There's a story, always a story, behind, beneath, in the folds, that has to be told. They say that everyone has a story, always a story, that's like Finnegans Wake, A way a lone a last a loved a long the . . . that's like a neverending breath.
Here's mine: one day, a long time ago, they took away my magic flute. An end.
And along went too, my neverending breath. Whish! A gull. Gulls. Far calls. Coming, far! End here. Us then. Finn, again! And so on, and so on, and the rest, is about the return of my lost music, a finish to that last exhalation.
And it's old and old it's sad and old it's sad and weary I go back to you, my cold father, my cold mad father, my cold mad feary father, till the near sight of the mere size of him, the moyles and moyles of it, moananoaning, makes me seasilt saltsick and I rush, my only, into your arms.- Finnegans Wake, James Joyce