Somniferod was not an old man, only bent. He was not a foolish man, merely consumed by scant regard for convenience. In his withered hands the onion skins were the pages of a book he had long desired to write, parchment notions consigned to tears. Caustic juices sublimated vapours which stung his eyes and his soul stung with them. Art for whose sake? Artifice and construction. He flayed the acrid flesh but made no sense of it. The works of nature remained ineffable. All he could do was rip them up and even then his fingers shook. In short he was afraid.
© BH 2009
I pasted this into the I Write Like website at http://iwl.me/. Flattering to be Joycean. I tried with another clip and came out like Arthur C Clark. I suspect if I were to try again I would be the literary twin of Chalky N Cheese. Note to cyberspace (empty): I must post more here if only to use my pixels better. Mustn't waste the little blighters or they get all blocky and then your image becomes tarnished.
