https://aphelis.net/james-joyce-meets-nora-barnacle/

I stare at the ceiling, stare at the sky, time flies by. I scuttle along a dirt track, climb over a stile into a cornfield in the previous century I see no blood-red poppies, merely blue corn flowers and the witch Hazel. Now, I’m stuck in the backroom off of Clapham Green, where the black mould spreads insidiously  like a disease that infects the public water supply in old London Town. Only a couple of generations ago it was: cholera it was. I see a threshing machine at work in Wessex and in the neighboring island of Ireland starving Gaelic speaking children die aplenty. The warehouses stuffed full o’corn in Liverpool and Bristol.

Before 1914, a man dreams of predictive text, his wife’s nightmare is is of a face book. Time connects all things on the 16th June 1904 when a shriveled Jewish man of uncertain business and manifold afflictions scoffed kidneys despite the odor of ordure and urine. Or so the suspect alleges M’Lord.

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