The horse and cart slowly meander along the cobbled village lane,
as smoke projects her pungent and spiraling emissions from thatched rooves - casting her grey contrast as she penetrates the menacing darkness and caresses the trees of the ancient forest, in her journey of elemental consummation.
Rotten teeth, debauchery and tankards of ale abound at the candle-lit inn, where the curvaceous ******* and buttocks of the wanton ***** are roughly groped in medieval lust.
Her shrieks of surprise are an expression of unleashed restraint, that release a shower of blazing embers of interconnectedness, which prohibitively fertilise the barren land of depleted social mores.
Let us now share explicit and superstitious tales around the crackling moonlight fire tonight, as the screech of the owl shatters the eerie silence of Olde English folklore.
Look at the children as they gaze wondrously with sleepy eyes and open mouths, in a state of nocturnal slumber.
The tension is tangible.
Long live the King.
What is matter?
Is it defined by a mere substance?
Or, is it more accurately depicted within the context of sincere appreciation or concern?
As a lost lyric may be likened to a tragedy within the context of literary expression, so the dampness of ancient Sanskrit wells has led me to embrace a repelling submission to the wrath of our various gods.
Like an elliptical clause, the pattern and logic of this specific subject exposes the ghastly genitalia of wanton and grammatical genius.
Yet, how flamboyant are your philosophies?
Let us now sink into unfathomable depths of celestial mud and congratulate ourselves in the name of hollow epistemology and arrogant uncertainty.
Let us walk across hot coals with a spiritual guide, where somber chords heartily communicate a joyous morbidity - chanting forbidden licentiousness in the name of dilapidated psychological constructs.
Can I have permission to delve into the unfathomable abyss of your kaleidoscopic soul?
As we claim to have spun quite the web of deceit in our contemporary societal fabric of advancement, then let us now join hands in celebration around this presumed magic circle, ensuring that connection between the dampness of our soul and pleasurable resentment is not divorced from the ghastly genitalia of grammatical deviance.
Your beautiful iris reminds me of a captivating and ancient ice-age.
So, haste ye back to the final origins of the beginning and blink tears from those heavy ducts where chords are a warm and rhythmic expression of your audible silence.
This democratic estate has been compartmentalised and displayed for all to purchase.
Therefore, let us now ***** watchtowers in cross-cultural locations of diminished Gaelic solidarity and submit our souls to the spectres of haunted forests.
How mystical is your awareness, my friend of questionable statements. I lavish your growth in fertile soils, where explanations lay bare their very soul to the wrath of the gods.
Cast it outward and share the spoils of the spell, because sound can be kicked in a forward direction.
Oh, brazen star, I worship your stealth amidst this universal parade of elocutionist conquistadors.
Draw your sword in the rising mist of the dawn and let us nakedly parade around fires of fertility.
Your choreography reminds me of chicken soup which has been adulterated with amphetamines, with a burlesque twist.
If you believe in mother Earth, then come back and engage in intellectual discourse and physiological ******* where silent assassins are unable to infiltrate our borders.
Like a triple-x expressive disorder, I only have one question: Who is our assumed Emperor?
It's like a feline expression of extravagant and classical awareness.
So, how sealed is your fate within this lonely, yet busy road, of cosmic dualism?
Mysteries are dripping from your hair, like a conglomerate of tantalising expectations which yet remain to be unfulfilled.
As she perches upon the precipice of validation and despair, let us explore things at a deeper level where the surface sheds her scaly and silent veneer and ripples her catastrophic being within silent and societal expectations of silent rage and peristalsis.
Awareness and denial are ancient beings who collide in the face of legitimacy, as the rhythm of darkness has encapsulated my astral being.
Yet, I now have permission to roam plateaus which cast their geographical contours far beyond horizons of cosmological insight.
I love your texture.
I can taste the dark ancestry of ghastly dreams where cloven hooves and flickering flames dance along the castle hallways in ritualistic celebration; and I love the night, where haunting apparitions caress my slippery soul and tantalise my deepest fears.
Listen to the grandfather clock, as its hypnotically audible awareness transports our being to a myriad of dusty volumes upon the ancient shelves of a Golden Dawn.
Owls are beautiful creatures of nocturnal stealth.
Yet, the beginning is nothing more than the end, in her deceptive disguises.
Although their are eight points to her identity, Ishtar has innumerable expressions. Therefore, attempts to domesticate are futile.
Let us now invoke ancient daemons and engage in the wisdom of counsel, as we remain awake and share our confessions.
Men are visual creatures.