Excuse Me-- You! (That We Are So Much More, #1)
Yes, you. Walk With Me for a Second. Do you ever get the feeling that there is a presence, pressing through your conscious mind and the veil of time as if to punch through and slip you onto another timeline? Sitting on the hill, you see the confused and anguished clouds of another warm spring evening slipping away, the cold gathering... And words come to your mind to describe it. A smoky, tenuous blue . You've heard these words before: they were in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man , you did not author them. But then again, you did. You just felt them emerge from you, just as they emerged from him once; just as they did; this is not an assumption, this is apodictic, you felt the sigh of youth from a mind that is not yours, the tingle of fingers against a felt pen, a sense of a room with sawdust, and most clearly, a sense of a different time . What if... what if you are James Joyce...? No, that's silly. You're you. Obviously, this is my memory. I'