'Joycean Meandering from Word to Word' by Laura Cooney

Well, if you can’t write the same words twice it feels quite stilted as there is necessary ramble with incessant meander so much longer than you’d like, but then all becomes incredibly satisfying and Joycean almost, making any writer experience warm feelings; sitting in a Dublin pub, Guinness handed, smoke tendrils curling, holding one pen to paper, scrawling whatever thoughts darken souls upon midnight, when his fiddle plays; light, airy, charisma supersedes; evoking enthusiastic paroxysms of mirth for poet, listener or drunkard whose legs may take flight at this moment. Freedom comes near; destructive, costly, rumbling unworth, my muse, erase.