Having my way with Ulysses

Still life

He who like the sun has gone to rest is comparable to nothing whatsoever. The notions through which his essence might be expressed are simply not to be found. All ideas are nothing, as bearing upon him; hence, all modes of speech are, with respect to him, unavailing. 10:14 am

St. James.  Seems old, even for a new world.  1950’s but designed to look older.  Proper cathedral atmosphere important.  Lulls.  Quiet.  Man snoring over there.  Better not let that oculus Dei see.  Look alive.  Not the thing in here.  Not like Buddha, lying down having a rest.  Relaxed religion.  Opium.  Peaceful.  Mind and body the same.  Subject and object and object and object the same.  Hard to put into words.  What is?  Ineffable.  Can’t put into pictures either.  Everything in illuminated dissolution.  Not so this place, they like to see their deity bleed.  Show us your body.  Suffer a little.  Crying statues and stigmata  Entranced with the corpus.  It’s a bit of corpse, but don’t bite it.  Ouch.  Just break it up with your tongue.  stupefies a little.  Then some wine to top it off.  Wonder what.  Merlot?  A blend?  Lulls all pain.  Christ died for our sins.  But 2000 years ago so sin it up boys, it’s prepaid.  Open bar, tab’s been taken care of.  Go on a bender wake this time next year.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.