W is for WOID: In the Bugining woz the woid

Hi. The following passage from Finnegans Wake by James Joyce was published in 1939. [they] say everybody who looks into the Wake finds spooky coincidances and strange connexions to their own lives. As dj fly agaric 23, also known as Acrillic born April 15th 1976 the following singcell page from FW IZ of great significance to me for many reasons > I shall explain myself more deeply soma-time soonafterward. The Joycean word "Woid" is what triggered my recent outbreak of phreestyle "Acrillix" and bogabloggathon for whirrled pist!

" and ours. Fly your balloons, dannies and dennises! He's door-
knobs dead! And Annie Delap is free! Ones more. We could
ate you, par Buccas, and imbabe through you, reassuranced in
the wild lac of gotliness. One fledge, one brood till hulm
culms evurdyburdy. Huh the throman! Huh the traidor. Huh
the truh. Arrorsure, he's the mannork of Arrahland over-
sense he horrhorrd his name in thuthunder. Rrrwwwkkkrrr!
And seen it rudden up in fusefiressence on the flashmurket.
P.R.C.R.L.L. Royloy. Of the rollorrish rattillary. The lewd-
ningbluebolteredallucktruckalltraumconductor! The unnamed
nonirishblooder that becomes a Greenislender overnight! But
we're molting superstituettes out of his fulse thortin guts. Tried
mark, Easterlings. Sign, Soideric O'Cunnuc, Rix. Adversed ord,
Magtmorken, Kovenhow. There's a great conversion, myn! Cou-
cous! Find his causcaus! From Motometusolum through Bulley
and Cowlie and Diggerydiggerydock down to bazeness's usual?
He's alight there still, by Mike! Loose afore! Bung! Bring forth
your deed! Bang! Till is the right time. Bang! Partick Thistle
agen S. Megan's versus Brystal Palace agus the Walsall! Putsch!
Tiemore moretis tisturb badday ! The playgue will be soon over,
rats! Let sin! Geh tont! All we wants is to get peace for posses-
sion. We dinned unnerstunned why you sassad about thurteen
to aloafen, sor, kindly repeat! Or ledn us alones of your lungorge, parsonifier propounde of our edelweissed idol worts! Shaw and Shea are lorning obsen so hurgle up, gandfarder, and gurgle me gurk. You can't impose on frayshouters like os. Every tub here spucks his own fat. Hang coersion everyhow! And smotthermock Gramm's laws! But we're a drippindhrue gayleague all at ones. In the buginning is the woid, in the muddle is the sounddance and thereinofter you're in the unbewised again, vund vulsyvolsy. You talker dunsker's brogue men we our souls speech obstruct hostery. Silence in thought! Spreach! Wear
anartful of outer nocense! Pawpaw, wowow! Momerry twelfths,
noebroed! That was a good one, ha! So it will be quite a material
what May farther be unvuloped for you, old Mighty, when it's
aped to foul a delfian in the Mahnung. Ha ha! Talk of Paddy - James Joyce, Finnegans Wake - book 2, Chapter 3.




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