The heart-warming sound of an acoustic guitar provides sincere resolution amidst the anguish of uncertainty, in the same manner as the classical Spanish guitar projects her intensities in Sierra Nevada assertions.
Consider the beauty of the finca, as she is a throbbing source of sustenance where romantic pastels merge into an array of Moorish delight.
Let us never forget that such instruments of eternal communication cannot find affiliation in the arenas of Roman legacy.
I give thanks to the order of being for the tuning of the symmetrical aphrodisiac.

Let us awake from the decay of strategic costumes where the incestuous fragrance of madness permeates golden dreams of eclectic strokes.
Bureaucratic self-enhancement nurtures docile manufacturers of laborious compliance, whilst social conscience plummets to depths of callous and entrepreneurial versatility.
Enduring imitations of an unsatisfactory kind is like pairing mint fondant with rich and savoury gravy which is acquired with strategic dishonesty.
Oh, negligent wakefulness – will we ever arise and discern those lobotomised representatives in this legislative brothel of excessive absurdity?
Shake me at one minute to midnight in the House of Lords.

Although the experience of trauma is a certain force with which to be reckoned, one can frame its power within the realms of a problem or a possibility.
Consider the bond of brickwork in Massachusetts, as it resembles structures of olde, where the witch trials were an extension of ******* Catholicism.
Please acknowledge that there is lead in the windows of rickety black-and-white buildings of Tudor establishment, which must remain if its integrity is to be preserved.
It truly is a long way to the top of Australasian rebellion.

My insight and awareness are shallow, to say the least.
The realms of cognition and perceptual familiarity are subject to dogmatised interpretations of political agenda, which salivate with idolatrous and economical intercourses.
Are your activities of a voluntary nature? Then like a lamb to the slaughter you shall march.
A lack of consensual engagement equates to an experience of ****.

Connection involves a reciprocal flow where being detaches from nothingness into an inseparable unity.
So, let us acknowledge the colours and feel the vibrations as they transcend the parameters of compartmentalism, into an infinite and unified whole.
Attempts continue to socialise us into the abyss of perceptual bankruptcy with materialistic carrots where the fabric is truly frayed despite plausible and intellectual argument.
So, I want to talk with you as we swim in deep rivers of generational statements, which are released from the conglomerate of necrotic unions. I raise my glass to realms which lie beyond tangible and finite chords.

Legions of wrinkled spirits nestle in the desolate branches of the ancient oak tree in winter solstice, whilst advancement is celebrated with ritualistic conformity.
How many crimes need to be committed, my delinquent colleague of egocentrism?
Our ****** expressions often betray our convincing articulations, as the lack of authenticity lurks between us like a perpetrator who has escaped from his maximum security cell.
Such phenomenon may vanish. However, there are others which maintain physical matter.

I am truly vacant in the midnight hour of rock and roll nostalgia. If you flick the page from left to right, then you will find Celtic ruins of acoustic and electrical genius. I have personally borne witness to the black dog, as it runs down the country lanes of Kidderminster. It looked frightening over Brooklyn where hot-rod flamboyance yearned in historical yieldedness. Although the *** is boiling on the country stove, we must always be mindful of the children as they play in the bubbling brook of souls.

There is serenity within its self-stimulating prowess, as a legion of testimony sways in the easterly winds of dendrological plantations. Can you feel the power of the banshee as her Irish spirit cries in the face of certain death? The herald of Caoin is a lamentation for your long and pale hair.
Oh relentless gestations of hatred, I appeal to your haunting foreplay.

Home can be a place of resonating affiliation. However, the echoing cries of perplexity can also convey a message of tragedy. So, let us blend into the rhythm of sound, as it pulsates in its hypnotic and meandering intensity. Violence is not golden.

Can you feel the grain of antique furniture as it rests in a collectible era of ancient insight? The first meal of the day no longer appeals to me amidst the carnivorous projections of feminine vocals, because the casual walkways of a house and its cereal expectancy have equality with Italian sausages and dishes of tabular wonder.
Dust the cobwebs from the curiosity of flaking window frames. Will you open the door to the nether region of symbolic ecodesigns?

If you were to venture across the forceful shelf of societal direction, would you succumb to the currents of the majority? Right now, I need to take a step back into fresh perspective as I give consideration to my deceptive impulses.
A New York cheesecake is surely seductive in her decadent and caloric beckoning. However, English sausages are not dissimilar, my opinionated guide of presumed health and well-being. So, take a hike over endless moors of serial-killer familiarity, because I offer myself upon the altar of elocution.

The finesse of the grand piano captures a certain acceptance of historical bereavement and resonating relief. The paradox of the saxophone is like the stillness of a winter morning where the deer stares into the steamy eyes of humanity with traumatic gaze.
Now, something has just occurred, my connected soul-mate of universal relativity. We have dominant chords and major scales, and we aren’t even puppets or fish.
Visualise the wheat as it sways in the gentle breeze, whilst the rusty pick-up truck races down the gravel roads of Southern enticement.
My porch creaks as the chair of astral projection casually rocks her sincerity back and forth in epistemological fornications.

Does your trust know any boundaries in this seemingly plausible abode of temporal and eclectic uncertainty? I have just satisfied my appetite, yet suffer ambivalence as I contemplate those who surf the waves of marine predictability. I can only present one suggestion: Go to Tradeston and acquire perishable foods in the name of nostalgic self-indulgence.
The outer limits of our galaxy recognise multi-directional infinity as the bounce of jazz permeates the atmosphere of resigning perimeters. I have decided to ride the atomic beat and to make something tasty in my adolescent innocence, as we lurch into finality.

The professions of our leaders are paraded across longitudinal and latitudinal vistas. However, I have to ask: Whatever happened to the possession of that which is professed in our contemporary shell of delusion?
A princess may depart from her Celtic docks in order to sail back to her Anglican roots; and the fabric of high society may display an appealing veneer which covers explicit nakedness in the name of mass psychology.
So, my articulate propagate of conformity, I urge you to don the profound tuxedo at your avoidant desire. But please do not seek for me to enter into the denial of our core identity.
For those who are willing to rock this boat of ludicrous salesmanship, I raise my glass to testicular rectitude which transcends gender stereotypes.

I am like a lone wolf who hastens across the tundra of Northern Hemispheres, with stealth.
Our temperature has risen and the Chinook boldly reveals her austere formation across the vast expanse of alpine variation.
I understand that your customs may be nomadic, as they roam across the treeless plains of baron socialisation.
But will they lead you beyond the West coast of Ecuador?
Therefore, always remember that layers of permanently frozen subsoils are designed for terrestrial corridors of arctic sojourns.

Take a glimpse back down the cobbled Roman road, and you will bear witness to a catalogue of decadent milestones which await unrestrained consummation.
But I am now a weary pilgrim who wanders through misty forests, where the sound of cracking twigs around the badgers sett, shatters the serenity of twilight ecosystems.
Toadstools are not a part of my current diet. Therefore, I bid you farewell. When you stand by the sparking fire at the ancient gatehouse, you will resolve the carnival of hypnogogic and hypnopompic startlements.
Therefore, before you begin your journey of forgotten mystical awareness, I must ask one thing of you: are you able to recollect your whereabouts in the next lifetime?

Gargoyles surround our city of masonry genius and a haunting practicality is displayed in its omen simplicity.
We know that fairgrounds can be fountains of doom – obscure environments where innocence may collide with strategic and predatory wiles.
So we must ring the bells in the high towers and allow the town-crier to proclaim his message without hindrance, from ancient waterspouts.
Close the gates of the country manor and focus upon the sophistication of the dance, where captivating etiquette conceals her heartfelt fornications. Will you approach and indulge yourself of that which is available? Come on. You know that you want to.

The singing birds may waken you in the morning, only to expose you to another day of uncertain disconnectedness. However, the late afternoon handling of newspapers could result in textured fingers and a black nose, whilst ice-cold rain pelts against your jacket with a forceful concerto of magical precipitation.
As you stand dripping wet, my indulgent adolescent of traumatic naivety, always remember that Popeye will be speeding hastily toward your confectionary impulses.
The dog behaved like a royal prince, as he gracefully licked ice-cream from the cone of his masters’ desire. Further Turkish amazement could be found in the palm of his hand, whilst snowflakes fell, and the tracks of police vehicles gradually faded during blizzards of the night.
Silence truly speaks across pink morning skies, as we gaze out of the window into resounding flights of fancy.

Let us climb into the trenches of remembrance as we shore the sides within our millennial avenues of decorum.
Presumed freedom is perched on the edge of a crumbling cliff-top, despite our triumphalist vocalisations about historical purchases.
Someone may choose to place their hands to the side of their face, in an attempt to block traffic from peripheral vision, whilst marching across spiritual intersections. However, this does not reduce the reality of being impacted by oncoming traffic during the vain attempt to cross to the other side.
Five minutes to one is not a good time. As we soldier forward into deeper depths of decline in the name of advancement, let us position our hands at approximately twenty-five minutes to six.

Reflections are a mere temporal depiction of time, as it was.
There is longing, acknowledgement and gratitude when awareness strikes a chord deep within anatomical structures of musical ambivalence.
So, what is loss? Does it equate to finding freedom? Whatever your philosophy – just remember that New Hampshire makes a blatant statement to live free or die.

So, what are the options, my distant companion of presumption?
A blade of grass may stand with confidence between gravestones, but lichen yields her established presence over the course of history.
Grey hair, spectacles, and naïveté were encapsulated by marital convictions of questionable integrity.
Thank you, Mr. Jones, as you confidently spread butter over the surface of a slice of toast.
We truly have an anchor which keeps the soul, steadfast and sure while the billows role. It is an early 1980s destination, where the staunch sound of patriotic sectarianism prevails.

At this specific point in time, I pause and give contemplation to the definition of time, whilst the echoing chords of pizzicato remind me of lettuce and a comfortable sense of direction in the face of adversity.
Chicken is very much related to time. Now, I know that such loose associations can be categorised within psychiatric parameters. However, such assertions are not baptised in epistemological fires. If you and I rise upon the wings of the wind, then we will understand that the aroma of Ellen will etch herself in the psyche of eternity.
I am comforted by the wisdom of predestination.

The bond of brickwork is vital to the structural integrity of delusional tradesmanship.
Idaho is a state to be reckoned with when the future of marital and maternal roles stand in juxtaposition with self-loathing.
Yet downtown Boise is a cultural centre of safety even though massacres occurred on the Oregon Trail.
I am now drawn to consider the simplicity of a cheese and pickle sandwich.
It is all in the shape and tactile quality of the word.
Teachers can be boring in their unconvincing sterility, so it all depends upon the type that we are talking about, doesn’t it?
Let us never forget, that we cannot build meaning upon the foundations of a vacuum.
It is incumbent upon us to hold hands as we traverse this challenging path where we seek to avoid psychological ****.

Fragile projections of a delicate solar system are foretold behind the gates of the damp castle walls.
I recognise the commanding gentleness of the icy North Wind as it teases with advances of forthcoming brutality.
Chunks of freshly baked bread and thick wedges of cheese are stapled to history with the blessing of a contemporary Mother’s Pride.
We have travelled light years apart, yet we are inseparably joined at the metaphorical hip.

The horse and cart slowly meander along the village path, while smoke arises from the depths of the forest.
Rotten teeth, debauchery and jugs of beer abound whilst the curvy buttocks of the wanton ***** are groped in medieval lust.
Let us engage in stories of superstition around the fire tonight, as its sparks break the eerie silence of olde English folklore.
Look at the children, as they stare wondrously with open mouths before bedtime. The tension is tangible.
Long live the King.

Fluctuating equilibrium is not divorced from the pleasure of pain, or from the pain of pleasure.
One may deem the price of gas to be expensive. However, its price can plummet overnight, to joyous depths of consumerism.
Smell the slow-cooked meat as it retains its succulent moisture, where the slicing of flesh releases secretions when parts are severed from the whole.
The cello can be an orchestral wonder of this perplexing theatre, yet thought-provokingly sombre in its captivating liberty.
So, make a decision from this rich menu of trans-global culinary indulgences. But please, do not forget to tip the pretty waitress.

In the face of persecution, one can drift away into dreamy fabrications of swishing and gorgeous hairstyles – jealous of the seagull as it dismounts the lofty perch of the streetlight and gracefully swoops away into the distance.
The moment of self-loathing and raging sabotage is nothing more than a serial false loyalty.
I validate your alphabet where there is simplicity within the intricate complexities, and where the yearling suckles the lactations of its mother.
Trauma has pre-natal connections where silent screams ripple throughout eternity. Therefore, calmly observe the stiff upper lip of deluded professionalism, and describe the realistic mirage before you. Participation in laughter is not always rooted in sincerity.

Insecurities are usually masked by specific external characteristics.
Looking back, I can visualise dead wasps as they floated in water-filled jam jars on the foundations of the Campsie Fells.
Please, will you save all your kisses for me amidst this mass observation of our voyeuristic society?
I give thanks for the blood that pumps through your veins. Can I explore your labyrinth within these flittering and electric shadows of death?

The Stratocaster was dripping with emotional intensity, whilst my head vibrated against the window of the bus during a deep and innocent slumber.
We fret so much my friend. If I want to adjust the outcome, then I am simply, yet sensitively, required to turn the relevant key.
I fully understand the beat of the red-light area where tragedy and pleasure have disloyal intercourses, and the texture of its currencies are likened to the intricate task of baking cakes in front of a shiny chrome bumper.
Skillful finesse is required if the recesses of our soul are to be tantalised. So, let us celebrate the night.

Those who embrace the morose departure immediately transition to their arrival destination, in the same manner as the crystal-clear droplet of dew which steadily detaches itself from the leaf on the end of a branch.
Stroke your soul and acknowledge the reality of fantasy, if you dare to venture into the realms of vulnerability. However, one must fully accept that presumed freedom is usually nothing less than serving a harsh custodial sentence.
Forgive me for being bold: How do you define the concept of cost? It is wise to step back and look deep inside, as one will find that the roots are laid bare and that they are screaming for sensitive caresses.
I have already distributed the tickets, and there are many that remain to be freely available. But it is only seconds until departure.

Forensic psychology is not an exact science, despite the lofty assertions of those who are deemed to have expertise in the face of non-empathic presumption.
Please, do not dismiss the wisdom of those who are seasoned in the metaphorical school of life. It is far too expensive, even though there is an apparent and mutual understanding between those on each side of the great divide.
Dazzling suits and coherent reports do not adequately represent intricate diversities in the docks of criminality where the laughter of the prosecution echoes throughout the beams of formality.
Therefore, sociopathy and psychopathy remain to be inadequately defined.

Scholastic escapades of theft and the smearing of stools are a sure janitorial surprise in suburban utopia.
I have scraped dinner off my plate, onto the floor.
So, pick the tar which slowly drools down the shaft of wooden telegraph poles in the height of mid-seventies summers, whilst classic rock resounds her commanding octaves throughout the snow in summer.
I have always respected those who are elderly and have given thanks to solidarity whilst sausages spark in the frying pan.
Look at the crows as they maintain circular flight above the stony church steeple, and rebel against authority whilst you wet your bed.

Are acceptance and approval synonymous terms? It is important that we give adequate definition to that which blocks our winding garden path, where foxgloves, lupins and a multitude of botanical dreams can blossom into a gorgeous array of ****** captivation.
If we embrace that which is repugnant, then possibility may not be confined to the cradling arms of the mistress of death.
So, my judgmental and moralistic companion from the sands of Jupiter – if your daughter is a raunchy stripper, then keep your expectations on the leash and preserve your anthropological connectedness, otherwise you may veer into prickly thorns of certain detriment and thereby lose her attachments.
It is incumbent upon us to nourish those fragrant plantations with a careful approach, so that beautiful reproductions will abound in a bouquet of resolution.

Forgotten memories remain to be a significant part of the rich tapestry of contemporary establishment, just like an Indian summer which dries the drab and weary soul of those who are ******.
History reveals that the Spaniards sold Erythroxylum Coca to Bolivian and Peruvian populations, whilst tyranny exerted its illegitimate dominance.
So, the quest for power and social control remains to be exploitative in the guise of jovial and seemingly convincing salesmen. Just ask the shamans of traditional cleansing.
The pulsating groans of ancient civilisations will never dissipate, despite the lusts of mankind to establish grandiose constructs.
Oh great and mighty spirit of the land, we need your residence amidst our conceited political climate, because you have truly won the war even though our realisation is blinded by fierce presumption.
I desire to take a bite of historical and gourmet delicacies, and to swallow the diversity of gustatory brilliance, because their remains to be a discrepancy between Spanish and Portuguese validity.

So, what do you think about the dynasty of Babylon? Freshly cut potatoes which are deep fried can be displayed upon colorful plastic plates, which may trigger a spiritual sustenance of simplistic expectations which are immersed in Glaswegian nostalgia.
Therefore, I contemplate the goddess of the moon, as she is enthroned in Celtic tenements of astral plains.
Entrance-ways are characterised by the musky scent of the tomcat, whilst the purring sounds of diesel locomotives echo along the tracks of mischievous linearity.
So, although I acknowledge Osiris to be the Egyptian god of the dead, I am tentatively perplexed about Northern and Southern boundaries of grandparental occupation. Shake those sensual vessels of salt and vinegar. Do you know why? Because there’s nothing like it in the cosmos.

The storms of life may never cease to blow in their unanticipated direction. However, you are able to withstand in the same manner as a Jacobean fortress which is not dissuaded by the extremity of Highland elements.
The color of your hair is a sure sign of wisdom, despite those self-doubts which are not uncommon to the sincerity of our humanity.
So, my fellow sojourner, in this perplexing yet beautiful pilgrimage: rest assured that the dark side of awareness can be applauded by our empathic insights, where those who are haunted by ghostly shadows can bask in the radiance of legitimate validations.
Therefore, I urge you to carry that blazing torch into seemingly unfathomable depths of human experience, and to illuminate those treacherous paths of uncertainty with the confidence of ontology.
There is no price upon that which you can impart. Therefore, humbly acknowledge the taste of apple pie, and display your bountiful banquet before those who are emaciated.
The universe requires your personal enrichment.

Love is like oxygenated blood which pumps through vascular decades of sensual experience.
Soaring upon the thermals of the Andes, the flight of the Condor reveals perspective of the land, where events are perceived in their complex entirety.
I am fully aware that  music can be hypnotic in its ever-flowing stream of rhythmic nourishment. So, there are many parts which make the whole.
Therefore, in the height of our carnivorous quest for survival and intermittent gratification, let us bow in reverence to the many elements of vaginal rituals. It’s a rhythm and blues encore with wings which are not comparable to those of Icarus.

The vibrancy of youth now succumbs to the anaesthetic of indifference, like testicular feminisation of the masses.
I often contemplate the indifference of cacti in Arizona, where handle-bar moustaches curl with the worldly-wisdom of motorcycle gangs.
So, strip meat from the perimeter of the wishbone and feel the waves of nocturnal celebrations, as we slide into a deep winter slumber.
You will waken from a crisis of identity and be emancipated from stereotypical cavities where thorny plantations thrive amidst unforgiving terrains.
Snap it in half, and you will see mystical Arabian genie’s arise from magical carpets.
Oh, one more thing: I am not a detective.

Familial connectedness once again balances upon the brink of severed reconciliation.
I regret those detachments of which I had no accurate knowledge, and I have come to realise that those precious smells of nocturnal celebration far surpass the Scottish occasion of Hogmanay.
The East coast of Scotland will never cast aside her conscious awareness of masonic peculiarity.
So, I proclaim that our significance and identity transcend steel constructs which span the treacherous marine pathways of The Forth.
Did you happen to see the most beautiful girl amidst the smoky atmosphere in Yoker?
Snowflakes will continue to fall in silence over Fife hills, as the wisdom of Jimmy's grey hair calmly submits to a kaleidoscopic inevitability.
Listen, my friend, because this is important: we will always be related to detachment.
Sit comfortably, with tears in your eyes, because our roots will surprise us in the Great Finale.

I have liaised with ancient phantoms that have sprinkled seeds of magical faculties, deep within the borderline of the soul. I am a mere passenger - but we are all susceptible to enlightened impressions which resemble the sound of an empty can, as it is blown up a cobbled street by Westerly winds.
So, my ancient and philanthropic partner, it is important that you realise that the legitimacy of our captivations is suspended in an atmosphere of interrogatory purgatory.
However, let us forever acknowledge that our beloved spectres bear witness to the true nature of psychopathy. Are you able to balance the moonlight silhouettes on your tightrope of materialistic nirvana?

This specific autumnal celebration is characterised by throbbing obscenities, where a masquerade of piety resembles the trembling jester as he performs before medieval royalty.
Oh, to witness the salmon run in Northern ecosystems where the caniform classification stands in a dominant stance at the edge of the falls.
So, my independent and competitive contemporary, let us bow with sober reflection at those anthropological schools who swim upstream in this spiritual river in the vain pursuit of unattainable freedom.
Today, on this second Monday of October, the name of the game has been brutally ***** by propagandist salesmen.
So, at this juncture of existential consumerism, we stand within the jaws of our ever-smiling aristocracy. But, if you dare to open your eyes, my friend of unfathomable denial; you will find that the tradition is called Thanksgiving.

The anatomy of madness is a psychedelic and epistemological vortex that is not dissimilar to singing nursery rhymes whilst swinging from a street-lamp without a stitch of clothing.
Having laid bare the essence of deluded stigmatisation, my questionable and fair-weathered friend - I now challenge the concept of sophistication and the fallible parameters of meaning.
It's hard to believe, isn't it? I have borne witness to the wisdom of squirrels who store their food underground in anticipation of winter; and I can honestly feel the cosmic impulses as they ripple throughout the complex and biopsychosocial pond of astral and ontological hierarchy.
Therefore, I now appeal to your travelling spirit: do not dismiss those shards of ice where gothic stones lay scattered outside the cavern of solitude.
The well of souls has determined that we connect to tidal vibrations of our global sanitorium.

The wheel of the year spirals in her established and revolutionary celebrations; and the spirits of the dance move freely amongst the bonfire of lunar festivals, whilst innocence parades herself in the streets of contemporary entitlement.
Will you please proclaim a feast for the ghosts of the land who reside in our momentary presence?
A portal to the fairy-world may be obstructed by our diluted perceptions of the significant occasion, even though alcohol and explicit *** are expected rituals by our ancient and sovereign forefathers.
Oh ancient Goddess of pagan folklore, I am truly thankful for your inviting and feminine secretions. But I cannot glide with ease in my quest to find a suitable compromise between the turnip and the pumpkin.
Treat me according to your seductive and encapsulating will. But I implore you: Please do not trick me, because I trust the power of your group intercourses. Let us spread the seed of superstition and burn black candles in the midst of this urban graveyard of symbolic and haunted attraction. I crave the treat of your femininity, oh Goddess of the West.