In this Order of Eastern Templars, I cannot help but feel that my guardian angel has departed.
Yet, I can feel the summoning power of her fluttering wings as they soar upon the celestial thermals of my inferior and frontal-lobular cognitive pathways.
There truly is a difference between magic and magick.
Having heard the echoes of menacing footsteps as they confidently follow the antiquarian hallways of Celtic castles, it is important that we cast our circles amidst this tantric ritual of ****** prowess.
Accessing the alternate universe is not dissimilar to a philosophical and mathematical manifestation of ambivalence.

Let us contemplate the superiority of striking presumption, as it seeks to pontificate the order of architectural allegiance.
Oh, Grand Master of Greco-Roman antiquity, I bow before the sacred volumes of legal pronouncement where unseen rituals tangibly assert their authority over those who seek to embrace the ancient pathways of knowledge.
As the degrees of freedom transcend the definition of a mere mathematical concept, we must never forget the formulations of our Hellenistic forefathers who chiselled the shape of the Order into the annals of the future.
As we give thanks to Set, we acknowledge the blindfolded ceremonies of sibling homicide which encourage wisdom in this circular lodge of self-binding.
Harpocrates is our God of silence who gained sustenance from feminine anatomical structures – and we are like Isis who has been impregnated by Osiris.
So, as we cast our gaze beyond the rites of this ****** union, let us acknowledge those ***** masonry structures of obelisk stability.
Have you been born yet?

It is necessary that we mourn the loss of courageous and liberal oratory genius, which has articulated wisdom across socio-economical strata within the echelons of aristocratic deception.
Our reason is characterised by far-reaching shores which lie beyond the predictability of Northern terrains within the clearances of a steadfast spirit.
Therefore, listen to the conference of autumnal foliage, as they cast their biopsychosocial formalities, which crackle upon the European political pathways upon which we traverse.
I love your red roots, which unravel a bouquet of scandalous refreshment where percentile volume is consumed within the glass of a bared soul.
Resolution is likened to a scientifically twelve-stringed classical portrayal of integrity.
Let us not forget the appetites of those predators, who feast upon defamation of character.
A coalition is an alliance of various parties who converge into an eclectic conglomerate, where the credibility of your being rests in the jaws of a seductive vampire.
So, as we travel across this conveyor belt of dismissed proclamation, we must acknowledge and embrace our unleashed restraint.

The spirochetes of the ages embellish themselves in a mystical quartet, as our respirations reverberate across sanctimonious plateaus of Oedipus and Electra complexes.
Your celestial convictions are tasteful as they wistfully meander through the fuselage of hydrangea bushes and ***** foxgloves.
I can feel the beat of your apprehensive pulse.
As we applaud the demise of this psychological stage-show, where connected separations unravel their shameful mysteries into a vortex of deluded academia; it is evident when someone communicates deep convictions across pulsating swamps of cosmological hemispheres.
So, as we merge into this cataclysmic vortex of enshrinement, let us embrace the past understanding of future ambivalence where the beginning can only be understood within the context of the end.

The action of a stiff-upper-lipped sophistication hinges upon a fornicators conception where the intensity of lyrical articulation blinds her unwitting recipient with a spellbinding embracement of non-reality.
It is an aristocratic relinquishment where two barrels emit their projections with wilful intent as they posture themselves side-by-side amidst this gothic oasis of shimmering puddles which reflect light against the darkness of our ontological ambivalence.
It goes without saying: duplication is grievous to the creativity of a searching soul.
As death has been birthed into our lives, it is important to pay homage to our predecessors who began the end with conception.

Will history ever alter her ego across the seven seas of my swelling heart?
I love your unkempt hair, as it reminds me of a slippery ghost with unfathomable locks within the bounds of gender usurpation.
I must now make contact with my forefathers who hearken from ancient pastures of nether region mysteries.
As we balance freedom with permission, we can abandon ourselves to economic conundrums where we shake hands with our master.
I love your blackened pupils as they remind me of a casual vortex which seductively spirals into the abyss.
Lost authenticity has been retrieved.

Like a Victorian harlot who wears long-sleeved velvet gloves, her ghostly fingers tantalised the trigger of my ancient dreams, where vulnerability paraded herself with a boisterous demeanour.
However, my friend, the eyes are the window of our aching souls.
So, as we balance upon this verge of hypnotic entrancement, it is vital that we pay homage to the plants of the dark forests.
Just like the canopy parade of parental ambivalence where suppressions assert their course fumbling of contemporary controls, the atmospheric silence is deafening.
As I have already mentioned, the dichotomy of equality has slid herself up and down upon the phallus of historical expectations and self-abandonment, don’t you think?
Now, the frontier beckons us with her harsh legitimacies, so we must never forget the power of the diviner’s sage as she leads her flocks beyond the parameters of perception.
Can we now have an immediate discussion?