Consciousness, then, does not appear to itself chopped up in bits. Such words as ' chain ' or ' train ' do not describe it fitly ... It is nothing jointed ; it flows. A ' river ' or a ' stream ' are the metaphors by which it is most naturally described... let us call it the stream of thought, of consciousness, or of subjective life. (p. 239)
... a quarter after what an unearthly hour I suppose they’re just getting up in China now combing out their pigtails for the day well soon have the nuns ringing the angelus they’ve nobody coming in to spoil their sleep except an odd priest or two for his night office the alarmlock next door at cockshout clattering the brains out of itself let me see if I can doze off 1 2 3 4 5 what kind of flowers are those they invented like the stars the wallpaper in Lombard street was much nicer the apron he gave me was like that something only I only wore it twice better lower this lamp and try again so that I can get up early … (p. 576)