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Reeferrun, past Heave and Atom’s, from swerve of sinsemilla to bend of blunt, brings us by a commodious vicus of resinulation back to Howth Kush and Environs.

The great googling wheel of it! Whorled without aimed, stoned without blamed, the heaventree of smokes hung with humid Mary-blue fruit above the chapelized heads of all sleeping Earwickers and their ilk, their elk, their every holy smoldering olk. Puff was in the beginning. Is puff. Shall puff be.

Rollit up rollit up rollit up and the cycle wheeled on.

O tell me all about Hanna Hashley! She was just a girlish thumbwidth of leafgreen in a boyish Liffey world, going whorled without aimed down the quays of Chapelizod, her herbal hem a-trailing in the evening Liffey mist, her pocketses full of what the four old annalists called (variously): the chronic, the kind, the merryanne, the consolatrix afflictorum. Blessed is she among women and blessed is the fruit of her Mary, Joycannabis.

Toke. Toke. Toke again. As it was in the beguiling is now and ever shall be, whorled without aimed.

For this is the nature of the great smokular cycle, as diagnosed by the Professor of Oneiric Herbology at the Collideorscope of Allnight Dublin: that the toke precedeth the thought, and the thought dissolveth into the toke, and the smoke goeth up, and the smoke returneth, and there is no new smoke under the sun but only the old smoke whorling, endlessly whorling, whorled without aimed, through the nostrils of all the sleeping Finnagains from Donnybrook to Drumcondra, from Cabra to the Kush, from here to Tim.

Herehear! Herehere!

And lo did Bloom — our Bloomster, our Bloomio, our everbloom and neverwilt — stand on the strand of the Sandymount Stoned and look upon the ineluctable modality of the highvisible: the greengold shimmer of it, the purpleblue of it, the yes of it. The snotgreen sea was now the THCgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea had become, in his altered apprehension, the scrotum-enlightening sea. O yes. O. Yes.

He rollit one for Molly. She said yes. She said:

Yes I will yes I said yes take a pull yes and his eyes were full yes of that soft misting yes and I thought yes as well him as another yes and I put my arms around yes and drew him down to me yes so he could feel yes my mountains of yes yes.

Toke by toke. Age by age. The lifteyrun of smoke from old Finn’s pipe to young Bloom’s lip, whorled without aimed, high without why, the great googling reefer of it all going round and round the drain of Tim and time, never stopping, never starting, just: going.

Sinsemillasemper. Semper chronic. Chronic semper.

And here, at last, in the gloaming of the long Bloomsday, when the four old annalists have laid down their roaches and the city sleeps its greensmoke sleep — here is the end that is no end, the final toke that circles back to the first, the amen that was always only: aimed.

A way. A haze. A last. A long the.

Wait…are those brownies.