There is a certain mystique about Essex County where Wiccan boutiques smite the eyes with linguistic confusion.
Salaam reminds me of cold meat and Shalom reminds me of Welsh breakfasts even though the 1700s knew nothing of peace.
So, now that we almost reach the threshold of Spring Aequus Nox, I commend Julius Caesar for his respect towards atmospheric refraction.
We need to talk.
Come on, and let us delve into classical and mythological philosophies where games of death are an aphrodisiac with a sprinkling of risqué.

Celtic and warrior spirits reside amidst the undergrowth of our shallow and contemporary delusions.
So, let us take stalk of farmers’ fields where crop rotation is subject to the ritualistic attempts of the prophets of Baal.
There is something which is delectably acceptable about Jack the Ripper, where powdered noses spread their orifice of congestion across alleyways of Victorian London.
I love the smell of cobbled streets as they convey an aroma of coconut and damp resilience.
Let us not lament the death of sophistication where contemporary entrails spread their distance across the tank of customised motorcycles.
What are you lookin’ at?

Have you ever heard those flat harmonies of death, where operatic assertions resound throughout damp and ancient crypts of macabre folklore?
Time is slowly running out, and the flame of life is flickering in the winds of captivating finality.
Although haunting screams are like echoes which transcend fatty spreads of digestive mediocrity, the stalagmites and stalactites of gothic caverns display their ***** features which defy rational explanation.
Feel the depths of soulless forests as they chant messages of reconciliation amidst tangled weeds and branches of self-stimulation.
Amitriptyline can facilitate sleep at the end of an indulgent evening.


S

It is always a pleasure to engage with the rich tapestry of life, even though the prognosis may be utterly questionable.
Are you able to articulate that in which you believe?
Whenever we examine the contours of this forbidden rush of ghetto adrenaline, the texture of sound flows like an estuary of hypnotic rhythm amidst our myriad of assumed identities.
Deoxyribonucleic acid is tasty, but only whenever it is spread on burnt toast, don’t you think?
Cast your mind to those dreamy recollections of the dual carriageway, where hip-hop bass resonates with eternal unravelling and the launch of a new vessel is applauded as it ventures across geographical ponds of progress.

How exotic is this curvaceous dance within our brazen synaptic hemispheres?
The scholastic wisdom of the ages boldly pronounces licentiousness when Ashtoreth makes herself readily available to ravenous self-projections of post-modernity.
As we saunter around the parameters of entitlement, the monster will reveal itself with narcissistic glory whilst cotton candy is purchased by naïve populations of bewitched obedience.
Scan the desolate horizon where economical lap dances are nothing more than a mere mirage of repressed Oedipus conflicts.

The nomadic existence is paradoxical in its independent presentation.
Are you aware that a lot of good can evolve from a seemingly bad situation?
Let us applaud the Vulcan 1700 where Kings and Queens project through violent vistas of liquid-cooled destinations of voyage, where boldness lays bare the nuts and bolts of fragrant expression.
Take it or leave it. I am enveloped in the beautiful and seductive sound of acoustic death.
As they say in New Hampshire: Live Free or Die.

It dons a hat of seeming sophistication, in the manner of a Boston gangster where cross-cultural expressions gather at Gaelic mouse-traps of East Coast dominance.
It is a heritage, my friend.
There is sophistication around Italian restaurants, and I have no regrets. Yet, I must say, that I have experienced minimal fun amidst this political Anglican black-comedy where integrity is often confused with connected colours of red, white and blue, and the colours of green white and gold.
This is a picture of illegitimate power, where brethren gnash their intellectual mandibles and covet recognition at the price of their very soul.
Delusional quests for superiority remind me of downward spiralling staircases with blazing torches, where the echoes of scorching souls can be heard to resound throughout professional circles.
As I carry this blazing torch through spiritual levels of command, I ask the question: whatever happened to humanity?