I am lost for words, as I am empathic with the planet.
Although we truly stand in line for death and the afterlife, it is important that we mother our young.
I do not deny the allurement of sociopathic inclinations and I heartily validate the sexuality of suburban expression.
But, we both know – politicians rise like winged beasts from the murky depths of sociological oceans.
Can I touch your skin and give you compliments?
I love your being, just as it is.

A mere flickering shadow of innocence is engulfed by a tidal wave of abominations.
Although I have been stolen from the wings of the elements, I perceive salvation in the face of eternal execution, as the sound of the bubbling brook cheerfully communicates to the Mare Tranquillitatis.
Oh, cratered regions of death – your guise is blatant, and I have not yet eaten.
So, I bow in humble acknowledgement of such treasures of frivolity, and consider the aroma of baked apples.
How magnetic is this attraction?

How delicate are your thoughts as they dart across this barren wasteland of disconnected paralysis.
They are like a procession of lost souls where Armageddon is monopolised by political wolves in sheep’s clothing.
Although social responsibility is upheld in collectivist cultures, mass conformity perpetually showers her wages of betrayal upon the ravenous souls of materialistic and Western denial.
What is the time?

What are the legalities of coleslaw?
Are they the mere sum of the whole where chocolate is presented as a thin skin which spans the surface of a wheat-based figment of elusive imaginations?
As we casually stand under this winter sky, it would be irresponsible of me to maintain silence as we race towards the beginning of a checkered board of savoury perplexity where the science of food may be held in question.
Are you ready to remove your coat?

The encapsulating power of silence is a beckoning wonder of the universe, as we abandon our awareness and travail toward psychedelic oblivion.
Although Neolithic tendencies have shaped our foreign fields of hybrid plantations at the expense of organic exuberance, it is wise that we listen to the concerts at dawn and dusk as they echo from the depths of the woodlands.
In our unwitting state of being, owls often grace us with their ghostly presence.
This sullen atmosphere is so damp with the juices of forgotten dreams, and we are not yet shrouded by the mysteries of such treacherous slumbers and defensive immobilisations.
Look at the patterns upon the rock of the Badlands where geological delicacies are too difficult to masticate.

Oh, weary soul of post-modern controversy - I appeal to your essential being: although we have been dealt a hand of political gymnastics, I urge you to maintain rigidity within your flexible openness.
let us set the temperature to approximately 360 degrees and we will await tempered steel as she bursts forth from the darkest tunnels of conservative prohibition.
My liberal constructivism stands aghast the parades of laborious vaults.

Scale the walls of knowledge, if you will, my Western friend of ambivalence.
But, before we leap into the crevasse of botanical diversity, it is important that we understand that the smoke reveals beings which traverse physical paths of obscurity.
So, we must relax and give careful attention to the details with which we presume to be confronted.
Interpretation is a concept that reminds me of chocolate-covered mint fondant.
It is all in the power of the suffix, don't you think?

Anglican death drips her intoxicating pronouncements around the squares, whilst obscure gossip prevails in the forests of Massachusetts.
Give me some bread whilst I stir this cauldron of distorted communications.
Will you please explore my future epitaph, and guard against the myriads of undertakers who seek to raise the chalice of dark and oratory expression?
Let us travel together, as we have already channelled the wisdom of the ages.

Having borne witness to the attachment of wires around lunar geographical parameters, I am curious about the voltage limits of electric chicken.
In its southern-fried condition, I now draw your attention to celebratory flutterings around the Maypole whilst masticating upon ancient crop circles.
Apollo may be affiliated with Grecian mythological ancestry, but I have found harmony within the branches of dendrology.
As the seas of our sovereign forefathers cry aloud from palaeolithic runways, a multitude of timeless deities cluck amidst the hay of eclectic Kentucky.
It is only one minute to midnight.
We must depart now.

Can you hear the wheels of the carriage, as they hasten along the stony tracks of Anglican countryside?
Oh, deviant highwaymen, you are concealed by damp foliage, and I have not yet reduced the heat.
I fully appreciate those discussions where connection to other realms freely occurs without inhibition.
Oh protector of the commonwealth, I long for your parliamentary executions.

The chemistry of humanity depends upon integral structures which are irreversible in their construct.
Although we have erected many fences for the purpose of protection and advancement, we have forgotten the imminence of certain solitary confinement.
Horizontal and vertical glycoprotein binds us together in this circumference of global interrelatedness.
How colossal is this experience in our first chapter where ontology thrives beyond the inseparable experience of 15-17 verses of time?

I have discovered myself to be lost in shimmering puddles of an ancient dream where the recollections
of an acoustic guitar delve into the depths of an autumn sky.
They are unequivocally related to damp wellington boots, butterscotch and bacon.
At last, I have balanced upon the glorious edge of unfathomable childhood rituals where esoteric plantations are shrouded by a hedge of Britannic history.
So, as you seek to slide down the steep and icy pathway into the park, make sure that you return by 9 o’clock in the evening because the black nun wanders around those ghostly woodlands where religious buildings remain to be sunk into historical graves.

Oh, to feel safe in our borderline exposures.
Please understand that there is no threat.
I know that you maintain empty perceptions of mere existence.
However, let us be mindfully intentional in the moment of flourishing foliage, and never dismiss equations where cottage cheese is extremely tasty on a plain *******.
How much have you paid? And have you surrendered to protestant refusals?

I have heard the haunted whispers of screaming and necrophliac anguish from the depths of the eerie crypts of ancient mausoleums.
There is a damp smell in disused railway tunnels which generates a fearful sense of grateful awareness.
Flying down the streets in astral projections of nocturnal liberation reminds me of the warmth of hateful urinary incontinences.
Does a Gold Star adequately represent a brand of brown sauce, or does it represent something else? Please enlighten me, as the guise of Rabatak inscriptions unravel ******* dismay.

I have an insatiable appetite for oxymorons, as they can be violent in their state of calm relaxation.
Although Bacillus anthracis is truly antisocial within the context of biological weaponry; so, domestic discipline has become intertwined with the Hindu philosophy of Vatsyayana.
So, what do you think about that?
Personally, I have never consumed methylated spirits even though I have unravelled a myriad of ideologies whilst my boots concealed precious opioid syringes.
Therefore, always reflect upon the Code of Hammurabi, because she is the epitome of savory stew.
How alternative are your affiliations?

Taste the after-glow from a deepening twilight extravaganza of Victorian burlesque.
I am saddened by those Machiavellian splendours of geographical landscapes, which interfere with the dance of spirits between the mystical stones of druidry.
Have you ever tasted cheese from the New Forest?
There is a subtlety of flavours, and I celebrate the orchestra when torrential rain saturates the soul with flash floods of sensuality.

The Gregorian calendar has evolved from insular Celtic languages, whilst the epitome of death is witnessed by desolate tree-tops of silent and haunted hills.
As we bask in the radiance of harsh winter precipitations, I acknowledge his birthplace in Ayrshire. We are asked to give credence to the important lyrics: Haste Ye Back.
The national party has pronounced Brosnachadh Bhruis, whilst partaking of the offal pudding at the address of the laird.
Our sectarian intercourses are ceremonial ejaculations in the bedlam of staunch affiliation.
I can feel the spirit of damp historical ancestry on this Presbyterian eloquence which surpasses Hogmanay by a mere 25 days.
One more thing: Don’t be a stranger.

I am already saddened at the severed tie of unanticipated disconnectedness.
Bonds of the soul are beyond the figment of our frail imaginations.
Black Sunday may give us what we call a “special deal”, but we have to pay greater homage to the powers that be – namely our ridiculous “White House”.
In the era of advancement and confusion of colour, I give thanks for your genuine being.
The forgotten will truly be remembered, and we will raise a final toast to the anaesthetic of contemporary propaganda.
Do you honestly think that you will be safe? Nobility does not reign in absolute finesse and the Fertility of the land is not without its benefits.
In my obscurity, I urge you to plough the fallowed ground in the spirit of the English countryside.

Who are the seers of this world?
Oftentimes, their perceived sense of safety is fenced-in by their very constraint.
Dare you be different in the age of minimalistic conformity?
On our own heads be it, my delicately-dancing friends of eggshell walkways.
Seasonal variance has already begun, despite our willful resistances.
In our perceived safety, we have mismanaged a nest of rich paupers.
But our administrative denunciations will crumble in the state which dwarfs individuals for the purposes of cultivating docile allegiances at a cost that no words could ever articulate.
Thank you, my postmodern travelers of continuum.
One more thing - have a good night.

Orphan roots are banished into Bermudan-like triangular realms of presumed stability off the coast of Neptune,
Whilst abandonment firmly establishes her ancient dendrology.
Are your connections deeply entwined in the postmodern era of presumed certainty and deluded rationalism?
The method of self-transfiguration is evidenced on the mountain-tops of vanity, where the purging of the soul with self-flagellations is an archaic and scornful memory to those who claim to be enlightened.
How rooted are your roots? Does your reason stand trial in the docks of uncertainty?
The autumn leaves are changing color, and the birth of death reveals a beauty which, when embraced, flutters her powerful wings in the dawn of a frosty voyage.
I believe in ripples of probability.

Rain-clouds linger in cumulonimbus fascination where the cultural class-formation is shaped by abstract territoriality.
Pressure gradients of global awareness are impacted by the adiabatic process.
So, turn up the heat and chill in the waves of dialectical ontology.

New England is triumphant, as she maintains the historical roots of North America.
Rebellions were concocted in order to inform and subdue those who were impressionable.
It is unfortunate that truth was concealed by presumed greatness, and that the problem continues.
Political agendas prevail in the West in the name of consumerism, and the Great Architect of the Universe continues to unravel the delusion of a seemingly greater design. The obelisk will bow to cosmological establishments, and the flag of unity will no longer be recognised. I will now say goodbye to the President and his constituency.

The spirit of the age projects a myriad of peculiarities which are diametrically opposed to the wisdom of our ancestral manoeuvres of foreboding contemplations.
It is sufficient for me to say, that I have rolled up my trouser-legs in metaphysical resignation.
Lest you forget, that the history of our posterity is shrouded in post-Edwardian etiquette, as she balances on the brink of relinquished community.

Hugging a wall that is made of brick is a certain projection of an identity which has never been discovered.
Shower your soul with the warmth of French kisses and laugh at those imposed moral rectitudes.
******* bonding is a coercion of unity where aggressive independence lurks on the banks of youthful sexuality.
So, dominance no longer maintains power, and an empty shell of proclaimed significance is now rendered inoperative.
Truth has bared her gorgeous glory, and endless voices of self-disclosure resound throughout the cosmos.
Can you hear them?

Osiris is the Egyptian god of the afterlife and triangulation is a mystery within the context of interpersonal dynamics.
The world, as we know it, is subject to greater influences, despite the manipulations of those who presume to be sophisticated.
I love my cat. He is my familiar Sphinx of the West, and I have been acquainted with his wizardry for hundreds of years.

The fiddle of the early settlers shrouds societal expectations with the warmth of impenetrable solidarity. So, buy into the fields of the farms, as the wheat sways in the fields of the mid-west.
Rock your chair on the porch of possibility and consider the howling winds of northern loneliness.
I have to ask: To what depth are your intercourses?
As the saloon echoes with screams of debauchery, the Sheriff flaunts his badge of moral rectitude. “Do not speak to me!” he said. “You are deserving of death!”

Look before you leap, because there is a chasm of fashionable awareness which is subject to the discriminations of the wise.
The cactus is a survivor in the desert of Arizona. But I will follow you if you dare to escape. Tadpoles will truly fertilise the obscurity of fallopian wells. Rise up and walk. Come on…break away from the chain-gang.

Venturing across the threshold of blatancy - Can you navigate your way through the complexity of this intoxicating labyrinth?
Political smiles greet the masses with plausible uncertainties. Like parasols and blue skies? Or cinders and ashes?
Waterfalls continue to flow and bumblebees pollinate great plantations. It’s coming to a close. The curtains of finality are hastily swishing together in this last triumphant finale. Progress is the name of the game. It’s a picture of lost innocence – a catholic calamity involving haunting silhouettes of the great and mighty perimeter. What do you think? Death warmed up? Give a great round of applause for Vanity Fair.

Delve into the void where ecstasy spirals her sensuality into a cosmological inertia. Do you know what it is like to be suspended in catatonic amazement? If not, then trust the keeper of the cast-iron gate, because I know the power of your appetites. Ancient battles may be considered to be trivialised injustices in the age of self-aggrandisement. But justice will prevail, whilst the indelible character of history casts her shadow of memorable resilience, where Jacobean ghosts will never rest.

The altar of exactitude is as tedious as cooking a turkey by the flame of a matchstick.
Listen to the whispering spirits of the forest, as they echo in a beautifully haunting perpetuity.
Do you feel the chants of the ceremony as they flicker against your skin and penetrate your apprehensive soul?
Symbolic feasts abound in the turrets of the ancient and crenellated towers of gothic castles where gargoyles reign in masonry brilliance.
That which is assumed to be forgotten by contemporary presumption remains to be fully present, despite contemporary dismissals.

What is fun, in its perceived definition? I can only imagine bountiful beauty as I contemplate such psychological explorations. It takes me to places where there are no limits, and where that which is deemed to fit inside the barb-wired fences of acceptability do not prevail. Let us retire to this intimate beach of oneness in a state of being which transcends time.

I miss the fields of Andalucía, where the Sierra Nevada can be seen in the East from Costa Del Sol perimeters; and community is something which far surpasses the façade of being in the same room. Sliced onions in the abode of La Villa Rosetta will permeate the Milky Way on Spanish rooftops, as herds of goats amble along mountain roads. But let us forever remember that chorizo is beautiful, as she proudly displays her scent against the turrets of Algeciras. I love a fiesta, because familial chords remain uncut.

Is trust really a delicate dance of uncertainty?
A lamb may skip with innocence over the bright dandelion-covered meadows of our majestic urban constructs, whilst Mother Nature unravels her thick carpet of jeopardy, without reservation or shame.
It is possible for us to refrain from captivations which allure us to the psychological precipice and to appreciate the chords of the blues which beautifully tantalise the innermost recesses of suppressed and forbidden yearnings.
So, join hands with the sonic waves of Saturn and respect the psychological precipice with sober awareness. Darkness and daylight are not dichotomous astrological differences where fatalistic determinism stands in diametrical opposition to authentic internal equilibrium.
Contemplate the soothing and beautiful anticipations of dusk, where the flight of the bat reveals a miraculous contrast against the deep pastel curtains of the night; and acknowledge that twilight exposes her morning glory in the simple droplet of dew.
The shadows hold no substance. Metamorphosis is a tangible possibility in the realms of existence. Do you believe it?

The solar system reclines in the flowing locks of your hair.
Floss the soul from the rhythm of nocturnal galaxies.
Can I please urge you to humbly acknowledge those strato-cumulus signs which signify the altitude of brazen sensuality?
Pressure gradients are real you know.

Parental affiliations shroud the perimeters of sociological desperation. Like a gorgeous eye which cries in Gaelic rainstorms. Feel the texture of bracken, as she scrapes her tangible beauty against your pale and excited skin. But hold your breath, my ever-connected member of covenantal being. Do not let go of the tantric touch of spatial awareness.

The equilibrium of the ecosystem is challenged by the rites of the 11th Century Norsemen. Smell the pine in the forests of North America where the dream catcher swings in the branches of the misty Boreal forest.
We must never forget in our futile plight for supremacy, that the roots of trees are deeply connected to the annals of history where contemporary grandiosity is a mere mirage of what we call sophistication.
Toccata and Fugue in D Minor is where Johann Sebastian Bach communicated his message as clear as the cries of those who were slaughtered in the Highland Clearances. Parallel octaves of our Viking ancestry are firmly established and will never be altered despite the quests of the New World Order.

Purge the soul with self-flagellations, if you so desire.
Vanity finds no fulfilment by the power of conscience and the rhythm of Jazz rocks the intricate aspects of familiarity.
So, my brothers and sisters of our Great and Mighty Family, I urge you to relax and to abstain from your impulses.
Guilt is empowered by unsubstantiated perceptions of what we think is reality. But what is in it for you?
Freshly baked bread conveys a pleasing aroma that is not unfamiliar to the patriots of New England.
The Early Settlers understand.
I would recommend that you let it go. Do not rise to it. Simply feel the pulse.

Transnational capitalism is a gluttonous preoccupation of the aristocrat. Although Simone De Beauvoir nailed her colors to the metaphorical mast of equality, it is reasonable to acknowledge that our perimeter lies beyond intra-personal vistas of gender identity and ****** preference.
The Lord of the Manor will grant entry to your greasy soul, if you embrace the common denominator of anthropological affiliation.
So, weary pilgrim, on this treacherous journey of presumed arrival: I urge you to identify that spiritual lobotomy of the majority where ontological convenience jeopardises the rich tapestry of our planet’s pulse.
Collectivism has a cosmological duality which will never be reconciled as long as parliamentary ridicule insults the intelligence of equilibrium.
Whatever happened to democracy? And, why do you simply conform to dictatorial messages which sink their teeth into the very flesh of community existence? We may not be able to alter the direction of the wind, but we can truly adjust our sails.

The skin of consumerism parades her promiscuity in desolate and sheath-like urban stratospheres.
Gaze upon the beauty of a hanging basket and understand that the flutes and trumpets are an orchestral force of nature.
But permit me to cut to the metaphorical chase, oh pilgrim, amidst this treacherous journey of socio-political asylum -  
Propaganda is a scaly, oratory genius who wholeheartedly adopts her role in a manner which is not incompatible with the very last day in October.
And the spirit of the blues unashamedly casts her vulnerability to the masses with utmost integrity.
Therefore, I have to ask: do you balance on the brink of hilarity or calamity?
Turn up the heat, oh seductress of the ages, and watch those colors change.

Norway maintains a Viking history, where longboats travelled to the Scottish island of Iona.
Torch the abbey in the name of paganism, and you will be exposed to galactic prohibitions which have a flavour of eternal questionability.  Can I please urge you, oh Norseman of ceremonial undertakings: If you ensure that you ride the sonar waves of superiority, then you will find beauty in those haunting chants of the Celtic glens.
Forgive me for being uncertain of my footings. I believe in classical symphonies.

Black candles burn, and the wick of life slowly reduces her beautiful self to certain uncertainty.
I don’t know about you, but I have been bewitched by the seductions of Eve.
Why?
Because she is spellbindingly irresistible in her raunchy nakedness. Babylon may reign in the guise of liberty – but how blissful truly is ignorance?
Geological mockery echoes her ****** laughter in the canyons of inevitability, whilst we stand on the precipice of conception.
So, my seasoned companion of confusion, let us rest in ontological comfort as the universe unrolls the carpet of kaleidoscopic dreams. Everything is fine.
Honestly!

Evidence may demand a verdict. But have you verified its credibility? What do you know? How do you know what you know? What are the parameters which have been set? Who has set these parameters? Many thoughts are nothing more than mere wishful thinking and flights of analytical fancy. But listen-up, my contemporary brothers and sisters of our planetary sibling beauty - epistemology is questionable. The world is full of non-believers, half-believers and make-believers. Is there another category which escapes my shallow attention? Please enlighten me. I humbly seek your wise counsel. I will defend you, despite the false allegations of your very personal prosecutions. Plausibility is not always as she may seem to appear.

It all starts in the beginning, where the innocence of infancy is wrapped in swaddling-cloth and guarded from the prevalent realities which are, in hindsight, considered to be non-existent. Give a standing ovation for childhood deception, which promotes secrecy in the name of what is called “child protection”. Those obvious characteristics of what is known to be adulthood, have an expression of moral permissiveness which is grounded in a fallacy. But the best is yet to come, as it is more blatant than expected. That sheltered level of ontology soon becomes an unadulterated exposure to expectations that were previously unanticipated. Life truly is full of surprises, isn’t it? So listen up, and harken to the threefold beat of the womb:
May you have the hindsight to know where you have been.
May you have the insight to know where you are.
May you have the foresight to know where you are going.

Independence and autonomy are subjugated by the transnational bourgeoise; and a colorful Mediterranean cuisine is not dissimilar to the Machiavellian arrays of contemporary propaganda.
Therein lurks a traumatic bonding from the origins of Stockholm, which is characterised by a cryptogram of questionable empathy.
It truly is a lucrative business, oh hamster on the wheel of dissociative conformity. Have a consultation appointment with Salvatore Lucania of La Cosa Nostra.
We are boiling in a fascinating and central superintendence. Therefore, my weary and ego-dystonic figment of contemporary virtual relationship: Do not express allegiance to your captor.

Black candles burn in the same manner as the wick of life diminishes in certain uncertainty.
Pursue what is considered to be attainment whilst geological mockery echoes her laughter in the canyons of inevitability.
We are on the precipice of conception. Do you believe it?
Intellectual supremacy bows her head in humble acknowledgement of eternal principalities.
Give gratitude to the universe, because there is simplicity in what you consider to be complexity. Stop fighting destiny and embrace nirvana.

I have connected with Hells Angels who embrace undiluted violence in the quest to find release; and I have to say that I, too, believe in the swift administration of justice. Further education is often necessary. If it is withheld, then presumptions will continue with misplaced grandiosity. So, let us not delay as we seek to Triumph over poor accountancies. The debt needs to be paid in full, my friend of forked suspension.

Come in! Come in! Enter into the viral abyss of the ages.
Give thanks to the astrological signs in the name of the ancient wisdom of the oak tree.
Smouldering coals convey their warm and glowing connectedness in a medieval village, whilst the screeching owl swoops into the lofty turret of the olde English churchyard.
Will you pay homage to the proclaimed majesty of Anglican monarchy? Dare you submit your soul to the authority of King Henry VIII in the guise of what is deemed to be Catholicism? Listen: Thatch your roof my naïve friend of putrid beauty – the real plague is already upon us. Can’t you feel the tangible octaves of the harpsichord?
The rhythm of midnight will never deplete in her resounding cries throughout the universe.

Torrential rain forms an interference pattern deep within the puddles of the soul, whilst vegetation gains sustenance. Electricity may be a force to be reckoned with because it is a commodity which has monetary significance. Multicultural delicacies are a work of art in La Cucina Toscana, and I wholeheartedly acknowledge your internal drives.
We truly are a deep river which is never the same when it is stepped into more than once. But we can balance it all out, because relativism tells us that there are no rules. How absolutely ineffective is such a position. I am amazed. Just think about how we determine the consistency of seemingly genuine interpersonal transactions. If you want to find healing, then we must look to the howling winds of Siberia, where solitary journeys are sealed with a definite song of permission.

As autumn leaves fall, they chant a ceremony of resignation. Can you feel the beat?
Savour the acoustic romance and acknowledge that the lion is the king of the jungle.
We simply cannot surf the parameters of sanity without emitting a scent.
Rest assured that the folly of foliage is profound in its wisdom.
Trees are our spiritual forefathers who have borne witness to what is concealed from us.
It truly is a mystery. But understand that no ghost will be at peace until it moves on.
Savour the rich and eternal aroma of seasonal variance.
History has not released her grip from the present and demands recompense.

So we find ourselves, once again, succumbing to the very anticipations of our ever-entrenched customs. What lies in store for us, is not yet revealed. But trust me - my deep, spiritual and connected partner of positional variation: just go with it. The musky scent of agarbathi is sensually captivating amidst the fiery secretions of India. How powerful is your experience?