Things brought from the north—a product of cut up writing

There was a small boy in an illiterate stumpy field. Are you the Pope of Rome? said a priest Trembling at curious words that seemed to shipwreck, He spoketh thusly the following tale and provided a list.

We shall not sleep. Fury—Souring—ever in pain. Perhaps one invades the bursting head? Far, a place loosely gripped in my hand in tangles of old alleys. A bay port with altitude and an Armada runs out of interest, and I don’t think these feelings in Catholic Quebec! I was a lumberjack turned sailor a wood hauler and weary worker… But they don’t call near the quay but a voice that laughed. I could find this cold in piles like twisted trees. The scenic solitude! Just showed the books the sums for that one! The Beard amalgamated crumbling elder lore at little cost. Keep also bowed down claims that cannot forgo except subjected cunt’s flames lick my cold constellation of forget. Will stagger not as much as it entered chaired from lower madness. Reeking of strange disuse... Guess I’ll quit now.

My most prized possessions from that time The nearest tome the seas the phantom of fires ablaze cobwebbed heap nothing axe without blade a gesture