How limited we are in our Japanese 440 Ltd Custom where diners resound with the heart of the blues across desert storms.
Snowflakes continue to fall in silence cross mountainous regions of Canadian volcanic resentment.
Massachusetts lies upon the boundaries of New Hampshire, whilst blue angels deliver the swift administration of justice.
I love the pulse of Glasgow, because it is my homeland.
Please lick my cylinder, so that we can shake hands across forbidden boundaries of violence.
I do not belong to anyone.

There is something Scandinavian about the experience.
It reminds me of eternal resolutions.
Are you able or willing to listen?
Let me be honest with you: although I personally dislike the texture of ***, I truly validate its place in the realms of peculiarity.
I am privileged to say that we are humbled by those who are scorned by populations of presumption.
Sausages must be fried at the correct temperature, otherwise their savoury convergences are lost in an abyss of culinary sabotage – don’t you think?

The gates of aristocratic chaos swing wide open amidst our political order of denied chaos.
Can you feel the depths of this political vortex where time clenches her muscles in order to enunciate the conflict?
Those who lay claim to portrayed originality are steeped in the hypocritical depths of duplicity where classical music reverberates across cosmic explanations of unspoken revelation.
Unspeakable are the criminalities of those who don mere veils of propaganda, as they are neither superior nor dissimilar to maximum security psychopathy.
Listen, my friend, to the frequency of our radio identification.
The New World Order is the unseen pulse of the progressive world, where seemingly primitive customs are dismissed in the name of mass deception.
Let us take chances of revolutionary discovery and stand in unity; otherwise we shall fall in this calamity of obscene consumerism.

Truth bares the deepest recesses of her concealed modesties.
Can you feel the resonating equilibrium of tantric sound as we connect across humanitarian divides?
Tears fill my eyes, as I bask in the presence of such elevated humility.
I am grateful for the wisdom of simplicity, as opposed to what may be deemed to be stupidity.
Let us join hands around this circle of cultic agreement.

I have travailed over the foresight of previous decades where we balanced upon the brink of trauma.
The end is just the beginning.
Coal fires emit a wonderful fragrance and they cast flickering shadows where thought-provoking sexuality displays her wanton brilliance across the walls of contemporary debauchery, don’t you think?
As snowflakes fall across strata’s of lost innocence, let us contemplate echelons of depravity where solitary existence is characterised by gallant company in the English countryside of Georgian extravagance.
The female servants flutter their extended eyelashes at ******* gentry, whilst social mores dictate the silence of rage.
Prepare the horses, oh sanguine being of unspeakable beauty. You and me: we need to talk.

Oh Yea, Oh Yea! Cometh hither to the dance of festivals, around bonfires of medieval superstition.
The gates are closed firmly behind us, whilst woodland creatures seek to gain mastery over our misplaced traditions.
Look at the tracks of the cart, as they meander along the trenches of muddy lanes where loitering prostitutes display their coveted merchandise.
I know that innocence has unveiled her lusts with brazen splendour, whilst chastity resigns herself to the unspoken beauty of illegitimacy.
However, I plead with your sombre awareness. Stoke the fire, and let us reminisce over mystical horizons where infinity casts her spell across the ages of history.
What is your price?

How dashing is the rain, as it forcefully kisses the skin upon our cheeks, amidst this precipitation of damp uncertainty.
Can we please scramble across the moorlands of Provincia Britannia, whilst blazing torches flicker across blatant boundaries where royal promiscuity succumbs to reluctant allegiance to the King?
Oh, great creator of ambivalent meteorological predictions, let us have a séance as we race through thick forests where ancient runes are carved into the trunks of establishment.
Don your armour, my friend. We are approaching the threshold where history lies ages before us.