The dictatorship of our state is profound in its mass propaganda, where the discernment of individuals seeps into an eternal chasm of self-sacrifice on the altar of political conformity.
Let us actively withstand the passivity of our conventional hypocrisy as we engage with this ontological sleepwalk through sinister passageways of presumed social advancement.
In our age of grandiose moralistic eclecticism where imperatives abound, I burn incense and contemplate the cosmopolitan artificiality which lavishes abundant gifts upon our self-opinion.
Criminality is the result of discovery.
So, oh thorn in my flesh, cover those rancid corpses by the veil of popularity, gain and pleasure.
Subconscious social conditioning is the scourge of lustful appearance, don’t you think?

Have you ever been impacted by the feminine vocals of this plight of legalistic acquittal?
Let us travel northbound along those east coast beeches where the historical presence is tangible and innocent sexuality is exposed in oyster-bars of cobbled awareness.
Acknowledge the fragrance of the hanging-basket in English country gardens, where nectar is extracted by nocturnal mammals.
Do you have any suggestions about the outcome?

I have spent considerable time engaging with reflections of Narcissus, to no constructive avail,
And I have also borne witness to those very specific colours which parade themselves across public squares of irreverence.
I wish no harm, my friend of diminished insight.
Shall we dance across this planetary genius, where cosmological families are able to expose their tantric beings without reserve?
I bid you farewell, my dear.

Shake hands with the soul of my flickering shadow as it flitters around the confinement of paths which are visually observed by their myriad of sounds.
I can smell tragedy as it pervades the atmosphere, in the same manner as the keys of a grand piano echo their confident assertions with the resonating comfort of finality.
Can we have dinner together, and discuss those compensatory adaptations which are necessary to bridge the gap over crumbling cliff-top roads as they meander below our spirit with unnerving anticipation?
Let us continue to guide each other beyond superficial perceptions.
After all, we are allies.

There is a sombre sound when mushrooms are concealed by mists in the English forest.
We need to protect ourselves from the spirits of the ages, where accusations echo around cosmological séances.
Can we please just engage in explicit intercourses and stop wasting time?
Let us stand upon the altar and exchange ancient mysteries where the black goat dances along smoky corridors of pagan castles.
Your ****** sword has pierced my heart, oh mistress of sexually explicit ceremonies.
I love your feminism, yet offer caution against your blatant assertions.
But please do not misunderstand me, oh mistress of the ages.

Having followed tram-lines along cobble-****** roads of marine industry, I am reminded of the smell of cold meat and the sound of an early siren, which beckons me to dilapidated buildings and disused railway tunnels.
There is a loud sound when car headlamps are dropped from a height onto pornographic concrete.
All that you have to do is to go to the dairy and reach over the counter, and you will find that a jubilee leaves indelible evidence to scrutinising faces and invites unwelcomed interrogations.
Let us walk up this crescent and kick leaves into puddles of Autumnal darkness.
The number five will always trigger the musky scent of cats and the sound of diesel locomotives, whilst uncertainty and aggression seek to establish a sense of equilibrium amidst social isolation.
Having said this, I will leave you with one final admonition: never forget the power of a steak pie from the butchers shop.
This is the essence of Partick.

Your hair is entangled with timeless experiences where primitive phantoms screech through antique hallways.
I have perceived those morose paintings which depict sadness and loss to such an extent that the air in the room can be sliced with a bread-knife.
Ah, there is something ruminative about olfactory observations, where dust commands unspoken attention to matters which have never been disclosed.
I fully rest in the City of Boston. Do you know why? Because those from Massachusetts know how to cook a breakfast whilst architectural brilliance splays her legs across streets of apprehensive humidity.
I will be there before the past echoes her burnt offerings to foresight.
Let’s go to bed now.