Having my way with Ulysses

To have or not to have that is the question.

To be born again . . . first you have to die. Ho ji! Ho ji! To land upon the bosomy earth, first one needs to fly. Tat-taa! Takathun! How ever to smile again, if first you won't cry? How to wind the darling's love, mister, without a sigh? Baba, if you want to get born again . . . 12:45 am

Her cunt crew, the fox flew
The bells are striking thirty-two.
Every moment since eleven
Shall be the next to fall from heaven.

Sun break, wholly.

Inshore and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the dim sea.8:33 am

Clouds are beginning to cover the sun slowly, wholly.  Darkening the city again, dark on the plain too it was when those dead cities felt the rain of brimstone  as they called it.  Whatever that is.  Sulfur?  Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom.  Dead names next to a dead sea and old. The oldest race, the oldest people wandered from and back to there, from captivity to captivity to death to life again living and dying and spreading.  An old woman wandering the street with a bottle by the neck.  Dead.  The grey shrunken cunt of the world.  Desolation.  Age crusts me with salt.  Well I am here now.  Yes, I am here now.