Utterly Mad

Allan stops his cart in front of the shop, coughing lightly from the seemingly infinite amount of fungiwood dust coming off the boxes. He cranes his neck, looking at the sign and the dilapidated building. "Eh. S' a lih'l weird of a language. French s' a speak fer those kinda people that spend their days locked up in their ruhms, pretendin' they're summun else fer fun. Anglish is the sailor's language." He then nudges the cart over to the opening, and peers in, ready to drop his box inside.