No incommodality

Should my mortal form be less than ineluctable, should my immaterial side have to face up to the murky business of metempsychosis, I think I could cope with safe passage into the body of a Mekong catfish. This, hounds and harlots, is how I passed much of Bloomsday.

Of course, today, it’s back to the grind. And enough with the Joyce references.