I was walking to a writer friend's house around the lonely hour of 3 P.M., except the sun wasn't out. It was a permanent dusk outside, and dogs were barking at me. I noticed that I had a whistle in my pocket, and I blew on it; the dogs would not stop barking.

When I entered the aforementioned friend's house, Beethoven's Fifth Symphony was playing. I approached him as he was writing, and asked if the music helped him to write. He didn't answer me, so I asked what he was writing. Again, no answer, so I pulled the paper out of the typewriter and, agape, I read, "...no I wont no..." I said, "You cheap imitation of Joyce, what the hell is this?"

He looked like a rat backed into a corner, albeit a feisty one. He replied, "Don't brandish your wooden sword at me!"

"Is that all, young Dedalus?" I mocked.

He didn't say anything; he sat down, defeated. At this point I was disgusted and hungry. I walked out of the house and found a toilet waiting on the front porch. I woke up with a stinging bladder.