Perhaps James Joyce said it best when he said nothing at all
that the rest of us—happening to be born of someone
in a state of soporific choler and pleased to be wailing—
should know by any either sense than this or that which
sense would likely and rightly be born to know.
Though I have heard it said by Jameses and Johnses before
and after the duty of death, what majesty it is to be
either one or in three, it makes rather no different to eyes
what one good thing at a time is, with most good time
spent upending whatever which we seem to see is bad for ever more.
It’s plain to say therefore, in all testified right, and by
a nod of faith so assured that the balance of Good was
is rather cured lightly by the division of sense, and oft
in that collagenous make of “Yes, Lord” bows we
think something of one another, however happening to be born.
Do you say the madness of it all? Is there something
upset I’ve touched or touched too much to be upset much
any more at all? I trust you know it’s in your best realization
to be of interest to me, and I, with you, dear fellow, dear friend
shall make no more of it tonight until tomorrow. Let’s up to bed again.