Having my way with Ulysses

Every Friday buries a Thursday

And would again could whispring grassies wake him and may again when the fiery bird disembers. And will again if so be sooth by elder to his youngers shall be said. Have you whines for my wedding, did you bring bride and bedding, will you whoop for my deading is a? Wake? Usqueadbaugham!

11:45 am

Shhhh. Whisper. Keep your voice down.  Don’t let them hear us.  Here, lend an ear.  See them?  The living?  They are dying but they don’t seem to know it themselves.  Shhhh.  Not long now.  Look at them burying each other, like ants but with coffins.  What a waste of wood.  Ought to just build one and give it a sliding panel.  Thank you come again.  Next.  Shhhh.  Whisper when you laugh or they’ll hear you.  How many are they?  12, no, 13. Nice round number.  Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the macintosh?  No need to wonder.  We’ll know soon enough.  Keep an ear to the ground. We’ll remember him when he gets here.  We will, anyway.  None of the living remember each other for long.  Hope you are well, see you in hell.  Out of sight out of mind.  Shhhh.  One of them heard us whispering around them.  Pretend to be air blowing in a whisper.  Shhhhhh.  Whisper.  They just don’t look natural, do they?  Sure they are alive?  Maybe we can smash pillows into their faces, see if they breathe.  Pierce a heart or something.  Just to be sure.  Shhhh.  Who wears purple to a funeral?  Shhhh. Illdyed.  Quiet.  Wind.  Shhhhh.  Be the wind.  Wonder when the new guy will show up.  It’s nearly closing time.