Paul of Birds

Paul of Birds (62) has an inaudible voice, the walk of an insect, and a robe which is too big for him.

To right his body is to stand slightly jiggling in the foyer. This persistence of variation cause, ultimately, a change in the appearance of himself to himself in the wide mirror to our left. He flees abstractly
spilling a basket of oranges all over t
he oranges, this smell unto his hands.

The essayer, Paul presumes, is not to be confused for long. Shadows, like a back
of hands gesture make him ducks, the pasture rubbed up their white cheeks. What, what go
the ducks.

It is dangerous. He draws dangerous and near, respectively, to all of us, though I now have to sneeze – at you, Paul
of Birds? At.

I throw seaward salt back at the sea which is nowhere exactly, opposite of us.
Also to other
powers: the names of names of genera, for families, everything
that can be cut open and or rifled through, named to
the apprehendable distance he is always going.

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