James Joyce's Ulysses

Fed and feeding brains about me:under glowlamps,impaled,
with faintly beating feelers: and in
my mind's darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant,
shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds.
Thought is the thought of thought.
Tranquil brightness.
The soul is in a manner all that is:
the soul is the form of forms.
Tranquility sudden,
vast,
candescent:
form of forms.

-Ulysses