of the grey sunken cunt of the world a woebegotten sundered. I am sorry.
Hello. People often ask me what it is that keeps me happy. What is it, Rabbi, they say? You are always so cheerful. Is it your faith alone keeps you joyful? Why yes, I reply, my faith is my bedrock, of redrock, or sandstone. A dead rock, for a headstone. Heavy, sweet, wild perfume. Then the years, and the piss-stink and the waxen ears and the sputumbottle quackery. The horror of the dead stool and the humour of the suppository. A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly. Grey. Far.
On a bleached and sighing shore he lay. She never came again. I am sorry.
I am sorry. I don't know what came over me. And, you know, it isn't the big things, the so-called great things, that make us what we are. It's the little things, the myriad things, that fill our waking hours. Only this morning I was able to retrieve the prescription, dropped by the old lady on Threadneedle Street, and taken by the cruel April wind. How she smiled when I handed it back. These are the little things that make us what we are.
That cruel April wind, breeding lilacs in the mouths of dead traffic wardens. Lay me down, etherised upon a water table. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the neck. Nouns, nouns, old Foggo, scrags and the pains of ninetyfourness.
A bald man and a young, their trousers rolled to the knee, stare out of a lighthouse at the watery future as it rolls, as it calls, as it mauls the soft still sepia of the dying past. I am sorry.
I'm sorry. Do you know, I was watching the news on television last night, and it struck me, it really did, how lucky we all are. The terrible events in China. Though we might jutifiably complain about the government, and about the election, and we might worry about the price of tay. Of tea. I drew a cup of Ramshander's Red from the squat, the sullen, the silentpert teapot. The tea was drawn. He filled his own moustachecup, sham crown.
Derby. I'm sorry. With a sigh of satisfaction I turned the television off, and went up to bed. It's the little things. It is so easy, as the world and its troubles come into our livingholes, to be whelmed and stemmed and stultified by it all. But we needn't and we oughtn't and we shouldn't drown-ed be.
Said he. I am sorry. Yes, if we can only stick to the real things and the little things. A cup of sweet tea of an evening, a sigh of contented weary, and the trip upstairs to bed.
And Molly waiting, eating, sweating in her sweetly fetid coilings. Ah my Molly. The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. I tread with phantom feet the savage linoleum of my future.
Following the pointing of her finger he took up a leg of her soiled drawers from the bed. The soils of war, the coils of a whore, the moils of a straw, a flawed, a gnawed resourceless sham of a man of flim-flam and wham-bam thank you Mr Sham Spam Cam.
I'm sorry. I resolve to worship the smallest of things, for there lies the greatness of God. An old pederastical friendless of meown once quoth, at the tall and the corrugated college at goodly Bantry Bay we were at. He said, look in the mirror at daybreak, old Bloom. Leap up, old Bloom, leap up Leopold and bloom. In the room and the doom of the glass you shall see just what you are.
His vacant face stared pityingly
I am sorry
And do you know, it's