Mescalito is around us.
He verges upon the release of inhibition, and stalks those who are willing to see.
Let us pursue oneness amongst these flickering flames of planetary and future nostalgia.
As I can taste your apprehension, it is wise to be aware that preconceived ideas break the flow of the sacred circle, my friend of genuine naivete.
In lunar amazement, I beckon you to join the dance of perception, where what is deemed to be reality is a mere mould of societal conformity.
The definition of fear is nothing less than False Expectations Appearing Real.
If you dare to acknowledge the force of a gentle breeze of the wind, then you will become aware that she is a directional voice in the wilderness.

The malfunctioning soul is likened to a carefree catastrophe, where myriads of mechanics and technicians strive to direct inoperable machinery.
Are you aware, that I can see the depth of your pupils and feel the gyrating rhythm of inhibition as it cautiously lingers on the edge of an ophthalmic funeral?
It truly is possible to have sight, yet to have no vision.
However, if we legitimately manipulate the energy within our sphere of influence, then we shall fornicate with unfathomable depths of shaman sight.
Like a rock which bakes in the desert sun, we must remember those cold and starry nights where perception is personified by the nutrients of plants.
I love those goose bumps upon your skin.
Baroque is the fullness of sound, when the classical guitar strikes a chord with the folly of presumption.

Having embraced the calamity of advancement and mocked the simplicity of sporadic rodent behaviours, can we now cross into the alternate galaxy where ancient and accepted Scottish rites were birthed in an Ayrshire cottage of culinary festivity?
I am aware that it truly is a matter of taste. But who will officiate amongst us?
Your deep lamentation is acknowledged, amidst this order of ******* symbolism, despite those Northern and Southern hemispheres of demonic expression and convoluted discrepancy.
The percussion is a sign that the offal festival has begun.
Spiritual alchemy is not without its price on this winter night of dank precipitation.
Let us loiter in the depths of depraved chambers as the mist hangs her weary head over diurnal and nocturnal disagreements.
This is my first offering, so we must form a magic circle.
It feels like netherworld to me, on this twenty-fifth day of the first month.

I exonerate your freedom of expression, as it reminds me of a grandiose display where extravaganza proudly flaunts herself to captivated masses, without shame.
The evidence permeates its way through our fallen souls.
If you were to caress the jagged edge of freedom and acknowledge the liberties of unequivocal slavery, then perhaps we could interact beyond the deepest and darkest hours of early morning recommendation?
Wanton lusts are irreligious as they parade themselves among the throngs of a murderous vindication.
Therefore, we must make haste to the throne of divinity and stand before the king, oh harlot of discrepancy, where we can give an accurate account of musical utopia.
Is there anything that you want from me?
A brief encounter is characterised by reckless youthfulness, and reveals itself before the parameters of respectability.
We hang on with vanity.
You can **** me now.

Chords of expression fray into the misty atmosphere of a nocturnal energy field, where hermits display magical arts on the cliff-tops of allegiance.
The application of force is intensified with heightened awareness, as it will produce the desired effect.
Are you willing or able to acknowledge that there is a resonating vibration which surpasses timeless universal parameters?
My cat is watching me.
Therefore, the question arises around whether the concept of perception is defined by conservative projections or unbridled liberty?
So, if we meander down those narrow and solitary roads of Andalucia to the small village of Pastelero, where snakes discreetly writhe into the fields of golden grain, we will find that an exploding teardrop is more powerful than a sonic boom.
The sickle is an astrological formation which compels me to ask: Where have all the flowers gone?

Your belief system can alter that which is considered to be reality.
Although vulnerability is a parade of commonality which adorns blissful blinkers, we must never forget that we are inseparably connected to parental validity and unequivocal yet treacherous insecurity.
I do not believe in gender stereotypes and embrace the promise that the taste of copulation is as beautiful and rebellious as teenage wanton prowess in possession of a ligature in a dense forest.
So, my darling, wear your crown.
It’s an acoustic romance where death has cultivated a harmonious melody with an essential bass.
How beautiful is a classical symphony of sadness which is enriched by a recent discharge from hospital?
The train meandered its way along distant tracks toward South-Eastern utopia.

Breathless are those archaeological excavations which once occurred within the geographical contours of Wisconsin.
Many times, we have questioned the whereabouts of your face amidst this crisis of disbelief. It’s like a cake which has been sprinkled with mid-Western naiveté.
Edward was once adorned in deviant beauty, where presumed innocence was held captive by strategic intellect which surpassed stereotypical assumptions.
How virile is your temperament, as it sails within the lower decks of a Spanish armada across strato-cumulus formations?
We have just commenced our finality, where words are unable to reflect utmost confusion within a paradoxical insight which transcends ontological awareness.
Forgive me, as I have swallowed a battalion of deviant souls, where netherworld lubricants simply whet my unfathomable appetite.
Death is our intimate and co-habiting stranger on the left-hand-side, don’t you think?
I have drawn my sword in anticipation.