Language & Grammar discussion
Streams of Consciousness
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Ashes, to dust, to ashes
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Hey, Kitty. How's hubby?
Aish, clearly you've been smoking Joyce. But hey, look at the heights it took him to!
Aish, clearly you've been smoking Joyce. But hey, look at the heights it took him to!

Gabi dislikes huffy and Debbie likes 'em bonking, but Kitty is ululating and Newengland ever the Queen God needs to save.

Joyce is sweet. I think myself smug for flittering through the first twenty pages of Woolf or Joyce in meek shame at my yet illiterate mind which won't manifest the thought into a body, which is placed in a room, or a metaphorical room without walls, such as a cornfield or plastic-bottle-littered beach, and then bingo, I'm inside the author's head and his thoughts are mine and the words flow in and out of my lungs after the jumble of letters has been filtered through my ventricles and to the pulmonary artery which we often mistake for intelligence. I don't. And declaring a knowledge of my intelligence through negation of that knowledge, I contradict myself.
So, hello all, I am bonkers.