Seth at Sainsbury’s sells thick socks.
Imagine, imagining imagining, an imaginary imaginary imaginary menagerie manager, imagining imagining imagining an imaginary imaginary imaginary managerie.
Bandy-legg’d Borachio Mustachio Whiskerifusticus,
the Bald and Brave Bombadino of Baghdad, helped
Abomoligue Bluebeard Bashaw of Babelmandel
to beat down the abominable bumblebee of Balsora.
THERE was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Night
after night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and studied
the lighted square of window: and night after night I had found it
lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead, I thought,
I would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind for I knew
that two candles must be set at the head of a corpse. He had often said
to me: “I am not long for this world,” and I had thought his words idle.
Now I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up at the window
I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded
strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word
simony in the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of some
maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed to
be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work.
–Dubliners James Joyce