Can you feel the caress of the Northern wind, as it screeches across the baron plateau of the anthropological crack and strokes the contours of your oily façade?
The slippery blackness of this gale interferes with the propagation of ambivalent feminine intertwines.
Herbal remedies have cast their fragrance into the arms of Ashtoreth.
Therefore, you must now investigate the callous and empathic chords of my legitimacy, and I promise to blend my classical resonance with your deplorable soul.
If this is a public inquiry, then I must set sail from the dock and traverse unchartered horizons, with my tank filled with the required fuel.
Let us placate the earth, together as we unleash extravagant ceremonies of ****** ferocity.
We have swam across the laughter of the Sea of Clouds in this lunar expression of divorce.

There are certain gradations of evil within our tragic yet beautiful cosmological vacancy.
As there are particular typologies, we must not allow ourselves to be infatuated with ex-partners nor allow ourselves to succumb to the temptations of delusional sadism.
Do you exhibit dangerous characteristics within this antisocial and eclectic blend of euphoric ambivalence?
Let us make arrangements for a special room in this forensic hotel of diversity where criminality can slice across the vistas of humanitarian presumption, like a psychological autopsy.
Everything is not as it may appear to be.
That, my friend, is the finesse of humanitarian deception.
Welcome to the brotherhood.

Let us mine into the depths of Shakhty, and scorn the Western state of communist superintendence.
We are embroiled in a political and industrial conglomerate where cold wars lay the foundations of unstoppable monstrosities.
Converse with Andrei Romanovich Chikatilo, as you splatter milk across the surface of your psychological cereal, and raise questions around the episodic nature of criminal profiling.
I love the olfactory beauty of a railway station, whose stench is dissimilar to the pastures of raunchy and deadly opportunities which result in Rostov butchery.
Nevertheless, it is rooted in crop failure and the enforced collectivization of agriculture.

The figment of a naïve imagination is likened to a complex system of underground roots.
How elaborate are your projected destinations?
The pathway is not dissimilar to that of one where angels fear to tread.
I have borne witness to flourishing palm trees as they float on their desert islands across planetary divides where the blue whale ***** her powerful wings across the atmospheres of dreamy lunar memories, galloping towards the origins of infinity.
I am grateful that the ancient spectre resides within the deep seated split of our sophisticated inertia.
Can I now pollinate your petals, where witches cast their spells beyond the castle walls and where the mare wanders in the depths of the forest?

Our destination is not northbound, as we hasten through those dreary woodlands where teardrops explode like incendiary regrets into deep puddles of misplaced trust and the awareness of lost opportunity.
You presume to be a pupil of the teachings of Horus.
I can see those excavations within the darkened cavities of your eyes.
The evidence of hieroglyphic ambiguity has unfolded her rich deposit of convenient and tidal avoidance.
Therefore, let us swim to Kepler and ride those sonic ripples beyond the unraveled and ancient texts of Nekhen.
The harlot has spread her wings, and the nerves twitch inside our optic vulnerability at the power of her seductive prowess.
As it is possible to have sight without vision, I express my animistic gratitude to the cosmos, where detachment from the socket of Atum is connection to infinity.
The writing is on the wall.

Do I have permission to board your train of unequivocal resilience, as we waltz into the aromatic contours of an Arabian illusion?
Letters have been written in the annals of predictive history as we slide down those astrological poles of heightened depravity.
Can you hear the chants of the spiritual forest, where silence screams her prohibited philharmonic octaves throughout the strata’s of seventh heaven?
The spirits of northern tundra have beckoned my weary soul to withstand the tides of obscurity.
What is your name? And, are you a victim of this desert storm of acoustic serenity?
I urge you to remain on the path, because if you ever get lost, then I will not have the privilege of meeting your acquaintance.
That is the sequel of linguistic wealth and intimate resentment.

The enchantment of a chase through the damp forests of Celtic mysticism is a treacherous yet beautiful feature of uncertain anticipation.
Just like the bustle of the contemporary metropolis, with her predictable and hypnotic flow of trans-national capitalism, we are caught within the web of paradoxical liberty.
Thank you for igniting my torch, as I travel across spiritual plateaus where the elements reveal the spirits of the dance.
My torch has brought comfort to those stallions who lead me beyond Hungarian kingdoms where Vlad Dracul continues to reign.
Hastening into the Societas Draconistarum, the wheels of my carriage have lodged themselves into the stoney and tragic tracks of seductive ******.
Please do not forget me.