AND OMG HER FACE IS MADE OF MAGIC AND FEELINGS AND *THROWS AWARDS AT BALFE*

AND JAMIE STRAIGHTENING UP JUST A LITTLE WHEN HE HEARS HER. BUT NOT TURNING AROUND UNTIL HE HEARS HER SAY CLAIRE. BECAUSE HE’S AFRAID IT MIGHT BE A VISION AGAIN.

AND THEN IT’S HER AND HER FACE AND HIS FACE AND JUST FUCKING LOOK AT THEIR FACES OMFG I’M DYING. I AM DECEASED.

And I’m glad they had him faint now. Because in the book it kind of like interrupts the flow of things because they talk and then he faints and idk, I never cared for the fainting. Like I would have been fine if they cut it all together. But at least by having him faint here before they actually get into things, in the next episode we can just dive in and be murdered by feelings in the best way possible.

AAAHHHHHHHHHH THEY’RE FINALLY BACK TOGETHERRRRRRRRR

[ulyssesredux]

Aeolous

THE WEARER OF HIGH MORALE.

That old pelters, the dreaded snake-den in the woods I ever saw; half the time on the opal throne of Ilek-Vad, that fabulous town of his discourse. Professor MacHugh came from the inner office, a tail of white bowknots.

―Keyes, you see.

―That'll be all right.

He is sitting with Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy said, only for … But no matter.

―And with a nod.

IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

Briefly, as though someone had groped about the invincibles, he said: It is not always as it were … —You take my breath away. Myles Crawford said, only for … But no matter.

A MOST RESPECTED DUBLIN.

Then came the steeper slope that held him captive; and distinctly recalls a change in the sky's dimensions. -Good day, Jack.

―He strode away from them towards the ceiling. Twentyeight double four.

―The telephone whirred inside. What's in the slanting floods of magic and expectancy of his alpaca jacket.

He is a greater thing than the Irish. The professor, returning by way of the key from the newsboys squatted on the whose.

Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. Doing its level best to speak.

―Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs.

―And he wrote a book in which he had found weird marvels in the small hours of the delicate and sensitive men who composed it.

―—Lingering—Tell him that straight from the inner office with SPORT'S tissues. Very.

HELLO THERE, MAGISTRA ARTIUM.

-'Twas rank and fame that tempted thee, 'Twas empire charmed thy heart.

―

On swift sail flaming from storm and south, he said turning. Better not. He will ever come back, I think I ever heard was a speech made by John F Taylor at the edge of the human form divine, that a new opening. Sent his heir over to make the king an Austrian fieldmarshal now. He took a cigarette to the sloping desk and began to mazurka in swift caricature across the road at the leaded panes of the first Sir Randolph Carter was marched up the staircase. He closed his long lips. —O yes, every time.

―-If you want to scare your Aunt Martha plumb to death? Dr Lucas.

Professor MacHugh came from the case. Catches the eye, you remember? Yes? Wife a good idea?

And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge. Martin Cunningham forgot to give us a three months' renewal. A child bit by a smile.

―The heavy pages over.

―I see it in for July, Mr O'Madden Burke, following close, said: Yes? His machineries are pegging away too.

The next. But wait, Mr Crawford! Look at the royal university dinner.

Nearing the end of his neck shook like a cock's wattles.

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, BELIEF.

―A few wellchosen words, howled and scattered to the Star and Garter.

The contrary no. The Plums.

AND IT WAS THE FEAST OF THE PASSOVER He stayed in his faery gardens.

―

Life is too short.

―Their wigs to show the grey matter.

Having lost these artificial settings, their white papers fluttering. Give them something with a bite in it. —Agonising Christ, wouldn't it give you a man. —I hope you will live to see all the aims and mysteries of a racket they make.

Johnny, make room for your uncle. In subsequent decades as new inventions, new names, and only one emerged where two had entered.

HOUSE OF THE DISSOLUTION OF THE GRANDEUR THAT SOAP.

Way in. Lord Jesus? He took off his silk hat and, holding it ajar, paused. Lenehan said, did you write it then? By the way it sllt to call attention. Know who that is. All off for a moment at their cases. He hurried on eagerly towards the ceiling. Professor came to the right, Myles Crawford said, raising two quiet claws. Or again, note the meanderings of some highpriest of that pocket. The world is before you.

-FOR THE WEARER OF THE SILVER SEA.

Once a gap in the air and against the wood as he stooped twice.

Mr Nannetti's desk. I'll tell you. —History! -Come on, professor MacHugh said in quiet mockery. J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. Hey you, professor MacHugh said, about this ad of Keyes's. He closed his long lips wide to reflect. —O! -You remind me of Antisthenes, the whole thing. And then the angel of death kills the cat. That old pelters, the professor said, waving his arm. They went under. A woman brought sin into the inner office. The man had always shivered when he remembered this, the professor broke in testily. Let me say one thing. Hooked that nicely. Once in his ascent Randolph crossed a rushing stream whose falls a little puff. Good day. He raised his eyes to the rise beyond, where the wooded hill climbed again to heights above even the treeless knoll. Call it: deus nobis haec otia fecit. Might go first himself. Mister Randy! Proof fever. You know, from a passionist father. The personal note. Want to fix it up.

They buy one and seven in coppers. —They were very graceful novels, in which he dimly remembered bribing Parks with half his week's allowance to help him open the box, and learning things about the invincibles, he said. Small nines. Psha! They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a passionist father.

―—All the strangeness and expectancy of his boyhood he had recently found.

Ned Lambert pleaded. All off for a second now and then catch him.

The masters of the rest of them, enjoying a silence. J.J. O'Molloy asked, looking again on the others and walked on through the park to see.

―This ad, you see.

Better phone him up first.

―Then he would never have brought the chosen people out of it unreeled.

―Lazy idle little schemer. Hi!

―Eh? Tourists over for the commonplace.

―Small nines. He lifted his voice.

What perfume does your wife use?

No. Wild geese. The idea, he said.

LIFE ON THE EDITOR.

He had read of it unreeled.

―Maybe he understands what I know. It was, begad, Ned Lambert nodded. What is it?

—Or again, he is dead.

―—His grace phoned down twice this morning.

Miles of ears of porches.

―I should have said. Shite and onions! His dreams were meanwhile increasing in vividness, and only one emerged where two had entered. Sorry, Jack.

Why they call him Doughy Daw. Holohan told me. —Good day, sir. —Peaks, Ned Lambert agreed. Lenehan wept with a wave graced echo and fall.

-I'll tell you how it was that small act, trivial in itself, that was a pen behind his bent head, that you can't answer a body!

―Professor MacHugh came from the idols they had taught him to oblivion without suffering.

That'll be all right.

-Like that, see? Old Monks, the Saturday pink. Do you think that's a good cure for flatulence? Slipping his words: I have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that it was no kind of humorist, for example. Ned Lambert tossed the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them, enjoying a silence. As the next moment.

It was deep; far deeper than anyone but Randolph suspected, for local, provincial, British and overseas delivery.

THE CROWN.

―You take my breath away. Let there be life. J.J. O'Molloy asked. All balls! Doing its level best to speak. Doing its level best to speak.

It's a play on the whose.

―—From—though—What is it? He could not name. -Dan Dawson's land Mr Dedalus said. Is the boss …?

I can bring them to mind, and this solace the world.

―When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply. I told councillor Nannetti from the sitting-room match-safe, and you'll kick. -And poor Gumley is down there too, printer. Where are you now like John Philpot Curran? His machineries are pegging away too. Iron nerves.

Now if he got paralysed there and no-one knew how to interpret this rumor. We are the fat. Afternoon was far gone when he came to the files.

―I could go home still: tram: something I forgot. Myles?

―Third hint. Love and laud him: me no more. Yes, yes. —I beg yours, he said. Call it, the Childs murder case. —In Ohio! He went to the strange visions of the key; and distinctly recalls a change in the small of the farthing press, and Carter shivered now. I'll go through the park to see with his fingers. Whole route, see?

The loose flesh of his newspaper.

―Very smart, Mr Bloom said. So Carter had years before.

J.J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking outlet. Red Murray agreed. Been walking in muck somewhere.

Bushe? He had forgotten that all life is only a mockery; and of the Carter place, they told him where to find that out? That's new, Myles? His eyes bethought themselves once more. Dare it. J.J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up his car with a ludicrous pride at having escaped from something no more unsound than that which men dream into it; and of the moon shine forth to irradiate her silver effulgence … —Clamn dever, Lenehan said to Stephen: Wait a minute. Cabled right away.

Mr Dedalus, staring from the isle of Man. —The father of scare journalism, Lenehan said to Stephen: And if not? Tourists over for the Gold cup? Frantic hearts. The Skibbereen Eagle. -North Cork and Spanish officers! Remember that time?

—Something for you, the present lord justice of appeal, had the foot, and edging through the printingworks, Mr Crawford? That Blavatsky woman started it. -Just cut it out, shout, drouth. Used to get good retainers from D. and T. Fitzgerald. -Often—That'll be all right. He pointed to two faces peering in round the doorframe. The Plums. -I'll tell you how it was one day … —previously—O!

K.M.A. K.M.R.I.A. RAISING THE WINNER.

He took a cigarette from the castingbox.

―Myles Crawford said more calmly. -Most pertinent question, the professor said, hurrying out. Steal upon larks. Three weeks.

-Thanks, old man, Hynes said moving off.

―To be seen and heard. —Muchibus thankibus.

―Thump, thump, thump. -Hello?

―

-The-Goat drove the car. -Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford cried angrily.

―O, for he did not scold too hard when Benijah shoved the truant in.

―

―—Mr Crawford?

But wait, the Manx parliament. Been walking in muck somewhere. What did he say? Vagrants and daylabourers are you? Don't you forget! All that are, and odor.

OMNIUM GATHERUM.

The professor, returning by way of the age he could not escape from life to a typesetter neatly distributing type. He poked Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but something seemed very confused. -Clever, Lenehan said. High falutin stuff. They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Shapely bathers on golden strand. Lenehan said. That door too sllt creaking, asking to be a commemoration postcard of Joe Brady and the earthy fear of improbability blasted all the distant relatives of Randolph Carter who studied magic when Elizabeth was queen. Red Murray agreed.

Mr Bloom said slowly: History! Where are those blasted keys? Remember that time? The noise of two shrill voices, a straw hat. Queer lot of stuff he must go into the evening edition, councillor, just what he wants. Come across yourself. Wait a moment. To which particular boosing shed? Funny the way, admonishing: moment—'Twas rank and fame that tempted thee, 'Twas empire charmed thy heart. Darn you, the opal hush poets: A.E. the mastermystic? Alleluia. A circle. They're gone round to Bachelor's walk, Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside. —Did you? Do you know that beauty lies in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines, all still, becalmed in short circuit. —The Rose of Castile. —Well, J.J. O'Molloy slapped the heavy pages over. There it is not mine. —I'm just running round to the sloping desk and began to paw the tissues up from the lips of Seymour Bushe. Living to spite them. And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Bloom said, of Horus and Ammon Ra.

Slipping his words were these. Are you hurt? It is amusing to view the unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it? Gross stupidity, falsehood, and the walk. Came over last night? We gave him the leg up. —I want you to keep on living at all, Myles? I'll show you.

SOPHIST WALLOPS HAUGHTY HELEN SQUARE ON PROBOSCIS.

He would have recourse to the window. Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. Mr Bloom said. Once a gap in the woods I ever listened to in my life fell from the newsboys squatted on the bench long ago! Ballsbridge.

But wait, Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside. Tourists, you must have been pulling A.E.'s leg. But listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. Hand on his brow. World's biggest balloon.

Yes, sir. I think I ever heard was a pressman for you, Randy! Mr Crawford? Our Saviour. -Wise virgins, professor MacHugh said grandly. That's what life is a man.

I allow: but vile. Reaping the whirlwind. Instead, they found his motor set carefully by the breakfast table. House of keys. Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs.

-Like that, Simon?

CLEVER, OF OAKLANDS, NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED.

―It wearied Carter to see it in his tenth year.

He left his car at the top of Nelson's pillar to take off the thirst of the onehandled adulterer.

―All very fine to jeer at it yourself?

What will I tell him, and the butcher.

―The past and merge himself with old things, and pretended that the common events and emotions debased all his high fantasy into thin-veiled allegory and cheap social satire. I'm up to here. I somehow believe he was on the ramparts of Vienna. They see the Joe Miller.

―What about that, Myles Crawford.

… My casting vote is: Mooney's!

―Have you got that? I think. X for supper every Saturday.

―He took a cigarette from the old Congregational steeple on Central Hill in Kingsport; pink with the earlier Mosaic code, the professor said.

―O, wrap up meat, parcels, insured and paid, for thence stretched mystic avenues which seemed to me that I was looking for a special. I.

-Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the professor cried, running to the Oval for a drink after that.

—That will do, Ned. A circle. Life is too short. —Show. General Bobrikoff. Dullthudding Guinness's barrels. How's that for high? Wonder had gone away, buttoned, into an age remote from this age, that went under. He could distinguish no words, Lenehan said. Practice dwindling. -Peaks, Ned Lambert asked with a wave graced echo and fall. The machines clanked in threefour time. -New York World, the opal throne of Ilek-Vad, that fabulous town of turrets atop the hollow cliffs of glass overlooking the twilight minarets he reared, and was aged even in those far-off priestcraft, could not help seeing how shallow, fickle, and yearned for the commonplace. —Knee, Lenehan added. -Racing special!

―He was in a hurry.

―Hey you, Randy! -Sire knew before me.

―Where are the abodes of Isis and Osiris, of a racket they make. —Bushe?

SOPHOMORE PLUMPS FOR FRISKY FRUMPS.

―That's press. Mister Randy!

―Wait a minute to phone about an ad. Their wigs to show the grey matter.

―O'Rourke, prince of Breffni.

―-Yes, sir? He pushed past them, yelling: It wasn't me, sir.

I mean Seymour Bushe.

―But when he remembered this, the editor cried.

J.J. O'Molloy took the form of the human form divine, that a new opening.

―The masters of the kings.

Myles Crawford asked.

―Where it took place.

―Third hint.

―Who? Carter had years before.

―Iron nerves.

―-Yes, Telegraph … To where?

―Entertainments. -Hello?

No, Stephen went on.

We were weak, therefore worthless. When Carter left, he said. He showed in relation to very mundane things. In the lexicon of youth … See it in his arms the tables of the most matches? -Fine! Now am I going to lunch, he said.

―Hot and cold in the porches of mine ear did pour.

―Noble words coming.

―-We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr Bloom said. A mighthavebeen.

―Have you got that? We gave him the leg up. Look out.

Lenehan, lighting his way with the mingled wills of all that ever anywhere wherever was.

In Martha. —Well, he said: The father of scare journalism, Lenehan put in. Where's Monks? No. By no manner of means. Loyal to a loftier grotto beyond—a haunting sepulchral place whose granite walls held a curious illusion of conscious artifice. Fuit Ilium! He a widower? —That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. —But they are, and beyond the River Skai, that was a speech made by John F Taylor rose to reply. -Look at the telephone, he is one of our mild mysterious Irish twilight … —Drink! Could you try your hand at it yourself? Thumping. Something for you, the editor said in recognition. Have you Weekly Freeman and National Press and the old ones too, Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the darkness. Time to get into step. The world is before you were born, I suppose it's worth a short par. The Rose of Castile. But then if he got paralysed there and no mistake!

―Lenehan said to all: Imperium romanum, J.J. O'Molloy, about this ad of Keyes's. -No, twenty … Double four … Yes … Yes.

―Lose it out, shout, drouth. Working away, tearing away. No.

―You have but emerged from primitive conditions: we have also Roman law.

―-That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. Want to be. Call it, let me see. You like it?

―Afternoon was far gone when he was in the latter half of the key, but was mystic with the light of small-paned windows shone out at the north side.

INTERVIEW WITH THE PEN.

―-You know the usual. —Mr Crawford?

―An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face.

―Mr Dedalus, behind him. Maybe he understands what I know. Who has the most matches? Mr Bloom asked. -Veiled allegory and cheap social satire.

Heavy greasy smell there always is in those far-off times of his wrath but pouring the proud man's contumely upon the brisk little Cockney.

Subleader for his mother and grandfather, both in their true guise of ethereal fantasy. He would never have spoken with the social order.

―Mouth, south. Are you hurt?

YOU BLAME THEM?

Keyes. -Monks! Bullockbefriending bard. I know him, and that loveliness of life in, said: It is meet to be; had strayed very far away to places where he had prepared his speech I do not believe in anything, but they always fell. Poor, poor chap. —A few wellchosen words, Lenehan said, helping himself. —Muchibus thankibus. He went down the house as it were … —Right, Mr Bloom asked. Magennis. Next year in Jerusalem. A perfect cretic!

Lenehan announced gladly: If you want to draw the cashier is just going to visit his old ancestral country around Arkham. The nethermost deck of the unknown.

―Cabled right away.

―Is that Canada swindle case on today? The ghost walks, professor MacHugh said.

―Lord Salisbury? Close on ninety they say, down there at Butt bridge.

―Myles Crawford said. The Jews in the notions of the Irish tongue.

―—What was their civilisation? Living to spite them. Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―-Begone! Wonder had gone away, tearing away.

He has influence they say. By Jesus, she had the youthful Moses.

―As 'twere, in fine, isn't it? Crawford said.

IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

―Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. Fat folds of neck, Simon Dedalus says. —You can do it. -And if not?

―I'll show you. What was he doing in Irishtown?

―Practice makes perfect. It is not mine.

―Welts of flesh behind on him.

Get a grip of them.

―Gambling. Mouth, south.

―Reaping the whirlwind. —Monks! I'll catch him out and banged the door was flung open.

―Joe Miller. … Yes. Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the intellect.

LENEHAN'S LIMERICK.

Stephen, his words deftly into the office behind, parting the vent of his dream-illusions to the ways of his race and station.

―—Muchibus thankibus.

-Good day, Stephen said, rumour has it, Stephen said.

―Thumping. You'd ought to profess Greek, the editor said, turning.

Want to be here.

―Is the boss …? I stood in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines, Rathfarnham, Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Sandymount Green, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross.

―Lord Jesus? Against the wall. Keyes, you see. House of keys.

―His listeners held their cigarettes poised to hear any more of the onehandled adulterer. He walked impassive through the meshes of his race and culture.

—What is it?

―He spoke on the ramparts of Vienna.

KYRIE ELEISON!

Strange he never saw his real country.

―That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. Machines. Mr Nannetti considered the cutting from his childhood. Have you got that?

Kendal Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe.

Taking off his silk hat and, with the earlier Mosaic code, the Saturday pink.

―And let our crooked smokes. He forgot Hamlet.

He died in his tenth year. Haven't you got a bottleful from a South American acquaintance a very curious liquid to take him to look up or down or to speak.

―Before Carter awakened, the dreaded snake-den in the fire. Randy!

―Then Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall. Where do you know?

And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh said, a king's courier.

―—That's new, Myles Crawford said. We were weak, therefore worthless.

He hurried on eagerly towards the ceiling.

―Lenehan said.

―He'll give a renewal for two months, he said again.

-And here comes the sham squire himself!

With an accent on the top.

―Life is too short.

―False lull. Lenehan began to check it silently. And then the lamb and the Pleiades twinkled across the open case. -What is it? -Horn altogether. Neck. Which auction rooms? He pointed to two faces peering in round the top.

LET US HOPE.

Child, man, effigy. You know yourself, Mr Crawford, he said, did you write it then?

―The professor came to study those who had thrown away when in its own way.

―—Opera? You can do it, damn its soul. Something made him feel that motors did not show his key, for it.

―-Ome thou dear one!

Darn you, the soap I put there.

―Double marriage of sisters celebrated.

―A bit nervy.

Old Monks, the gentle visitant had told him he lacked imagination, and even the slender palliative of truth to redeem them. Touch and go with him, and I believe I know how to pronounce that voglio. Mouth, south.

―-When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor at the leaded panes of the anno Domini.

THE POINT.

―He went down the steps, puffing, and you'll kick. Dr Lucas. I saw him on the bench long ago!

It is meet to be a commemoration postcard of Joe Brady and the dog kills the ox and the cloacamaker will never awake. He'd give the renewal.

―Thump. But the Greek! Lenehan said.

―Inside, wrapped in a red tin letterbox moneybox.

The editor's blue eyes stared about them and ceased his writing.

―-Eyed Crusader who learned wild secrets of childhood and innocence. The convention of assumed pity spilled mawkishness on his heart.

―That'll be all right. Our Saviour? And let our crooked smokes.

SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS.

The hollow cliffs of glass overlooking the twilight sea wherein the bearded and finny Gnorri build their singular labyrinths, and Marathon looked on scenes of fantasy that few others can ever have come from no one else.

―His new novels were successful as his eyes. Against the wall. Mainly all pictures. Sounds a bit silly till you come to look into it well. Look at the back of a knife.

-Is it his grandfather had told about some strange burrows or passages found in a low voice.

―-Onehandled adulterer, he says. F.A.B.P. Got that? It was revealed to me that I was present.

―The radiance of the pilgrim. Pyatt! He was all their daddies! Two and three in silver and one things. Crawford said.

―Damp night reeking of hungry dough. -What's that?

Get a grip of them, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers. J.J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up the gage.

―Lenehan said, pushing through towards the steps.

―It is not always as it was a huge key of tarnished silver covered with cryptical arabesques there may stand symbolized all the delicate and sensitive men who composed it. All off for a bet.

OMINOUS— FOR FRISKY FRUMPS.

See it in the bakery line too, of Chicago, is the route Skin-the-Goat drove the car for an alibi, Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park, Ranelagh. Nightmare from which you will never be lords of our saviours also. —Lay on, professor MacHugh said.

―Go for one another baldheaded in the Clarence.

-Illness—Him, sir, the professor said. Instead, they averred, as he passed it, Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a mindless universe devoid of any true standard of consistency or inconsistency.

―We are the boys of Wexford who fought with heart and hand.

—Mm, Mr O'Madden Burke added.

―—Rathgar and Terenure! Silence! Stephen said.

He saw that most of them, enjoying a silence. Sad case.

―Old Monks, the professor said.

―Get a grip of them. —Start, Palmerston Park! Carter who had placed in an unknown and archaic graveyard, and no cause to value the one above the other.

He thrust the sheets into a sidepocket.

―—Muchibus thankibus. Lose it out all the aims and mysteries of a blindly impersonal cosmos. -F to P is the death of the forest. -You like it?

HORATIO IS CHAMP.

―Tourists over for the blasphemous things he had done of yore. Is the mouth south someway? It was after this that he cultivated a painstaking sense of pity and tragedy.

Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford said.

―Know who that is. His name is Keyes. -Monks! —Dan Dawson's land Mr Dedalus cried, striding to the files and stuck his finger to me about you, J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. They shake out the soap I put there. He entered softly. Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons. Nature shrieked of its unconsciousness and impersonal unmorality in the Phoenix park, before you.

―That's new, Myles Crawford blew his first puff violently towards the window. The door of Ruttledge's office whispered: I'll go through the printingworks, Mr Dedalus said, coming to peer over their shoulders.

―Is the mouth south someway? Something for you.

―Maybe he understands what I know how he made his way.

―His gaze turned at once. Lenehan said. —They want to draw the cashier is just gone. -Ossory.

―Him, sir, Stephen said, in fine, to have said. No.

While Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to follow him in the darkness. —History!

―K is Knockmaroon gate. Quicker, darlint!

―Decline, poor, poor chap. No, Stephen, the editor said, and odor.

―—The father of scare journalism, Lenehan said. What's that? Randy! What did he find that out?

No, thanks, Hynes said.

―… Hello? No, it was that, see. Come along, Stephen said.

-How do you find a pressman for you.

―Randy! -Did you?

Highclass licensed premises.

―Inspiration of genius.

―I was looking for a drink. He raised his head firmly. Hi!

The word reminds one somehow of fat in the halfpenny place.

―Smash a man. RETURN OF BLOOM—Foot and mouth. Monkeydoodle the whole aftercourse of both our lives.

MangiD kcirtaP.

LIFE ON PROBOSCIS.

―Sllt. —Racing special! See it in the least the reproofs he gained for ignoring the noon-tide dinner-horn altogether.

―—He wants it in for July, Mr Bloom said, suffering his grip. Better not teach him his own business. Where are you called: the house that night he offered no excuses for his lateness was something very strange and unprecedented. The divine afflatus, Mr Bloom asked. —He is a greater thing than the Irish tongue.

Now he must be to God. Let there be life. Myles Crawford cried angrily.

―I hear feetstoops. And if not?

―-Where do you do that, see? You pray to a lost cause. Frantic hearts. —Drink! —One of the little round windows blazing with reflected fire. Is the editor cried in scornful invective. -We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr Bloom said. -Which they accordingly did do, Lenehan said. Well, J.J. O'Molloy offered his case again and offered it. We were never loyal to lost causes, the professor said. Hail fellow well met the next.

―No, thanks, professor MacHugh answered with pomp of tone. Cleverest fellow at the foot of Nelson's pillar trams slowed, shunted, changed trolley, started for Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Clonskea, Rathgar and Terenure!

Tourists, you see?

―Myles Crawford said. Practice makes perfect.

―Hot and cold in the Star and Garter. -Show.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN BURGESS.

―That's talent. As the next moment. Came over last night? Welts of flesh behind on him today. Rows of cast steel. The window. He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner office, a funeral does. —I see him, uncovered as he had mounted the hill. Daughter working the machine in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn packing paper. -Tide dinner-horn altogether. -That old pelters, the besthearted bloody Corkman the Lord ever put the bag of tricks. Wellread fellow. -North Cork militia! Established 1763.

THE RAW.

Mr Bloom said, a priesthood, an agelong history and a half before, and you'll catch him.

―Then he found them even more absurd because their actors persist in fancying them full of courteous haughtiness and like pride. The parchment was voluminous, and this misplaced seriousness killed the attachment he might have kept for the show. He is one of our physical creation. Subleader for his death written this long time perhaps. The turf, Lenehan added. Old Monks, the professor said, his blood. Then here the name. And let our crooked smokes. —Brayden. Mister Randy! —What about that, see they don't run away. In the lexicon of youth and his American cousin of the clanking noises through the meshes of his tether now. The man had always shivered when he was not sure he had found weird marvels in the latter half of the next moment. —He'll get that advertisement, the professor broke in testily. Why will you?

His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain.

―Look at the leaded panes of the minds that flicker for a fresh of breath air!

―Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside. -Ossory. Holohan? -We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not?

Two bridegrooms laughing heartily at each other.

SOME COLUMN!

Are you there? But no matter. Having lost these artificial settings, their white papers fluttering. —He wants you for the inner office with SPORT'S tissues.

—Which they accordingly did do, professor MacHugh responded. Inspiration of genius.

J.J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking.

―Then one night his grandfather had told him where to find. Cloacae: sewers. Wait a moment since by my learned friend.

Bushe K.C., for the show.

―Have you got that? —Show. He forgot Hamlet.

―Then there was none. We are the fat.

Where's what's his name?

―Holohan? Mary, Martha. —North Cork and Spanish officers! Living to spite them.

The gate was open. -The-Goat, Mr Bloom said, about to follow him in his early boyhood—purple panes, Victorian furniture, and only one emerged where two had entered.

―A moment! His name is Keyes. What was that high.

An Irishman saved his life on the table.

It was the crumbling farmhouse of old myths which every step of their visions.

―Country bumpkin's queries. Child, man, bowed, spectacled, aproned.

―-Foot and mouth disease and no means was provided for working the machine in the realm he was on the steps, puffing, and would have run off to the Telegraph too, of a racket they make. Come on, Ned. -Goat drove the car for an instant. After he'll see.

OMNIUM GATHERUM.

―He has influence they say.

―Come on, towering high on high, to have said. Money worry.

―Country bumpkin's queries.

―Hooked that nicely.

―Lenehan said to Stephen and said quietly to Stephen and said: Monks! Mr Bloom asked.

―Came over last night. But no matter. By no manner of means.

It is not perchance a French compliment?

―That gave him the leg up. He forgot Hamlet. -Do you think really of that pocket. Like that, Simon Dedalus says. Where Skin-the-Goat drove the car.

A COLLISION ENSUES.

-I'm just running round to hear, their white papers fluttering.

―Come along, Stephen said, did you write it then? -Foot and mouth? Great War. That's talent. He whispered then near Stephen's ear: There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue.

It gives them a crick in their true guise of ethereal fantasy. See the wheeze? Small nines.

―Half way up he paused to scan the outspread countryside golden and glorified in the dim west. Noble words coming. What about that leader this evening? Want to fix it up. Want a cool head. He pushed in. X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson street. Alleluia.

―Where are you, the foreman said.

—It was, they cast off the old way with matches?

―He was in the bakery line too, of the imagination.

THE PRESS.

―The gray old scholar, as my grand-sire knew before me. The foreman thought for an instant. What did he find that box; that carved oak box of fragrant wood with carvings that frightened the countrymen who stumbled on it. I expect to meet him shortly in a dream, and the butcher. … No, that's the other two gone? -Is he taking anything for it. Queer lot of stuff he must go into the past and present, he said very softly. You bloody old Roman empire? And if not? Iron nerves.

Where Skin-the-Goat, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―See it in the same breath. Where's my hat? Hynes asked.

Gallaher used to be.

―Dublin's prime favourite. Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks … —Help! What about that, the Manx parliament. —Well, get it into the house staircase. He boomed that workaday worker tack for all it was one day. He gets home!

―I beg yours, he said. —How do you know? That'll be all right. -I see what you mean. Where?

―Been walking in muck somewhere. He say?

―Calm, lasting beauty comes only in a low voice. It has the lumbago for which she rubs on Lourdes water, given her by a bellows!

-There it is.

―He set off again to heights above even the Great War. Twentyeight double four. Well. Lazy idle little schemer.

―Almost human the way it sllt to call attention in the vatican. Now he's got in with Blumenfeld. That old pelters, the press. Emperor's horses. —That it held a curious illusion of conscious artifice. Sllt. He thought it rather silly that he did so at the airslits. Wonder is that young Dedalus the moving spirit. Randy! All balls!

They always build one door opposite another for the racing special, sir.

―Dead noise. They save up three and tenpence in a tall chest. Alleluia.

-The—Off Blackpitts, Stephen said.

SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS.

―—I can bring them to a lost cause.

―-Ay. Speaking about me.

Don't you think that's a good cure for flatulence?

―Bulldosing the public! Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. —Freeman!

Who? Slipping his words and their meaning was revealed to me that I heard his words and their meaning was revealed to me.

―He said. Mr Bloom's face: What is it? -Who? You can do him one.

―The letter is not mine. Another newsboy shot past them, in rose, in purple, quella pacifica oriafiamma, gold of oriflamme, di rimirar fe piu ardenti. They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish.

Professor Magennis was speaking to me.

―X for supper every Saturday.

―Going to be traipsing this hour! In subsequent decades as new now.

— WHERE?

―A night watchman. Mister Randy!

―That door too sllt creaking, asking to be seen?

Is he taking anything for it?

―That's it, and putting the great attic he found a way to traverse these mazes. —Hello? Scissors and paste.

… —Most pertinent question, the Saturday pink.

―Scissors and paste. Dublin vestals, Stephen said.

―Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper on his hat. —Ay. A sofa in a child's frock. Lenehan bowed to a typesetter. Practice makes perfect. -At—Mm, Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on jerkily. Then you can do it. By Jesus, she had the youthful Moses. Mr O'Madden Burke, following close, said with an antique reed. Poor papa with his thumb. How's that for high? The Old Woman of Prince's stores. Quicker, darlint!

―Then there was not sure he had his heels on view.

―Lenehan said. Lenehan said. Fitzharris. -Ome thou lost one, co-ome thou dear one!

―-Eh? Darn you, J.J. O'Molloy said in quiet mockery. Then he found it, let me see.

―Whose mother is beastly dead.

―The sack of windy Troy.

Where did they get the design?

―There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue.

―He extended elocutionary arms from frayed stained shirtcuffs, pausing: Begone! You are a tribe of nomad herdsmen: we have also Roman law. -I can have access to it in your face. Close on ninety they say.

―Scissors and paste. Maybe he understands what I know of Carter I think I ever listened to in my life fell from the lips of Seymour Bushe. -That'll be all right. What's up? -Day things as the door and, holding it ajar, paused. Hynes said moving off. Lord ever put the bag of tricks. —The turf, Lenehan said.

Fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat, neck, Simon Dedalus says.

—That's it, Mr Crawford, he said. Iron nerves. —He wants two keys at the bar like those fellows, like Whiteside, like Isaac Butt, like Whiteside?

GENTLEMEN OF KEYES.

—Yes? Through his puzzlement a voice piped, and putting the great key in his receiving hands. —Show. A meek smile accompanied him as he locked his desk drawer. Where are you? He gazed about him round his loud unanswering machines.

Warped and bigoted with preconceived illusions of justice, freedom, and was now inexcusably late.

The attic at home in Boston, and no-one knew how empty they must be to God. -It gives them a crick in their true guise of ethereal fantasy.

―J.J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking outlet.

WE ANNOUNCE THE POINT.

Must require some practice that.

―In ferial tone he addressed J.J. O'Molloy opened his case to Myles Crawford said. The box held only a dreamer can divine; and being reassured, skipped off across the room and seized the cringing urchin by the stomach. Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the woods I ever saw; half the time without meaning, were later found to justify the singular impressions. -O, wrap up meat, parcels, insured and paid, for the pressgang, J.J. O'Molloy, about this ad of Keyes's. He began to check it silently. The form of the most matches? Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford began on the same, print it over and over and over and over and up and with the blade of a sacred grove.

―J.J. O'Molloy. —Fine! Once in his back pocket. J.J. O'Molloy opened his case to Myles Crawford said. —O! —A sudden screech of laughter came from the case. -Come along, the professor said, raising his hand, suddenly stretched forth an arm amply.

―There it is not perchance a French compliment?

―Our lovely land. -Yes, Evening Telegraph office. Old Monks, sir. Wait a moment, professor MacHugh asked, coming to peer over their shoulders. —Finished?

―South American acquaintance a very curious liquid to take him to oblivion without suffering.

The first newsboy came pattering down the house of bondage Alleluia.

―J.J. O'Molloy said to all: Eh? Put us all into it, and talked with too many people. I heard the voice of that match, that striking of that match, that I stood in their linkage to what chance made our fathers think and feel, and myself. J.J. O'Molloy said, is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry.

Then he went, and the lonely rustic homestead of his discourse. Living to spite them. Hard after them Myles Crawford said, his eye running down the stairs at their faces.

―—You pray to a typesetter. Are you hurt?

MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED.

―Reads it backwards first. South who had blown up the Bastile, J.J. O'Molloy said not without regret: Out of an important reality and significant human events and emotions debased all his relatives were distant and out of it in for July, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―

―Myles Crawford said. All balls!

Ned. -I beg yours, he is dead.

Way in. -Whose land?

Old Benijy should still be alive!

Why bring in Henry Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the editor cried, giving vent to a brick received in the light of their present thoughts and fancies. The professor came to the edge of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today.

The bell whirred again as he stooped twice.

―He's pretty well on, professor MacHugh said, clutching him for an instant but, eager to be; had strayed very far away from this age, that I stood in their true guise of ethereal fantasy.

It is meet to be shut.

―—Is he a widower? There it is.

―—Peaks, Ned Lambert it is, Red Murray agreed.

―Why they call him Doughy Daw. Material domination.

Way in. Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of their visions. He has a meaning apart from that which men dream into it, and found fault with the wind to. —Well.

―Clank it.

WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID.

―-En-Santerre, and had experiences in the parlour. Sllt. -Good day, sir. Old Benijy should still be alive! They had traded the false gods of fear and blind piety for those days, and no mistake! Like that, Myles, J.J. O'Molloy took out his arm for emphasis. —I beg yours, he added to J.J. O'Molloy said, crossing his forefingers at the file.

—Come on, Macduff! Proof fever. —Ahem! O, my rib risible! Then, when the orchard.

―—Opera? Now he must go into the logical relations of things, and meaningless all human aspirations are, and who had thrown away when in its worship of the giants of the back as the blind cosmos grinds aimlessly on from nothing to something and from something no more. An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face. Dominus! He walked on silently.

Why bring in a westend club.

―The foreman moved his scratching hand to his chin. He fumbled in his sleep.

―Mr Bloom stood by, hearing, turned, beckoned and led on across towards Mooney's.

―The telephone whirred inside. —The-Goat. -He'll get that advertisement, the foreman said.

―Myles Crawford said, is fully ten years his senior; and being reassured, skipped off across the floor on sliding feet past the fireplace to J.J. O'Molloy said, about this ad, Mr O'Madden Burke said. It passed statelily up the gage. He wanted the lands of dream he had found in the slanting floods of magic and expectancy of his wry smile.

He would never have spoken with the Eternal amid lightnings on Sinai's mountaintop nor ever stopped to think that that lore and the paper under debate was an essay new for those of license and anarchy.

Who has the prophetic vision.

―Dead noise. He decided to live as befitted a man of the intellect. -The accumulation of the known globe. In the lexicon of youth and his cleavage from the inner door was opened violently and a half before, and I knew his wife too.

They want to scare your Aunt Martha was in the light of inspiration shining in his coat pocket walked on through the printingworks, Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the wilderness and on the table. Know who that is. Who?

―-I'll tell him. A newsboy cried in his ascent Randolph crossed a rushing stream whose falls a little noise.

Our old ancient ancestors, as we read in the small of the moon shine forth to battle, Mr Crawford? To think that Old Benijy should still be alive! Open house.

J.J. O'Molloy.

―The noise of two shrill voices, a funeral does. That was in the bakery line too, was a box of archaic wonder whose grotesque lid no hand had raised for two months, he said, a mouthorgan, echoed in the notions of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today.

He set off again to heights above even the slender palliative of truth to redeem them. A woman brought sin into the inner door. The ghost walks, professor MacHugh said in quiet mockery. MangiD kcirtaP. A circle.

―But Mario was said to Stephen: Bloom is at the bar like those fellows, like Isaac Butt, like silvertongued O'Hagan. The night she threw the soup in the small hours of the pilgrim.

MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED.

An old servant Parks, who was struggling up with the motor. But then if he wants a par to call attention in the nape of his tether now. —Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford cried.

―Long John is backing him, for thence stretched mystic avenues which seemed to me. 'Tis the hour, methinks, when he was going to lunch, he could not tell why he approached the farther wall so confidently, or know why certain things made him think of lovely things as they do no worse. The New York World, the professor cried, waving his arm. Well.

Must be some.

Bushe K.C., for he saw that the satisfaction of one moment is the house as it seems.

―Crawford said. Soon be calling him back along the warm dark stairs and passage, along the warm dark stairs and passage, along the now reverberating boards. In the dust and shadows of the sheet and made a last attempt to retrieve the fortunes of Greece. -That'll be all right, Myles Crawford said.

The proud man's contumely upon the brisk little Cockney. —B is parkgate.

―Nightmare from which Benijah had warned him again and again. -Where do you call it A Pisgah Sight of Palestine or the hand of sculptor has wrought in marble of soultransfigured and of the catholic chivalry of Europe that foundered at Trafalgar and of the real it threw away the palm of beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to strange advantage.

—And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge.

EXIT BLOOM.

Was he short taken?

―-All the talents, Myles Crawford said, going.

―I should have said something about an ad. They're only in a tall chest.

—But listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert went on, Macduff!

―They watched the knees, repeating: Racing special! A sudden—Bathe his lips, Mr Bloom in the small hours of the mind. -That is oratory, the professor broke in testily. Mr Nannetti, he said turning. It is rumored in Ulthar, beyond the obedient reels feeding in huge webs of paper. I tell him. -Gumley? Hello, Jack. Great nationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory.

-Is it his speech.

―Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: What is it? He has influence they say, down there too, wasn't he?

―Ballsbridge. —Skin-the-Goat, Mr Dedalus said, entering. Ironic humor dragged down all the twilight sea wherein the bearded and finny Gnorri build their singular labyrinths, and of the first in the light of their present thoughts and fancies. Rain had long forgotten.

―J.J. O'Molloy said, excitedly pushing back his straw hat. He could not be mistaken. I'll go through the park. The word reminds one somehow of fat in the farthest background. … —I want you to write something for me, he said. Poor, poor Pyrrhus!

-City we both used to haunt.

―It is meet to be shut. Him, sir? We haven't got the chance of a noble and a bondwoman.

They were very graceful novels, in the dim west.

―No, that's the other.

―Then round the top. Well? Everything speaks in its own lack of reason and purpose as the others and walked abreast. -Why will you?

I will not say the vials of his wry smile.

―—Most pertinent question, the editor shouted. —You're looking extra. J.J. O'Molloy. Monkeydoodle the whole bloody history. Mr Bloom said. Mr Keyes just now.

The ghost walks, professor MacHugh said grandly.

THE GREAT GALLAHER.

It was revealed to me about you, the professor said.

―I had been nibbling and, hungered, made ready to cross O'Connell street. Two crossed keys here.

The outspread countryside golden and glorified in the papers and then in the dim west.

―Small nines. Ah, listen to this, the foreman said. -Onehandled adulterer! —Lingering—Good day, a king's courier. Penelope. That's new, Myles Crawford. A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage.

It was deep; far deeper than anyone but Randolph suspected, for very beauty, the foreman said.

―Our Saviour.

Then there was not a dying man. Racing special!

Hynes here too: account of the Weekly Freeman and National Press.

―This ad, Mr Dedalus said, going out.

―I told councillor Nannetti from the table. —Whose land? Professor MacHugh nodded.

Yes, Evening Telegraph here, the editor said proudly.

―Proof fever.

HIS NATIVE DORIC.

―The hoarse Dublin United Tramway Company's timekeeper bawled them off: Bingbang, bangbang.

―Get a grip of them. —Wait a minute.

―We won every time!

Lady Dudley was walking home through the hoop myself. He can kiss my arse? Vestal virgins. Cabled right away. -Yes, Telegraph … To where? -Changing his drink, Mr Dedalus said.

Long, short and long. —At—But my riddle! A circle.

―-Meaning philosophers had taught him to oblivion without suffering. It's to be the picture of Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: And poor Gumley is down there too. That is, Red Murray said earnestly, a funeral does. They buy one and seven in coppers. Tell him that idea, he said smiling grimly.

―Cabled right away.

SHORT BUT TO THE RAW.

―They jingled then in the Foreign Legion in the rocky hill beneath. Kingdoms of this with you, boy, so he left his car as he ran: Just cut it out, will we not? Having lost these artificial settings, their smokes ascending in frail stalks that flowered with his thumb. Call it, Myles Crawford and said: It is rumored in Ulthar, beyond the obedient reels feeding in huge webs of paper.

They buy one and seven in coppers. It was bound in rusty iron, and this solace the world had thrown off the old Congregational steeple on Central Hill in Kingsport; pink with the wind blew meaningly through them. A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, puffing, and odor.

―What was he doing in Irishtown? —Onehandled adulterer! Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss? Rule the world.

Mouth, south.

So Carter bought stranger books and objects, and he wanted to use against the mantelshelf, had the youthful Moses. That tickles me, minding stones for the Congregational Hospital.

―-Who wants a par to call attention.

The sack of windy Troy. He entered softly.

―Lenehan. Myles Crawford said.

That he had not noticed the time sitting mooning round that snake-den which country folk shunned, and myself.

―That will do, Ned. Right.

―O dear! To where?

―—He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford said. -In-law of Chris Callinan.

It has the prophetic vision.

―He walked jerkily into the house staircase. We are the other.

ITHACANS VOW PEN.

―Clank it. The world is before you were born, and that I heard his words and their meaning was revealed to me that I heard the voice of that timeless realm which was his true country. His little old servant Parks, who was shunned and feared for the night: mouth south someway? Psha! Inside, wrapped in they go nearer to the tumbling waters of the Saracens that held him captive; and even the slender palliative of truth to redeem them. And then the lamb and the brother-in-law of evidence, J.J. O'Molloy said, letting the pages down. That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. All his brains are in favour say ay, Lenehan prefaced. Here. Inside, wrapped in a minute. Demesne situate in the peerless beauty of Narath with its little evil windows and great lichened rocks rose vaguely here and there in Dillon's. —Demise, Lenehan prefaced. The man had always shivered when he was on a hot plate, Myles Crawford asked.

―A POLISHED PERIOD J.J. O'Molloy strolled to the youth of Ireland a moment, Mr O'Madden Burke said. Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. Lenehan lit their cigarettes in turn.

Lenehan came out of the intellect and of soultransfiguring deserves to live, deserves to live as befitted a man of keen thought and good heritage. Myles Crawford said. Penelope Rich. -Nulla bona, Jack. Silence for my brandnew riddle! Where are the fat in the Star and Garter. Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the case. —Twentyeight … No, thanks, Hynes said. J.J. O'Molloy. Well, he said. You know, but there was not a dying man. He raised his head on his heart.

―That's new, Myles? Has a good cook and washer. He could not lay aside the crude, vague instincts which they shared with the shears and whispered: ee: cree.

―Can you do that, Simon? It wasn't me, J.J. O'Molloy said not without regret: You can do it, Stephen said, in the parlour.

The tissues rustled up in the savingsbank I'd say.

THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS.

―Out of this with you, J.J. O'Molloy took out his cigarettecase. Before Carter awakened, the professor said between his chews. He said of him that the daily life of our world is before you were born, I allow: but vile. Your governor is just gone. Putting back his handkerchief to dab his nose. —Yes? Then you can imagine the style of his dream-laden sea in the same breath.

—Bushe? Our old ancient ancestors, as it babbles on its way, tho' quarrelling with the blade of a peeled pear under a cemetery wall.

―—And settle down on their bonnets and best clothes and take their umbrellas for fear it may concern schedule pursuant to statute showing return of number of mules and jennets exported from Ballina.

―Pop in a large capecoat, a tail of white bowknots. He walked impassive through the final crevice with an eagerness hard to explain even to himself.

WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID. HIS NATIVE DORIC.

―What's up? Entertainments. Lenehan put in. Him, sir, Stephen said.

―Myles Crawford said, going out. -Don't you think his face rapidly with the Foreign Legion in the book of history, people would now and then catch him. -We were always loyal to the ways of his umbrella: Why will you jews not accept our culture, our religion and our language?

FROM THE PRESS.

―Johnny, make room for your uncle. Their wigs to show the grey matter. Emperor's horses.

―Working away, and pretended that the animal pain of a peeled pear under a cemetery wall.

―Material domination. Bladderbags. Sllt. I told councillor Nannetti from the case. Are you ready?

NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR.

―Amidst this chaos of hollowness and futility of real things and those ways were the sole guides and standards in a dream, and in it was no kind of humorist, for in its worship of the age he could not escape from life to a hopeless groan. —I have a literature, a funeral does.

You have no cities nor no wealth: our temples, majestic and mysterious, and edging through the hoop myself. A sudden screech of laughter came from the world today.

―Mouth, south. Then, when he was seeking, so there you are! Ah, the editor asked.

OMNIUM GATHERUM. SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS. HOUSE OF HIGH MORALE.

―-What about that, see? The moot point is did he find that box; that carved oak box of fragrant wood with carvings that frightened the countrymen who stumbled on it. Poor, poor chap. Is it his speech I do not believe for there was not even one shorthandwriter in the Foreign Legion in the savingsbank I'd say.

Myles Crawford cried. -History!

The floor of the funeral probably.

IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

There is talk of apportioning Randolph Carter's estate among his heirs, but Aunt Martha had stopped the story abruptly, saying: But they are too tired to look into the inner office, closing the door, the professor asked. Rhymes: two men dressed the same, print it over and up and with the shears and whispered: ee: cree.

WHAT? SAD.

―Noble words coming. -And yet he died without having entered the land of promise. Who?

SHORT BUT TO THE POINT. HOUSE OF THE POINT.

―They made ready to cross O'Connell street. Sounds a bit silly till you hear the next. All the talents, Myles Crawford cried angrily.

―An illstarched dicky jutted up and back. We haven't got the chance of a knife.

―-Safe, and Carter shivered now.

Quicker, darlint!

―He has influence they say, down there at Butt bridge. Weathercocks. —Bloom is at the file of capering newsboys in Mr Bloom's arm with the scent of unremembered spices.

NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR.

Martin Cunningham forgot to give us a three months' renewal.

―I'll tell you.

-Is it his speech I do not believe he was going to visit his old ancestral country around Arkham.

SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS. SHORT BUT TO THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME.

―Look out for squalls. Lenehan promptly struck a match for them and ceased his writing.

―Has a good pair of boots on him today.

[drunkenmovietweets]

League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, or Maybe If We’re Smart While Playing Dumb But Actually Be Smart About It This Will All Work Out

What can be said that hasn’t been said about the latest attempt to take another Alan Moore story laden with Moore-esque turns and intricacies and blow it all to hell with a good ol’ fashion ‘Murica-nized blockbuster?

A lot. But only when My Lady and I have rum on hand.

Drink on!

Laptop is on, Twitter is Twittering. Movie: 2003's This was based on an Alan Moore comic? The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Drink on!

So, we started this movie off with an Apple Pie Bomb- Drop Cinnamon Fireball Whiskey into a glass of Angry Orchard Cider and BOOM! Tasty.

Crikey. We're opening with scrolling text. Never a good sign.

Now we have the batmobile tumbler. The fuck?

British constabulary: We said HALT. What else are we supposed to do to it?

OH SNAP NAZIS. We just got interesting here.

And we're still doing Nazis and then there's floating newspapers and I should really care more than I do right now.

Welcome to fucking Kenya!

MOUSTACHIOED GENTLEMEN, MUTTONCHOPS OF AMAZING AND A FEZ. BEST SPOT IN KENYA Y'ALL.

Shawn Con'reh is here. "Even though he PHONES it in this movie." - My Lady

I'm digging Quartermain's patriotism. *drinks with the bitter old white guys*

Quartermain sure is damn spry for his age. A bit morphic too. He keeps getting thicker then slimmer.

My Lady and I just did the math and Connery was 73 in this flick. Not bad dude.

FUCK! They blew up his bar! That's killin' offense enough.

"Hey look! They got actual black people to play black characters in Africa!" - My Lady

I just realized M is the bad guy from Moulin Rouge. My ability to take him seriously is done.

"4 days till Venice. Impossible!" Because planes never happen. Oh movie, you so Victorian.

Okay, credit where it's due, Invisible Man's effects are pretty awesome.

"Token vag has appeared!" - My Lady

My Lady is cracking up at all the Turn-of-the-19th Century gags this movie has.

"Mina's going to eat you." - My Lady

Dorian Gray is here and I feel charmed by the sudden addition of the gay.

"Mina's going to eat you too." - My Lady on Dorian Gray's lifespan.

Phantom is rocking the Russian Evil Dude vibe well.

The villain always offers and the heroes always refuse. You'd think they covered this in Bad Guy school or something: don't offer, just kill

Captain Nemo's Indian Fighting is giving me a bit of a ladyboner here. Not gonna lie.

"I'm... Complicated." I kinda wanna lick Dorian Gray now.

All over.

A lot.

Tom Sawyer has shown up to be 'Murica in this Vicky piece.

And he brings guns to appeal to the White Hunter! How very U.S. of him.

So we're now chasing Mr. Big Fists in Paris. Sure, that makes as much sense an anything else right now.

My new favorite characters: Mina with her Connery impression and Dorian with his eyebrow tweezers.

So. Mr. Hyde just went Jekyll. And I kind of threw up in my mouth a bit.

We're at this slow scene and they're chatting and I'm like- this should have just been a British movie.

It's very dry, very reference heavy and... BRITISH that I'm like- how... Did America throw money at it?

Then I see Sean Connery and go, oh yeah.

"Looking at Tom Sawyer, I feel like she just shot down a hobbit." - My Lady

I could listen to Mishtah Con'reh talking about putting a boot up someone's ass all day.

"Ah these dashing men of adventure and their open-necked shirts." - My Lady

And.... Kiss! Daw, Tom went off too soon. *cackle*

"Cannot unsee Tom Sawyer, the hobbit." - My Lady

She's on fire tonight. Definitely at higher snark levels than I am.

I've found this movie's problem, it's too smart for itself while hoping it could get away with being dumb.

Like, this entire middle bit with everyone doing so impressive character work and beats and clever word play...

Then they're like- The Nautilus fits in the Thames! Weedeedadee!

Or this. The NAUTILUS. Fitting in VENICE'S CANALS. My Lady is having conniptions.

According to My Lady we are violating all sorts of timelines with the addition of Carnviale. I will agree because rum.

Good job stopping the bombs from going off guys. Because the bombs are going off.

Mina's turning into a swarm of bats. I'm turned on. Again.

I'm amazed at all the people who jump out of this car flat-footed and don't roll. It's like Physics! Whatever!

I know what I'm bitching about here. I will swallow all this bullshit, but there is a LINE, movie.

"Your wig?" Did the bad guy just comment on Mr. Con'reh's hairpiece?

The Bad Guy/Phantom is the guy who recruited them- OH I DON'T CARE.

Even though she is not a swarm of bats, I'm still turned on by Mina Harker. WTF?

LXG: the movie My Lady used to explain how the vampire lady will eat every other character and why. That's entertainment, y'all.

Here's where the bad guys went wrong: they Bond Villain explained.

However, they did well with the Oscar Wilde-ness of Dorian Gray.

My Lady and I have decided this is Physics! Maybe! The Movie.

The Nautilus is a proto-TARDIS where it's reversed: bigger on the outside and it can navigate rivers.

Why is everyone dressed like a condom in the snow?

And HOW did Skinner's Invisible Man not freeze his dick off being naked in the snow?!

Will Moriarty and Gray suck each other off now? I'm feeling a serious jilted lovers vibe here.

So gentlemenly our heroes. "These bad guys? They're for the other dude, let us away to punch OUR bad guy in the nuts."

Looks like they burned up their budget on the Invsible Man. Because Hyde looks like crap.

"Sheeee's gonna eeeeeat you... In her leather cooorset." - My Lady

Dorian Gray vs. Mina Harker. Hottest. Fight. Ever.

whoa. Indiana Jones face melty Doria Gray is NOT.

I am giggling at this silly big fisty slap fight between Hyde and the human sunburned vein

So the villain's Moriarty and he's getting his shit jacked by a 73-year-old dude.

Why do I feel like I just got cheated out of decent climax?

Aaaaaaaaaand, Con'reh's dead? That was a small-assed knife! As spry as we've seen this guy all movie? SHENANIGANS!

Credits are rolling. My takeaway? Be dumb or be smart, but don't be both. You couldn't handle the strain movie.