Step into the cobbled courtyard where highwaymen roar with drunken debauchery, and rotten vegetables pelt the bare buttocks of ancient harlots who are shackled to the stocks of occult accusation.
Forbidden encounters are a certain mischief in the rafters of aristocracy, where disgust and desire mingle in unspoken dialogues and roll within the stench of damp hay.
I am captivated by the vanity of those carnal gratifications where Black Death casts her treacherous shadow across European boundaries.
Our markets are organised by macabre executioners in the finest of linen, who shout joyous proclamations, whilst the wise are aggressively coerced by vile salesmanship.
Please, open the gates to the city wall.
My desire is to listen to the wind, as she whispers reassurance amidst the haunted woodlands where those who are superstitious and faint-hearted fear to tread.
There is no taxation in the wilderness.

Leprechauns abide in pastures of Gaelic folklore where those who are susceptible to their mischief will be spellbound by galloping horses across medieval dunes in the name of allegiance to the King.
We need to cross the causeway at the correct time, in anticipation of tidal waves which approach a finite limit.
Have you ever consumed whiskey in a culture of superstition?
An environment of dark precipitation is atmospheric, especially when the ghosts of ancient battles exonerate our ignorance amidst our blatant lack of understanding.
Let us bow our knee in humble acknowledgement of those phantoms of olde, who teach us about seeing.

Synthetic sympathy is like an epidemic across the surface of our baron horizon of sophistication, where predictable greetings and condolences are proclaimed with interpersonal detachment.
An aperture is a hole through which light travels across a threshold of darkness.
Gullible are those voters who strive for independence whilst firmly clamped in the jaws of proclaimed democracy, where reporters become lively at dramatic scenes of carnage and death.
Oh sibling of the expanding universe -  I implore you to project your voice across constitutional and cosmological  municipalities.
Let us run for office beyond the confinement of bureaucratic galaxies.
After all, our modulations echo throughout solitary cells of our revered bedlam.

Reflections in a shimmering puddle of stagnant water depict the vulgarity of political orchestras.
I dare you to venture into the crypt, where ancient spirits enter souls with timeless agonising and lament for netherworld regions of entrapment.
Trust me, my medieval Knight of notorious reputation – we will conquer the enemy within the dungeons of Hades.
Resolution is laid bare before the echelons of a beautiful and acoustic ballad, where drabness of spirit tantalises the soul with tearful validity.
We have a level of command which is like a classical symphony, where horsemen bring pillage to those who rebel against the King.
This is an omen, my fellow patron of oblivious decorum.

Have you ever tasted the finality of abandonment?
I fully acknowledge the ambivalence of hateful and loving connectedness.
But, there is something wonderful about lunar eclipses amidst dark forests where trees creak and groan with the pains of animism.
The dial of the sun will emphasise her eternal wheel of galactic sobriety, whilst interaction transcends her promiscuous limitations of what is deemed to be sophisticated.
What do you understand about hormones?
Thank you, oh priestess of resentful misogyny.
I applaud your sexuality.

The hyacinth is glorious as she displays her gorgeous petals across dangerous stratas.
Crows may circle the church steeples in their scavenging plight for obscure answers, but the janitor is the one who knows what has been pasted upon the walls of scholastic defiance.
Cobwebs form across forbidden sandstone doorways in Horselethill, where sophisticated frailty is negated by the innocence of childhood mockery.
There is a particular smell from the cellar.
I know that chestnuts fall from trees in their designated seasons, where the threshold of the dawn is characterised by ****** of spiritualism and astral projection.
Just look at the patterns upon the side of the plate, and savour the olfactory experience of Nana.
Thank you for your basic expressions which were most rich in this age of debauchery.

How penetratingly damp are the vocals of historical rites which resound throughout the beams of sacred and ancient planets.
As we flick the pages of that which was written before the magistrates, it will become clear, my friend of nostalgic accusation.
Let us amble together alongside this dark loch of awe, where children have drowned in the murky depths of Highland violence.
Oh, great spiritual guide of Celtic and rebellious Jacobean statements - I want to swallow your soul.
Hopefully, we will become parents.