Ulysses - James Joyce
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Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beating feelers: and in my mind's darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is, in a manner, all that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms.
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