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Ulysses (Mike) was on the southeast side of the Michigan Avenue bridge. He's been out here for ten years. He had a plethora of signs and a well worn Bible around him. "I'm here (in this spot) from 7 to 7", he said matter-of-factly. He was a soft-spoken man and didn't have too much to say, but he was very friendly. Mike served in Vietnam in 1967. He sleeps on Lower Wacker. His biggest needs are clothes size 32 pants and XL shirts/sweatshirts (and I'm sure food, toiletries, and everything else...) He thanked me as I left. I WILL see him again.
Accompanied by Svitzer Surrey. Stena Hibernia is in the background having arrived from Heysham as Ulysses was preparing to enter Belfast Harbour. Ulysses had previously been at anchor off Bangor while waiting for the dry dock to be ready. According to media reports she has a problem with one of her propeller shafts.
Photo ID: 80784 Ulysses
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The covers of this book are too far apart.
Ambrose Bierce
Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young. You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one saw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria? Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once...
James Joyce
Ulysses “Proteus”
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
The Waste Land
T. S. Eliot
But words are things, and a small drop of ink,Falling like dew, upon a thought, producesThat which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
Lord Byron
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