Sings hymns to appease the wrath of the gods.
Plough the fallowed ground and acknowledge that feminine seductions are the source of interplanetary equilibrium.
Is that the best that you have got? Well, we know your wiles and will not succumb to your enticements, despite those expectations of the authorities.
A wet orifice certainly comes at a price, yet her warmth contains forbidden properties in the face of ritualistic defiance.
So, my heavenly being, I urge you to bow the knee in humble adoration to your anatomical deceptions.

I am somewhat perplexed at the clash between neutrality and expectation, as we genuinely present our being on the field of open vulnerability. I seek to find synthesis in this very moment, between emotional thesis and antithesis. Oh, my literary companions of global interconnected and eternal being, I beseech you by the power of respiratory arrest: dare to surpass the line of expected mediocrity, where few will ever tread. I am hungry. Let us acknowledge that "authority" is a questionable truth and let us resonate with the awareness that truth is an infallible authority. The character of perceived vulnerability is steadfast in the face of assumed evidence.

The soothing and nostalgic rhythm of yesterday beats like a hypnotic pulse which cannot be denied. It really happened - for good or for bad. Can you enter into the olfactory memories where innocence was shrouded by an authority, where social sanctions were conflicted?
Loaves of bread in a supermarket are not the subject of mere chance. Systems and procedures are required in order to display the final product. Do you understand? I am not so convinced that you do. So, fill up your tank with gas you ******’ idiot and keep on keepin’ on…just like the rest of mediocrity. Well done! You are almost there. But where is “there”?

I am intrigued by the questionable science of what is deemed to be equilibrium, where the dance of shadows evolves into an exhausting predictability.
Please: Give me nourishment in the name of planetary appeasement.
Diligence may pay a simple reward, but I am tired.
Thank you for the surging power of electricity. I can feel its superior waves.

Please enlighten me in my utmost presumption, because I fall victim to the limitations of sense-datum.
However, I feel no conviction around my ambivalence because their truly is an ebb and flow of permissiveness.
Oh, the texture of Egyptian cotton is shameless within the spread of her luxurious, symmetrical and prestigious corners.
Please, do not open the door, for I suspect that the wolf will be at large. Let us not become so encapsulated by systems at the expense of metaphysics.

Are you able to feel the depth of the forest, where wisdom screeches throughout the branches of the olde English cemetery.
The harpsichord is majestic in its historical and royal sexuality.
Render your ****** taxes unto the so-called order of the sophisticated wilderness.
I am perplexed at what we have been conditioned to believe.
But the Church of England is now obsolete.
Thank modernity for relativism if you so desire.
But understand this: The foliage of humanity will never be swept under the metaphorical carpet of autumnal bewilderment.

As we speak, I am in the vortex of a Purple Haze.
Seattle has produced more than a reputable brand of coffee and the great hall of fame resounds throughout eternity.
We are acknowledged by Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain - don’t you think?
Come as you are, because freedom is just another word for nothing less to lose.
So, my sensual mistress of musical engineering - shake those deep and hypnotic dreams from your hair and watch where you point that gun! Okay?

How bombastic is the traditional English breakfast, as she spreads her colorful and cardiac enticements across the span of our traditional expectations.
We have far surpassed the golden age of steam, my gorgeous friend of midnight festivals.
Their truly is an eerie silence which is deafening, when seaweed caresses the surface of oceanic intrepidity. So, my brother of anthropological inseparability – kiss the breeze of this powerful and enigmatic mysticism.
I praise the shamanic divinations of Bolivian forests, where entrails are the delight of Haruspex and the Erythroxylum Coca bends her rigid stem on the West face of the Andes.
I have one question to ask of thee: How do we truly interpret Mesopotamian liver?

The perforations within our assumed wisdom, lay bare the essence of our very folly.
Similar to the tea-bag, our prestige fills a void which lies below the strainer of presumption.
Will we ever count the cost of our labors? Is our money invested in the wrong opinion?
How unique truly are we, in the midst of mass conformity?

Aren’t you amazed at the propagations of politics? But let us not become enraptured by the plausibility of oratory wonders. That which is palatable, yet unexpected, is revealed in spectacular semantics. The winds may blow the surface of grass from side-to-side, as we perch on the threshold of a new dawn, while rhetorical laughter echoes her hysterical shrieks in familial connectedness. We are truly on the brink of advancement – don’t you think? Scottish mist hangs her powerful head over the glens of Rannoch moor, in a manner which is ghostly atmospheric. The clearances of old will never be forgotten in the valley of Glencoe.

Cast the nets from Jupiter and ensure that your mixture rises in accordance with the original recipe.
Bow in reverence to the almighty compass, because Bonnie Prince Charlie raised the standard at Glenfinnan.
If we recognise the heraldry and follow those romantic recollections of yesteryear in the present, then repercussions will echo in the city squares with contagious laughter.
Astronomy informs us that the fifth planet from the sun has a powerful magnetosphere. But, is “bigger” truly “better”?
Whichever way we slice it, let us acknowledge the limitations of our judgments and partake of the available sustenance.
Savour the taste of our solar system.

Board the train of Buddhist convenience whilst sparrows sing in the midst of societal demands. But remember this: the soul contains cherished secrets which are nothing less than a miscarried dream. So, keep planting the ******* garden of the great and mighty West, and the Goddess will exalt your ceremonial lusts. The harvest will come, and you will give birth to Southern discrepancies whilst sandalwood emits her sweet and pungent fragrance. We are captivated. Thank you for your astral Participation.

So, help me out. Where do we go from here? Do you have any suggestions? Because I am open to cooking a dish that is beyond gourmet. There is something truly pertinent about time-keeping. Diligence is required in the metaphorical kitchens of existence. Recipes are diverse, and the appeal varies amongst those who partake of such culinary delicacies. So, my cyber-babe of astral travel - what have you got cookin'?

Focus deeply into the historical crevices of granite Scottish castles, because
secrets lie within the virginity of undiscovered mockery.
Therefore, my friend, plant your vegetation and cultivate the ground, where spiritual significance is a mere contemporary homage to something that is treacherously misunderstood.
Spin the wheels of fortune, and never forget the importance of baking bread at the correct temperature.

The howling winds of Siberia caress the stratosphere.
Follow those ancient dreams where superstition and perception merge into an infantile vortex of beauty.
Blue whales may cry from the depths of oceanic platitudes, whilst the resignations of Summer Solstice are portrayed in her alluring and flamboyant sexuality.
I have to say, that I am concerned about her position with regards to further pursuits in the age of annihilations.
Blackcurrant jam is truly connected to the sound of southern California, where it would be wise to walk closer to the fulcrum.

Success is a mere construct that is subjectively incompatible with professed spirituality.
Butter may spread with ease on a slice of bread, and it may not.
There is something appealing about the grains of sand which lodge in obscure places.
The texture of nature is truly fraught with the bliss and tragedy of North African mysticism.
Geology may be ancient, but so are the sensual indulgences of Cleopatra.
The construction of wonders remains to be perplexing; and I haven’t cleansed myself in milk.
Cairo is the epitome of occult curiosity where Anubis reigns in contemporary economics.
The All Seeing Eye promises safety at the cost of homage.
Identify yourself. If freedom doesn’t exist,
then why does the abode of the dead eagerly impose determinations?
Fly the flag. God bless America.

There is a sign by the side of the road. It commands your attention, but reveals that there is a four-way junction of spiritual and anthropological significance. Do all of the paths lead to the same destination? Or is that yet another mere flight of fantastical perception which questions the validity and reliability of what is hailed to be absolute? Can you feel the bark of countryside towers, as they proclaim a majestic forest of light? I am truly rested in the comfort of my insignificance. How about you? Seasoning of the slippery soul is necessary, my very much connected culture of assumed independence. The train is coming. Do you hear it trundle ever-closer to your Freudian avoidances? I bid you goodnight, in this astral journey of uncertain predictability.

Abbreviations are obscure.
Aren't they?
But I bow my head in certain familiarity with the letters: A.S.A.P.
We have been here before, in yesteryear, today, and eternity.
It is plumbed in the unfathomable depths of what we call "space".
The diversity of experience is tangibly present.
I don't know about you - but I can just about cut a slice of it and eat it, right where I stand.
Talk about having your cake and eating it!
That is likened to the freedom of a bird of prey, as she surfs the thermals of the Great Expanse.

Delusions of grandeur abound. Sophistication and advancement are sold to the masses and deceptive merchandise is purchased with a commodity which is trivialised in the name of relativism: our soul.
Fixed false beliefs are embraced in the quest for enlightenment, despite the lunacy of such an approach. Analysis of the snowflake may be captivating; but fluctuations of environmental equilibrium reduce its beauty to a tiny trickle of moisture. There is truly nothing new under the power of the Sun. So, pursue anthropological evolution and astrally project into mystical horizons at your almighty will. But I appeal to the universe: bring back the medieval celebrations of lunar amazement. However, let us not forget that the trials of Salem are a perpetuating characteristic of our triumphant modernity. I want to take you Home.

How do we convey our being? I am sugar-coated, just like southern blues which is confined in a state penitentiary.
I love the smell of a diesel engine – don’t you? I am reminded of the mystical concoction of cider, lager and blackcurrant.
Unfortunately, we all have to wait for this predictable executioner.

Draw your sword in the mist of the dawn and let gratitude burst forth from the deepest crevice of your ancient soul, just like a bubbling brook in the forest of tidal convergence.
The romantic lane of nostalgia is decorated with encapsulating country milestones, and the era of Spanish Enlightenment flaunts the sombre excellence of Francisco Jose de Goya Lucientes.
So, what is your philosophy?

Baron wastelands sound the trumpet in the midst of the ghetto, where sobriety gathers in connected ambivalence.
Acknowledge the animism within naturopathic spirituality. I urge you to have explicit ******* with unfamiliar prostitutions, whilst political prowess ingests her toxicities in the guise of oratory genius.
The expulsion of vanity is haunting in its reverence.

The fluttering wings of angelic partners echo throughout the distant parameters of musical horizons. Have you felt the grip of warm and contracting concertos? It is important to give accurate attention to the feeling of the sound, as it transcends our weak articulations. Is there a hole in your heart? I plead with you: do not be vindictive. Why? Because your calm and faithful walk down the streets of cirrus amazement are admirable, and your heartfelt embrace is not divorced from ******* gardens of socio-political symphony.

Raise your glass to the emptiness of social prestige, where the long and desolate corridor of ridicule is shrouded by the fantasies of those who covet recognition.
However, we must realise that the hall of fame is utterly incontinent.
Feel the acoustic waves as they collide with vibrations of intra-galactic virginity.
Stolen innocence modestly presents herself with Gaelic solidarity.
So, mother your yearlings while you can.
Surfing the urge of protest is not dissimilar to common teenage captivations.
Give credence to the natives of the land.

Let us execute concealment with the members of our fig-leaf-covered modernity.
There is a special tree of eternal significance where authority bows to the constraints of predestined lunacy.
How much do you want to buy from me? Half an ounce?
Let us please converse over the threshold of ancient modernity. Why? Because that is not uncommon to the self-proclaimed grandiosity of our wonderful establishment.

There is warmth and resolution in that which is unresolved.
I can feel the pulsating rhythm of Bartolomeo Cristifori.
The sound of England is haunting within her damp and desolate castle walls.
What a concerto of sexually promiscuous and ghostly resignations.
Let us burn the wicker man in the name of political Luciferianism.

The Kingdom of Morocco has a rugged mountain interior which reminds me of the British meal of mince and potatoes. But hold that thought, and examine our seemingly superior Western legislation. Just like the pickle, the dynasty of death is a brazen festival percussionist who is celebratory in her bitter and gustatory inevitability. Jizyah is that taxation which is imposed upon those who fail to conform to those expected societal norms. Although we have the status quo, one cannot help but wonder what happened to the rectitudes of individuality and paradoxical equality? So, where do we go, oh navigator of the great and mighty West? Marrakech or Rabat? I have no concrete awareness of where solace is to be found. I am lost! Therefore, I can only offer the following direction: Contemplate the ever-changing intricacy of the dunes in anthropological amazement and acknowledge the sky at night. Allow the celestial pole of the North Star to speak to your deep uncertainty. Our purpose is openly displayed if we simply open our heart in the midst of our Bedouin oasis. That, my friend, is the essence of being psychosocial.

Who is the keeper of your gate in the land of ambiguity?
Pour wine into a glass and allow your heart to resonate with the pre-frontal cortex.
Light an incense stick in the name of narcotics while certain death lingers in her sexually provocative attire.
Who are you, really?
Hour-glass sand is like a pharmacological sexuality which allures the vulnerable to the brink of ecstasy.
Do you understand the ritual?

The pungent aroma of sandalwood is a poor diversion for the administration of intravenous ******.
One may be spellbound by whispering seductions which can lull a person into a golden-brown complacency.
Overdose captivates the attention, and the reality of fantasy pervades the human heart in the same manner as an arrow from a crossbow which strikes the soul in Sherwood Forest.
It’s a texture like sun. But many are the afflicted under her psychoactive propagations. Now you truly know what it is all about. Or do you?

Is what we perceive truly subject to the constraints of our linguistic and conceptual phenomena?
Our ******* assertions are provocative, as they proudly stand and penetrate the depths of prevalent and superficial exaltations.
We perch upon the thin branch of various tenses in the plight of our eclectic articulations, whilst the irregularity of the shape does not hold significance.
Our cognitive representations of reproductive and anatomical semantics are like gothic architecture, where flamboyant and erogenous zones of liberation succumb to transcendental towers of majestic hauntings.

The psychologising of the masses is a contemporary pestilence where those who are metaphorically deceased by political wiles, form impetuous lines in the quest for an array of implanted micro-organisms.
Although I have never conversed with the ghosts of Tombstone, I have blown sand away from many obscured surfaces.
As bryophytes are damp botanical mats which cleave to the ancient and symbolic markers of death; so the writing is similarly attached and strewn across our grand societal walls.
That which was once concealed is now blatantly revealed.
Therefore, I appeal to the social construction of what is presumed to be reality: Can we please now unite and carve humanitarian lines into the stony face of our confabulated habitat?

Have you ever tasted the spicy barrels of a firearm?
Although self-control may hammer her heart in rhythm with contemporary recollections of a distant Northern community; I have resigned myself to proclamations which can never be repeated in the streets of Miami.
I know that tropical storms can be relentless, especially where tuxedos are triggered by intense and acoustic fields of romantic death.
So, tell me, what are your co-ordinates? It is important that you pump your lever in a forward direction, because the troposphere hinges upon all of this anthropological turbulence.

The City of Derby holds her breath amidst the crisis of historical ramblings and talkative expressions of inhibition.
Do not be deceived. Roaches are not mere insects, but are also three-course celebrations of haunting and religious engagements. There are Peaks which lie beyond the stratospheres of Leek.
Although the parameters of yesteryear project their own splendour, let us acknowledge the silver hair which drips with eternal statements of antagonistic adoration in Curzon Street.
Oh, rose of Sharon, in my sheer lack of understanding, I do not invalidate those instructions to depart from Birmingham New Street.
I have deeply immersed myself in Welsh pools of genuine loss, and have found a precious commodity which I had never beheld in former lifetimes.
Furthermore, I lament the loss of such generational integrity.

Aluminium ladders from the attic creak during forbidden midnight ventures, whilst auditory perceptions of Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy echo within the magical darkness.
Many times, Dolly stood at the edge of the platform and articulated prismatic pronouncements, as the train hurtled along the tracks.
We must permit our nostalgic souls to remain attached by silver chords, as we travail along the corridor of indiscernible planes towards twilight.
Therefore, my slippery soul of simplicity, we must hold up the lantern in this obscure existence. Joe, I have toasted bread by the coal fire within the flickering shadows of overwhelming anticipation. Your carriage awaits.

Difference involves a discernable set of identifiable concepts, where soft cheese can be wrapped in cosmetic triangulations.
I know that electricity is a paradoxical commodity, where black diamonds resonate with something which is dissimilar to the larger expectations of society.
Like I said: miscellaneous conceptions of mature virility are evident to three-sided arguments. Aren’t they? There are three sides to every savoury story.

The misty Bulgarian wilderness can be heard in the howling winds, when the curtains of the night are drawn to an ****** and violent anticipation.
Damp and ancient stones are impetuous as the rusted Iron Gate releases the scent of a gothic funeral pyre.
So, visit your loved ones and acknowledge those succulent orifices of the earth.
I love Lilith, because she is Slavic in her secreted spirituality; and I love her rabid fornications inside those forbidden walls.

Recollected memory is subject to a host of ancient inaccuracies, where psychoactive crises are currently attributed to ghosts of a distant netherworld.
Have you ever wrapped your hands around the power of a train as it meanders down the tracks of contemplation into the distance of realisation? How loud is the scream of the butterfly?
I fully appreciate that there is a difference between visual and auditory senses, even though one may see with their ears and hear with their eyes.
Can you taste the classical mantras of sanskritic language where vedic chants find solace in the bridge of the sitar?
How phenomenological! I can feel your trembling pulse, my antiquarian partner of contemporary lusts.

It is incumbent upon us to interpret various environments in this multi-dimensional tapestry of holistic landscapes, where celestial ecosystems abound with pulsating organisms of diversity.
So, let us translate our literary concepts in silence, as we traverse cross-cultural vistas of universality.
As indigenous beings reach beyond the sparse and pompous settlements of our ******* city towers; there is something incomprehensible which transcends our ambling walk through this urban pasture, as the train departs from the classical platform of El Chorro.
I am mesmerised by linguistic creativity, as she echoes throughout distant galaxies of enriched and unspoken mystical vocabularies.
As empirical verification is not possible, I must beseech thee: Where are the connoisseurs of this poetic dimension?

I am able to acknowledge the different seasons, where climate and vegetation are some of the various characteristics which are subject to unforeseen variation.
Our spirit is not divorced from scientifically defined Earthly parameters.
Have you ever heard of the wet and the dry seasons?
I must urge you to give thought to your position in this ever-changing climate of indigenous being.
The octaves of intense pizzicato are able to establish the facts with accuracy, where words are inadequate.

Have you ever experienced the visual awe of a blue whale as it ***** its powerful and feathered wings in the boundless three-dimensional expanse whilst surrounded by plush desert islands which are littered with palm trees?
Let me tell you: there is another meaning to “finding your place” and it’s a technique of religious ecstasy.
The crumbling pillars of Ancient Greece are suspended in astral and catatonic amazement.
We know that analysis certainly destroys close associations which involve transparency, vulnerability and reciprocity.
But, right now, I must bask in this marine and aphrodisiac texture of planetary vibrations amidst a union of senses.

I can feel the rhythm of death.
Have you ever been deceived by esoteric allegiances to presumed sophistication?
I have to make a statement: It is necessary to set the temperature, and to yield to the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.
I resonate with sorrow at this festival of Winter Solstice.
Feel the beat.

The limits of learning are determined by our character.
There is a collision between unconceivable worlds and we lack the criteria for differentiation.
The smoke of divination clearly reveals the crack between parallel universes.
Do you have an ally, oh spiritual conquistador of naturopathic roots.
Can I urge you to become introspective, as we engage with wonderful entheogens where we generate the divine from within?
Socially determined parameters of what is deemed to be usual are subject to fearful denials.
We would never experience twilight without dusk.

I am acquainted with the Keeper of the Gate, who stands at the centre of the labyrinth with royal authority.
Have you cast spells upon your destiny?
In wisdom, let us acknowledge that we receive less than the minimum wage for such prophetic dismissals.
Therefore, I radically accept connection to the unseen flow and venture beyond the realms of predictability.
So, I no longer make declarations or indicate anything in advance about the Great Circumference.
As we learn to reach an altered state of consciousness, we will then connect transcendental energy into what is deemed to be reality.
This is the essence of full-system psychological shamanism.

There is a resonating rhythm which cultivates a warm embrace from electric boldness.
Congruence is to be found within the fire of an athame, where familiarity can direct energy from each quarter of sacred space.
As nature displays her petals with utmost sincerity, there is certain direction to northerly earth, eastern air, southern fire and westerly water.
Invocations are personal. I now feel the need to consummate our equilibrium. Please do not be offended.

I have openly altered my state of consciousness and have connected with astral planes where the channelling of transcendental energy into the room has occurred through vibrations from the soul of music.
A spellbinding stream of conscious connectedness truly pulsates through unseen realms of reality.
In order to participate, we must understand that healing cannot be defined by the limitations of familiar vocabulary. Therefore, let us permit shamanic drumming to throb within the network of our being.
Thank you. I can feel your transparency.

Have you ever been enveloped in the skrying wings of a dragon?
There can be terror in such comfort and there can also be comfort within such terror.
Oh, treacherous philanthropical tides of global improvement – lunar magnetism has led me to draw my sword in this Golden Dawn of revolt, as I bask in the magick of Boleskine soil.
This liquid pond of astral reflection has generated ripples across trances of eternal curiosity.
Stroke the beast and ride the physical planes with authority.

Do you perceive the deep crack within the fulcrum of the universe?
Daylight and darkness blend into a hypnagogic and hallucinatory kaleidoscope, where the art of fantasy rises from oceanic depths in the form of a seductress who rides upon the wings of a horned god.
We could even enter into meaningful discourse, as we contemplate psychoactive echelons of spiritual intensity?
Are you hungry?

The dichotomy of purgatory is sprinkled with the delights and disciplines of a fretful uncertainty and steam locomotives can sound menacing when their pistons seek to establish torque on those rails of pursued destination with mesmerizing force.
I know that time is like a fondling excitement, where constellations of perceived energy fields become intellectually categorized into mechanical parts of a metaphysical ******.
Universal parameters of death may generate mischievous laughter, which resound throughout the silent galaxies of cosmological meadows.
I have to say that geometrical co-ordinates automatically invoke thoughts of plain paper and hot chocolate – small figments of homosapien pastures where grazing is not a realistic occurrence.
As we perceive the eternal impressions of epistemological nihilism, let us play the game of religious patience on this checkered board of architectural bliss.

Let us now decorate the symbol of life and ensure that the protection from Scandinavian and Turkish witches is confidently displayed at our thresholds whilst snowflakes silently fall.
Are you able to recollect the innocence, where the magic circle of Arctic captivation nurtured the sending of burnt letters through anticipatory chimney flues, deep into the twinkling sky at night?
There is a certain connection to the pattern of Odin - the guide of souls.
In wisdom, I have left savoury and alcoholic sustenance for ancestral spirits between the high places of Ounasvaara and Korkalovaara. So, here it is my sibling energy field of eternal carbon footprints. Once again, the Yule buck and its Old Norse master are soon to descend upon us.
So, although it may have been outlawed in colonial America by Puritans in 1659, we must also acknowledge those infinite prints of cloven hooves in the deep snow of 1038 a.d. in this mid-winter nativity of Cristenmasse.
As we celebrate the harvest of Kekri and consult with Joulupukki on the forest ridge, the symbolic colours of red, green and gold will lavish perceptual and spiritual gifts which are unable to be purchased with material commodities.
As this festival has gradually evolved into an obscene Western construct of politico-economical prowess, we must identify one more thing: Santa is an anagram for Satan.
Is this truly Finnish or Byzantine? Perhaps it is just cosmological ethnography?

I beseech you my brethren of universal extrapolations – can we please engage in open and articulate *******, without apprehensive projections?
Connection fails whenever intensity prevails, and genuineness bows the knee to supposed sustainment.
Now that we understand that the quest for independence and that freedom is not divorced from pack loyalty; I cross my legs and contemplate yogic restorations of astral attainment whilst sitars command conventionality.
So, let us converse in a manner which is soul to soul. Doesn't that just remind you of baked fish and fruit punch?