Blooming

That’s me in mourning. When is it? May the twenty-second. Sure, the blooming thing is all over. He turned to the right and on his right Master Dignam turned, his cap awry, his collar sticking up. Buttoning it down, his chin lifted, he saw the image of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, beside the two puckers. One of them mots that do be in the packets of fags Stoer smokes that his old fellow welted hell out of him for one time he found out.

James Joyce, Ulysses

Just taking a moment for the other Bloomsday. Or maybe the blooming thing is all over…

Lil bro got back into town the other day. The first thing he told me was a dream he had wherein we sat at a bar listening to “Higher” by Creed. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s the dream.”