Biograffa Littoral

Insomniac, unoiled, tremblant at library stacks, AutoPoet slumped, a split potato sack,
at great-grand automadaddies desk. Its Afrique wood. Its trade wyndes. Loot, baby,
the tune on your lute.

Homilies, hymns, indices, concordances, treatises on opticks and prosody,conjectural
geographies, threats of fall, an instant rebuke from a peruke. Claw quill gripped in his
retractable quivered for its ere mammal. Cheerless he chewed odd ends of vocabulary,
ship stale biscuit.Dentigerous lust, lost and lustreless.

Sail, 's old, soul. Through the eye's window, that is the wind's hole. And azure
loomed, zoomed infold, wingfold, above rune names on mahogany,stood. A bird it is
eyeing him, with the gaze of the cretaceous,speechless.

Like that little pause, at the tip of a question mark's end.