The Tarik Batu of Sumba

This eye, this mien, mein. It’s hyle a speakling from a brook-lang. That Cili padi membrane that thought me felicitous things, tangs, forgettable stains, a signal of sundered business. I don’t want to be a flagellate, even to the onion of a hod-leagued bugle. I, Richard Spruce, with Pan Hu in my jade lantern mouth parts. Disassemble this phantasm in the flavor of our startled dog-milking shedus (Svapaka-shedu). I remaindered my tricks and what they carnapshush'd. Even spadix aren’t free-living. Our life against the midnight lawns: poor Philip Quarll on the Isla de Memoriales. I’m walking through this wail of hair to confront my senate of chortling amoebic cineastes, my careless Yonas who once smelled Kamboja weapon worship.