I win, which means, I typed over 50,000 words in the month of November. This must be what James Joyce felt like when he finished the first draft of Ulysses. I can just see him eating a raisin bagel at Starbucks, squinting at his laptop, going,

The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring,

and,

ah yes I met do you remember Menton and who else who let me see that big babbyface I saw him and he not long married flirting with a young girl at Pooles Myriorama and turned my back on him when he slinked out looking quite conscious what harm but he had the impudence to make up to me one time well done to him mouth almighty and his boiled eyes of all the big stupoes I ever met and thats called a solicitor only for I hate having a long wrangle in bed or else if its not that its some little bitch or other he got in with somewhere or picked up on the sly if they only knew him as well as I do yes because the day before yesterday he was scribbling something a letter when I came into the front room for the matches to show him Dignams death in the paper as if something told me and he covered it up with the blottingpaper pretending to be thinking about business,

and,

It’s going to take a great deal of work to make this make sense.