Good Puzzle Would Be Cross Dublin Without

Redheaded Women Buck Like Goats.

Her Lips Touched His Brain As They Touched His Lips, As Though They Were A Vehicle Of Some Vague Speech And Between Them He Felt An Unknown And Timid Preasure, Darker Than The Swoon Of Sin, Softer Than Sound Or Odor.

Wipe Your Glasses With What You Know.

I Done Me Best When I Was Let. Thinking Always If I Go All Goes. A Hundred Cares, A Tithe Of Troubles And Is There One Who Understands Me? One In A Thousand Of Years Of The Nights? All Me Life I Have Been Lived Among Them But Now They Are Becoming Lothed To Me. And I Am Lothing Their Little Warm Tricks. And Lothing Their Mean Cosy Turns. And All The Greedy Gushes Out Through Their Small Souls. And All The Lazy Leaks Down Over Their Brash Bodies. How Small It's All! And Me Letting On To Meself Always. And Lilting On All The Time.

The Artist, Like The God Of The Creation, Remains Within Or Behind Or Beyond Or Above His Handiwork, Invisible, Refined Out Of Existence, Indifferent, Paring His Fingernails.