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.

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?

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 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.

Satanic anthems are bold, as they carry their message across undefined boundaries where infinity spreads her wanton features across the generations of history.
Boston reminds me of my historical roots, where Anglican tragedy submits her fornications in submissive rebellion.
With this in mind, let us use our fallible wills to travel together, across astral vistas where timeless plantations of hallucinogenic acceptance join hands around the mistress of the dark and her tantalising secretions.
Can we please communicate into the depths of the dawn in our debaucheries?
Feel the rhythm of unspeakable energies, as the pulse ripples through your eternal lusts.

Expectations of gender stereotypes invoke the psychopath that lurks in the deepest recesses of my soul.
Maternal and paternal influences reek of disconnected ambivalence.
When I think of knowledge, I am reminded of apple pie.
I may not be able to undertake mechanical and electrical tasks, but I can truly profile.
Although our instincts may be somewhat dangerous, I am compelled to make those savoury simplicities that are characterised by yeast, cheese and the pride of a mother.
Have you ever been to Balmore?

My living disposition leads me to assert that I am not dead!
Yet, my silence screams ancient transcriptions across geographical contour lines which are considered to be far removed from the metaphorical grid of contemporary societal norms, where the seductions of the vampyre and her haunting dynamics cast their eerie spells within this captivating fishbowl of galloping horses.
The Prince of Wallachia is able to explain.
Let us converse with The Count.
Whenever there is emphasis upon specific detail in this age of certain vanity, I find that, in 1456, I am truly bereft of valedictorian and flamenco odours, because this royal prince of acoustic arrangement has generated a harmonious expression which humbly corrects my intrapersonal assumptions across the mountainous regions of Transylvania.
Conflict resolution is therefore a mere figment of sociological and anthropological constructs, which fornicate with the façade of egocentrism and fabricates vain attempts to maintain social elitism within a blanket of darkness.
How do we find ourselves in the position of being so diametrically opposed to reality?

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.

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.

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?

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.

Have you ever been impacted by the feminine vocals of this plight of legalistic acquittal?
Let us travel northbound along those east coast beeches where the historical presence is tangible and innocent sexuality is exposed in oyster-bars of cobbled awareness.
Acknowledge the fragrance of the hanging-basket in English country gardens, where nectar is extracted by nocturnal mammals.
Do you have any suggestions about the outcome?

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.

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.

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.

Mirrors are a powerful medium for returning energy, just like a medieval message in a bottle.
Wrap me in your desolate womb, oh barren mistress of death.
Do you really need to be sworn in?
Sky above and earth below, feel my raging aphrodisiac amidst this eclipse of tantric rites.
***** my horoscope in this zodiac, and grow beyond this medieval heresy.
Magick is the science or art of effecting change by the conformity of the will; and you are a sacred star in the night sky.
Let us scribe incantations beyond desert horizons where Kali displays her direction of seasons.
Spring is in the East, Summer is in the South, Autumn is in the West and Winter is in the North.

I love old school motorbikes and their purring sound as they emit fragrances which trigger animosity and innocence.
It’s a total eclipse of the heart, don’t you think?
*******, Lunatics, Undesirables and Eccentrics. That is the essential nature of angelic blue.
Forget those polished ambassadors of what is deemed to be contemporary.
Chop it up, Chewbacca, whilst spanners are thrown with obscene articulations.
It has been said that my father violently placed a bike in the canal.

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.

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.

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?

Squelch into the deepest puddles where sadness echoes her silent heart across physiological plateaus of numbness.
Can I have permission to permeate your being whilst plantations convey their sorceries beyond seeming sophistication?
We must interact beyond the realms of that which is anticipated.
I am sincerely grateful for those broken hemispheres of discrimination,
because we are lost within the parameters of being found.

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.

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.

There exists a mystical and quadruple representation of words, which is likened to a dictatorial Superstate, where translation is subject to that which is spoken, heard, written and read within the context of trans-national capitalism.
As we gaze from beyond the glow of the pulsating circumference, we can humbly acknowledge the ludicrous predicament of the many who are ruled by the few.
The parameters of this earthen citizenship may be somewhat characterized by embracing the perceived benefits of the system and a state of financially intoxicated anosognosia. However, as we traverse this metaphysical cataclysm where the majority votes of public arrangement diametrically oppose absolute law and that which is deemed to be reasonable; our compulsory co-operation self-regulates with a cardiovascular beat of semantic propaganda and monopolized dissention, where the relinquished rights of our revered forefathers have been re-written by coercive legislators in the name of socio-political equality.
The philosophy of meaning and political expression both buries into and removes her gorgeous face from the cuniform textures of Sahara catacombs, where we ****** relate and disengage from the **** with tyranny.

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 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.

Run your slender fingers through my desert storm, whilst tumbleweed blows past mechanical vineyards.
Although it feels like heaven, it would be fitting to acknowledge the indulgent nature of our deprivations.
How diabolical are our interpersonal dynamics amidst customised motorcycles with forked tongues
where the societal corpus callosum facilitates communication between hemispheres of cultural polarity.
Let us expose the violence that is submerged within suave guises of sophistication.
I am already seated in the dunes of contemplation where the sky at night reveals mysteries of silent amazement.

In our mythological mechanism of the senses, let us reach beyond the guardians of the night.
Teach me your wisdom oh spirit of paraphiliac and psychopathic depravity, and help me to differentiate between those various entities.
Oh, reptilian god of majnu, I can feel the enveloping uncertainty of your sensual and dark licentiousness.
Your Goetic sexuality is ceremonially bewitching, whilst the season of darkness lingers before us.
I embrace your possession of madness.

The seasons are not dissimilar to laryngeal *******, where dark reptiles slink into the undergrowth of humanity, beside our deep intercostal deviances.
Are you registered? If so, then what is your range?
Perhaps a shotgun is incapable of reaching those harmonic octaves which rise above the shores of Neptune.
I beseech you, my lonely patron of inertia: let us meet in the middle of the Fertile Crescent where our ideas can blend into a kaleidoscopic vulnerability within the tents of promiscuity.

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.

I am captivated by the pattern of a tiled staircase where fountain pens scribe forbidden texts upon spiral bannisters which lead to debased psychological states.
Do we have permission on this stage of trajectory, to fire statements into unfathomable corridors, which surpass today into the realms of tomorrow?
Dark figures writhe in the thick fog of eclectic séances.
I have engaged in nightly astral flights down the streets of blatant innocence.
Are you standing on the inside?
Bring me back from what is deemed to be modernity and bypass my voltage where uncertain predictability is a predictable uncertainty.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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 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?

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.

There is something Scandinavian about the experience.
It reminds me of eternal resolutions.
Are you able or willing to listen?
Let me be honest with you: although I personally dislike the texture of ***, I truly validate its place in the realms of peculiarity.
I am privileged to say that we are humbled by those who are scorned by populations of presumption.
Sausages must be fried at the correct temperature, otherwise their savoury convergences are lost in an abyss of culinary sabotage – don’t you think?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We are bound by gluttonous and crimson ties of political psychopathy where elected white-collar gangsters exercise their wrath in order to compel the masses towards a lustful calamity at the price of slothful convenience.
Absolute power is characterised by greed, and it corrupts to an absolute degree of nihilistic rhapsody.
Whatever happened to our prideful intelligence?
Lest we forget: the analysis of intimacy is enviable, as she is forfeited in the name of capital vice.

There is a sombre sound when mushrooms are concealed by mists in the English forest.
We need to protect ourselves from the spirits of the ages, where accusations echo around cosmological séances.
Can we please just engage in explicit intercourses and stop wasting time?
Let us stand upon the altar and exchange ancient mysteries where the black goat dances along smoky corridors of pagan castles.
Your ****** sword has pierced my heart, oh mistress of sexually explicit ceremonies.
I love your feminism, yet offer caution against your blatant assertions.
But please do not misunderstand me, oh mistress of the ages.

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.

A thick veil is sensually wrapped across the face of those presumed intellectual and spiritual insights, and heightens the awareness of your sublime intrigue.
It truly is a paradise lost, where ancient illusions continue to tickle my raging nostalgia with eager anticipations of forbidden refreshments.
Yet, I am not unaware of the concealment of those predictable and ludicrously mystical allurements, which you so proudly pronounce across those who are deemed to be inferior to your supremacy.
How trivial are your so-called strategies, as you are always captured after an effortless and psychological pursuit.
Therefore, how adept are you, thinkest thou, in your futile system of narcissism?
Vanity is a deplorable emptiness which scoffs at those who are deemed to be subservient to the lofty heights of your utmost divorce from reality.
The definition of a delusion is a fixed and false belief.
We have now constructed a picture where the application of this psychological veil exposes your profound ugliness.