the only James Joyce I've ever read was his early stuff, the ones where he wrote scathing descriptions of corrupt priests and sometimes even had a plot.

stream of consciousness; you can't really write it because it's a stream, and to write is to fix. but when I was a teenager I used to throw the words around more freely than I do now. it's the job, you know. the short words and shorter paragraphs, the lurking subeditor and the fucking readers.

words on a screen can go on foreever. they flow from my fingertips even when my eyes are closed, theough I"m not so sure abuot the spellign and why should I be?
the keyboard knows my fingers and each key has it's own sound my smallersest figner ont he left hand says "a", "a", "a".
abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwzyzxxx

got the x wrong. my eyes are closed but my ears are open.
and I hear: cars sliding by. the hum of the pcthe tick of the clock which is always there, anywhere I go.your closck ticks as my clock ticks as we tock off one day.