The day when Joyce came was cloudy.

At that time, Wilde was bald because he caught a fox's hair on the tip of his tail and was beaten by Bernard Shaw with his head.

The owner of the Apple Orchard angrily grabbed the other person's hair, wanting this guy to feel the taste of alopecia areata. The painter explained with grievance that this was the porcelain that he touched on the fox's tail.

"It's the season of hair loss! In spring, animals will change their hair! I just touched it a little... Wow, it hurts so much! Shaw, you actually hit me because of a fox!"

"Your strength is called to touch it a little? Also, someone like you who has not created any value cannot even compare to half a fox in me!"

"Berner Shaw! I don't allow you to slander my art - what does it mean to not create value!"

Kitahara and Feng held the furless fox and watched them play helplessly, and were perfunctory and meaningless persuading the fight on the side. The content was full of "I can't kill you if you fight, so Bona Shaw, don't fight." Such unintentional lines.

Based on his experience, it is useless to persuade these two people to fight. But it is impossible to persuade them either. Otherwise, Wilde would definitely think that he was standing on Bernard Shaw's side, and then he felt a little humiliated for a morning.

The most leisurely one on the scene was the red fox with hair falling off its tail. It no longer cared about its bald tail now, but just buried it hard in Kitano and Feng's arms, making a delicate "whip" sound, trying to attract the attention of humans holding it.

This messy scene caused James Joyce to come over and no one had time to pay attention to him.

The visitor dragging the suitcase blinked, holding the paint Wilde wanted tightly in his arms, looking left and right in a daze, obviously not very adapted to the noisy influence.

"Uh." He almost subconsciously helped his glasses and tried to get it closer to his eyes. He tried hard to look at the blurry color blocks in his vision, feeling a little embarrassed, so he opened his mouth.

"That...I..."

Joyce listened to the noisy sounds around her at a loss. In the end, she just said a few fragmented words and then closed her mouth. She felt that it would be better not to speak at this time.

Then he silently found another pair of glasses from his pocket of clothes and put them on his ears. He adjusted it with his hands for a while, and seemed to finally find the right focus, and then he breathed a little relieved.

Although he was still not very clear about the things in his vision, at least now he could figure out how many people were present, and there was no need to worry about calling Shaw Shaw at Wilde.

"That, Oscar, and George. And this...Sir!"

Joyce shouted loudly, and found that the people in front of him turned their heads before breathing out, and then began to rush to help him with the second pair of glasses that had almost slipped down.

"James!"

Wilde, who was grabbed by Bernard Shaw, turned his head and his eyes lit up suddenly, especially after seeing the white paint box in Joyce's hand, he waved to the other party almost happily: "You really miss you--"

"That's not what you said before. Deep-sea fish have a level of vision, right?"

Shaw snorted coldly, let go of his hand randomly, and smiled brightly at his old friend whom he hadn't seen for a while: "How are you doing recently, James?"

"Uh? That, Nora and I went to hold the wedding."

Joyce looked at Wilde who was holding him, and replied with a hug from a friend he hadn't seen for a long time. His ears were a little red and he looked a little embarrassed, but he still responded to Bernard Shaw's words and then looked at Wilde:

"By the way, how are you and Percy now?"

The matter between Wilde and his lover is well known among the superpowers throughout the British Peninsula and the Irish Peninsula. It was a big deal at that time, so it was natural for Joyce to worry.

"He spent all my money before. So there was a little conflict between us, but I'm already thinking about it."

Wilde bent his green eyes, and he didn't look depressed at all, but his tone was pleasant: "I'll make it back soon anyway, right? He's so beautiful and cute, and a little bit of indulgence is nothing. Anyway, I love him."

"My money has been spent, and Nona seems very unhappy."

Joyce pressed his double glasses and muttered in Wilde's ear in a low voice, obviously empathizing with it: "So I'm here to hide--ah, almost forgetting! This is the paint you want, I've brought it to you."

The transcendent from Ireland seemed to have thought of something, smiled embarrassedly, handed the box in his arms to the other party, and then looked at the only stranger he didn't know in curiosity.

Kitahara and Feng put down the fox in their arms, and watched it rub its fluffy tail against its legs reluctantly. They couldn't help but shake their head helplessly, and then smiled and said:

"Kehara and Feng, a traveler. Are you Mr. James Joyce? I have been listening to Wang Del chanting your name these days."

"Ah? Is this true, thank you."

Joyce was obviously a little embarrassed about these social occasions, and coughed twice with embarrassment, almost falling off his second pair of glasses.

It seemed that because of strangers, his posture was a little more restrained, at least not as relaxed in front of Shaw and Wilde. He was like a herbivores who were facing and pondering the dangers that could be reached at any time in the forest.

"Well...what am I going to do next?" he said uneasy, and subconsciously looked at the owner of the house.

"Have a meal."

Shaw glanced at the watch and replied naturally: "If we weren't going to beat Wilde, we should all be on the table. Do you want something to eat?"

"Well."

Joyce frowned and thought hard about the words, and finally mumbled a string of words that seemed out of place from his mouth like a dream: "Blanket...the dog in the blanket?"

Shaw was silent for a while, not knowing what century the other person's thinking had drifted to, nor knowing what the relationship between lunch and the dog in the blanket.

Wilde held back his laughter and introduced to his friends seriously: "You are used to it, James often does this - I mean that some words often pop up in his mind that others cannot understand."

Kitahara and Feng said "hmm" thoughtfully, not knowing whether they were echoing the painter's words, but he quickly asked again: "So what stuffing does pudding require?"

“Plants, cancer and fiber ulceration.”

Joyce's blue eyes lit up, and then he quickly spit out two or three words, his tone as light as a bird flapping in the sun.

If the previous sentence was the product of his subconscious statement, then now he is deliberately guessing riddles with someone who knows what he is thinking in his heart at once.

"No, no."

But the traveler seriously rejected the proposal: "The weather is getting colder today, so you can't eat ice."

Joyce whined regretfully, and his whole body drooped, and his previous happy expression quickly disappeared from him.

However, after a while, he took the initiative to move his position a little, looking forward to the person who could keep up with his ideas.

"The train is OK, too," he said.

"Is chocolate butter pudding?" Kitahara and Feng understood the sentence without any obstacles, and then laughed, "Do you need to add a little more sugar, Mr. Joyce."

Joyce nodded, shook his head again, and stubbornly repeated: "Fiber ulcers, cancer..."

When the young man with long blue hair said this, he suddenly became silent for a moment, as if he was trembling with cold words he said.

He thought of Christmas that year.

It was snowing heavily that day, and the chocolate-colored train stopped next to him with creamy sides, and he was taken home.

Then there were a lot of people talking. He was sorry for this because he was sick: like a plant with fibrous ulcers, a cancerous animal, and a lot of diseases. Someone leaned against his forehead, like a mouse, and it did not die because they were not sick.

Joyce thought of this and couldn't help but make a muffled, meaningless sound in his throat, feeling that he was simply terrible - in various senses.

Kitahara and Feng looked at the person in front of him who seemed so sad that both glasses were about to fall off together. They blinked their orange and golden eyes, and finally had to sigh helplessly, reach out and touched the other party's long blue hair: "Okay, if you want, I should be able to add another portion of beef gravy."

Joyce's eyes lit up again, and frustration disappeared from him almost instantly. Then the transcendent took the initiative to circle the traveler twice, as if he had seen some magical treasure.

"Don't have turkey."

He took the initiative to hold Kitahara and Feng's wrists and said in a very happy voice.

This is perhaps the most human-like sentence among all his opinions on dinner.

Kitahara and Feng nodded with a smile, and took Joyce who was stuck to him to the kitchen, preparing for a few extra dishes to add as the guest's arrival.

"I saw a black whisker falling on the branches yesterday, very dark and small, shiny like a silver cross."

Joyce sounded unreasonable, but he obviously did not realize his logical problem, but he was completely excited:

"Do you have a cross on your neck - where are you going to be buried?"

It seemed that because he became familiar with the feeling of speaking, Joyce's words became much more normal, at least not one word or one word, but appeared one by one.

But in terms of content, it is still not much better.

"It's true that it's bright in the snow."

Kitahara and Feng replied patiently, with a gentle and bright smile in their orange-gold eyes, and they were whispering to each other with this person who seemed to have a degree of relaxation of his mind and Proust.

"Wow, will there be many butterflies?"

"That's right, maybe the sky will be very bright."

Shaw and Wilde were silent as they looked at their departure backs and the happy atmosphere around them.

"Well, I didn't expect that there are people in this world who can align with Joyce's way of thinking."

Wilde looked in that direction with admiration, poked Shaw's waist with his elbow, and his tone sounded inexplicably complicated: "How do you think they communicate? I can only understand one or two sentences in it."

"Wilde, I always want to ask you a question."

Shaw turned his head and smiled brightly, while holding his waist, which had just suffered a major blow, with his hands, and there seemed to be a little murderous intent in his voice:

"Do you actually have mania and ADHD?"

Only then did I realize that the extent of stabbing someone with my elbow might be a bit large: "..."

The painter coughed fiercely, showing an expression of being insulted by some malicious words. He raised the white paint box he had just obtained, took several steps back, and looked at Shaw on his side with alertness: "I warn you, just slander me, but don't come over, I have weapons now."

Shaw stared at Wilde silently.

After a long time, he picked up the red fox that was so bored that he rolled around on the ground, and said with a good temper: "Actually, I have always had a great wish."

"For example, one day a chemist invented a 'humane gas'. This gas will kill people quickly and painlessly - so that people who are useless for the progress of this society can be humanitarian in one fell swoop."

"Hey, do you think this can scare me? And do you think your thoughts are inhumane?"

Wilde took a deep breath and looked at the other person with a little annoyance. A rare word that was not so elegant:

"Go and apologize to those beauty and art that do not pursue real interests and utilitarianism, you slaughter lovers!"
To be continued...