chi one stand inflate sandals
chimes the marrow's axle-tree annuls
on Adam Cadnum grounds · enough grimoire
a cranched tavjikab
goes at it
stipulate
mantra · paintstick ooseflesh par
agon with ingots
stabbing too many drywall hootenanny
chores · i must be going · feather edge
to the poetry
wars a very wry nag vends
no thousand parabolic ways back


"But I will never be a truant, love,
Till I have learnt thy language, for thy tongue
Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penned,
Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower
With ravishing division, to her lute." --1 Henry IV. 3.1