A Wake for the 'Wake'

 

In doublings farcity where gargoyles are confetti, I chanced on a tale called Sin Again, Mate. And I feel it re-echo though my queazy bone marrow like a pickled and fickle act of bravado. Choice Joyce was furious, less injurious and pluvial alluvial convivial analysis of paralysis essayed towards a degree for someone, a 2:1, me. I was a dead loss at a level but had flu by those gnats in a poor trait of a Jung man and then they tolled us at Hanover city not to do you, you sees.

And so now, only in oldage for whumpandfifty, having re-read of bloomsday with a guyed book, it had to be Donne. Attempted at least at last at a feast unexempted perempted by not wanting to dye untainted untaunted unsainted by its allegorical metaphorical anti-Eliotical circular murkier quirkier mindbendinglytranscendinglyalmostunendinly trivialconvivial whirred ploy. By the shimmering, simmering waters of, the evolving, involving waters of, the incomprehensible, indispensible waters of. The Wake.