Who are the seers of this world?
Oftentimes, their perceived sense of safety is fenced-in by their very constraint.
Dare you be different in the age of minimalistic conformity?
On our own heads be it, my delicately-dancing friends of eggshell walkways.
Seasonal variance has already begun, despite our willful resistances.
In our perceived safety, we have mismanaged a nest of rich paupers.
But our administrative denunciations will crumble in the state which dwarfs individuals for the purposes of cultivating docile allegiances at a cost that no words could ever articulate.
Thank you, my postmodern travelers of continuum.
One more thing - have a good night.

Orphan roots are banished into Bermudan-like triangular realms of presumed stability off the coast of Neptune,
Whilst abandonment firmly establishes her ancient dendrology.
Are your connections deeply entwined in the postmodern era of presumed certainty and deluded rationalism?
The method of self-transfiguration is evidenced on the mountain-tops of vanity, where the purging of the soul with self-flagellations is an archaic and scornful memory to those who claim to be enlightened.
How rooted are your roots? Does your reason stand trial in the docks of uncertainty?
The autumn leaves are changing color, and the birth of death reveals a beauty which, when embraced, flutters her powerful wings in the dawn of a frosty voyage.
I believe in ripples of probability.

Rain-clouds linger in cumulonimbus fascination where the cultural class-formation is shaped by abstract territoriality.
Pressure gradients of global awareness are impacted by the adiabatic process.
So, turn up the heat and chill in the waves of dialectical ontology.

New England is triumphant, as she maintains the historical roots of North America.
Rebellions were concocted in order to inform and subdue those who were impressionable.
It is unfortunate that truth was concealed by presumed greatness, and that the problem continues.
Political agendas prevail in the West in the name of consumerism, and the Great Architect of the Universe continues to unravel the delusion of a seemingly greater design. The obelisk will bow to cosmological establishments, and the flag of unity will no longer be recognised. I will now say goodbye to the President and his constituency.

The spirit of the age projects a myriad of peculiarities which are diametrically opposed to the wisdom of our ancestral manoeuvres of foreboding contemplations.
It is sufficient for me to say, that I have rolled up my trouser-legs in metaphysical resignation.
Lest you forget, that the history of our posterity is shrouded in post-Edwardian etiquette, as she balances on the brink of relinquished community.

Hugging a wall that is made of brick is a certain projection of an identity which has never been discovered.
Shower your soul with the warmth of French kisses and laugh at those imposed moral rectitudes.
******* bonding is a coercion of unity where aggressive independence lurks on the banks of youthful sexuality.
So, dominance no longer maintains power, and an empty shell of proclaimed significance is now rendered inoperative.
Truth has bared her gorgeous glory, and endless voices of self-disclosure resound throughout the cosmos.
Can you hear them?

Osiris is the Egyptian god of the afterlife and triangulation is a mystery within the context of interpersonal dynamics.
The world, as we know it, is subject to greater influences, despite the manipulations of those who presume to be sophisticated.
I love my cat. He is my familiar Sphinx of the West, and I have been acquainted with his wizardry for hundreds of years.