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?

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.

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.

Having embraced the calamity of advancement and mocked the simplicity of sporadic rodent behaviours, can we now cross into the alternate galaxy where ancient and accepted Scottish rites were birthed in an Ayrshire cottage of culinary festivity?
I am aware that it truly is a matter of taste. But who will officiate amongst us?
Your deep lamentation is acknowledged, amidst this order of ******* symbolism, despite those Northern and Southern hemispheres of demonic expression and convoluted discrepancy.
The percussion is a sign that the offal festival has begun.
Spiritual alchemy is not without its price on this winter night of dank precipitation.
Let us loiter in the depths of depraved chambers as the mist hangs her weary head over diurnal and nocturnal disagreements.
This is my first offering, so we must form a magic circle.
It feels like netherworld to me, on this twenty-fifth day of the first month.

Solace is to be found amidst a cathartic tornado of contemporary embellishment, whilst heaven exists beyond tactile and psychological fiction.
Although obscurity joins hands in affiliation with a questionable character, I fear the Greeks whenever they bear gifts in the form of a wooden horse.
Therefore, write your grimoire and let us waltz into the misty realms of ceremonial magick.

There are evident walls of invisible matter which maintain the appearance of enviable rectitude, even though the blatancy of our traits confront the myriad of personal dishonesties over timeless planetary separations of union.
So delicate are those seemingly subconscious mechanisms which are subject to our explanatory naïveté and unfathomable presumption.
In this case of psychological avalanche, every metaphorical snowflake within our lives has offered a “not guilty” plea.
Oh, jurors of celestial cities, our mantras have subsided down slopes of exploratory fumbling where excitatory satin slips from the shoulders of a wanton seductress of socio-political exploitation.
Let us ***** an altar, and present an offering to the universe, which surpasses the veneer of familiarity and self-righteous redemptions.
After all, our fantasies are a reality, don’t you think?

To raise a seagull would be no small task – do you know why?
Because both you and I are not seagulls.
If an individual is perceived to be revolting, then the question arises as to whether non-conformity or debasement are the identifiable issue.
Like those cheapened activities which are secretly laid bare within the hotel hallways of Sin City, my immeasurable and baron liaisons have also been revolted by scorpion-like stings, as the wind promotes her seductive and tantalising thoughts through the brushwood of Autumnal celebrations around the vicinity of Nevada.
It is important to understand that the fullness of sound involves the synchronicity of isolated connectedness, and that we validate both the message and the messenger.
Balancing acceptance and change is horribly attractive.
Do you know why, my reciprocal affiliation of that which is considered to be humanity?
For that which is conceived, formed and reproduced within the solar system of Nirvana is not so readily articulated within the parameters of epistemology.
Aren’t ornithology and psychology both flighty?

Feel the rhythm of those who row longboats from Scandinavian shores, in their plundering quests of arson and ****.
Although stalactites may be used in the same manner as an icicle in order to commit ******,
it is necessary to acknowledge that one weapon leaves a trace of evidence whilst the other evaporates into the firmament.
The wind is truly wild, as she kisses our skin with force, amidst the swell of marine visions beyond Ljodhus, Ivist and Skid, where Gaels reside in monastic solitude.
Have you ever been to the shores of Iona?
Please do not cut off your nose to spite your face, in the same manner as those nuns, who sought to be unappealing to Nordic barbarians.
The magic numbers are 795 and 802.
Therefore, if we seek to withstand the forces of contemporary evil, I suggest that we swiftly engage with Celtic Druids as they are our ancient forefathers.

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?

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?

Our destination is not northbound, as we hasten through those dreary woodlands where teardrops explode like incendiary regrets into deep puddles of misplaced trust and the awareness of lost opportunity.
You presume to be a pupil of the teachings of Horus.
I can see those excavations within the darkened cavities of your eyes.
The evidence of hieroglyphic ambiguity has unfolded her rich deposit of convenient and tidal avoidance.
Therefore, let us swim to Kepler and ride those sonic ripples beyond the unraveled and ancient texts of Nekhen.
The harlot has spread her wings, and the nerves twitch inside our optic vulnerability at the power of her seductive prowess.
As it is possible to have sight without vision, I express my animistic gratitude to the cosmos, where detachment from the socket of Atum is connection to infinity.
The writing is on the wall.

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.

The depths of an ancient forest remind me of an emotional fret board, where the essential oil pulsates her harmonic flow across intellectual biases and drips her captivating secretions of unreasonable discrimination from an interconnected network of fertile branches.
It is systemic in nature, where the vibrational level of subtlety satiates the thirst of the magician in his musical quest for beautiful obscenity, and where primitive percussion summons the spirits of forgotten composures.
It’s like a paradise lost, where plain attire is unexpectedly anticipated and flaunted with proud religious conformity and energetic shame.
How innocent are your malevolent intentions, oh student of silent and auditory aggression?
Your leaves are seductive, as they remind me of a copper tightrope across the chasms of a Western valley where the ground cries out her historical witness of ambivalence.
Although the anatomy of freedom is bound by socio-cultural constraints, it is wise to acknowledge those articulations of psychological politics which conveniently massage the ego into an oily land of aromatherapeutic abandonment.
The herbal essence of artistic projections will never rest, as their intensity resounds throughout the annals of cosmological animism.
I appreciate your openness when we talk, because reverb is a psychoacoustic wonder, where a myriad of pages are chiselled into the annals of our great hall of fame.

Relationships are integral if we are ever to regain sensible rule in our sovereign jurisdiction.
The issue is not related to race or religion, but to the management of risk.
So, let us never relinquish our rights, and now recover our democracy in the referendum, in conjunction with our Magna Carta.
Autonomy may balance upon the brink of a seemingly united dictatorship, where the masses of mockery are obscured by the sophisticated dynasty of death.
However, the acclamation of pooled sovereignty is a mere federal fantasy which encapsulates her citizens within a shroud of licentious slavery.
Therefore, in this Eurocratic and transatlantic partnership where trade and investment are presumed to be of utmost importance, let us not dismiss the realities of our people, within this current climate of progressive and certain cataclysm.
Curtains are bi-directional.

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.

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.

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?

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.

Reflections in a shimmering puddle of stagnant water depict the vulgarity of political orchestras.
I dare you to venture into the crypt, where ancient spirits enter souls with timeless agonising and lament for netherworld regions of entrapment.
Trust me, my medieval Knight of notorious reputation – we will conquer the enemy within the dungeons of Hades.
Resolution is laid bare before the echelons of a beautiful and acoustic ballad, where drabness of spirit tantalises the soul with tearful validity.
We have a level of command which is like a classical symphony, where horsemen bring pillage to those who rebel against the King.
This is an omen, my fellow patron of oblivious decorum.

The elegance of death is tenacious and tantalises my raw and screaming divinity to the brink of constant linear velocity.
I mourn the lost solitude of Transylvania, where cobwebs are like ancient pathways which are strewn across the guest-room ceilings of haunted castles.
If we touch the harmony of the howling winds from beyond the forest, they will penetrate chimney flues and invade our antediluvian attic.
It is just like the space between your body and spirit, which transcends a harem of wild stallions as they gallop across unspoken planes of astral hierarchy.
Therefore, children of the night, we must recognise those cloven hooves which have left invisible imprints upon the sands of time.

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.

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

How penetratingly damp are the vocals of historical rites which resound throughout the beams of sacred and ancient planets.
As we flick the pages of that which was written before the magistrates, it will become clear, my friend of nostalgic accusation.
Let us amble together alongside this dark loch of awe, where children have drowned in the murky depths of Highland violence.
Oh, great spiritual guide of Celtic and rebellious Jacobean statements - I want to swallow your soul.
Hopefully, we will become parents.

The local Kirks will acknowledge that prominent and pagan song on the twenty-fifth day of this first month of monstrosity, whilst witches consult around dark artistry, as we sing this song of yesterday and remembrance.
I have ensured that the roof of our cottage is thatched with straw, whilst the howling winds from the West coast echo her disapproval against the face of solidarity.
We must keep the demons out.
Oh, brother of olden Scottish folklore, I beseech you to give credence to the culinary order, where degrees of freedom announce seniority in this customary ritual of contemporary history.
I will hold my knife in a ritualistic manner and ensure that the guests are satisfied with culinary festivities and drams of Scottish prowess.
Oh Thomas, if you dishonour your wife on the Ayrshire coast, the volume will increase and the flickering light of the candle will ***** out.
I love your look, therefore you can cross my bridge of sensual clothing, as it conforms to the ancient proclamation:
Weel done, cutty sark.
Are you committed to this order?

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.

Let us consolidate our energies, as branches crunch under our feet in the depths of the forest.
Solstitium reminds me of the polarity between the land and sky.
Have you ever listened to Paul Rodgers?
Drought is prevented by the availability of water in this midsummer spell of philosophical ***.
The sabbat will commence at the appointed time.
Nightfall reminds me of those haunted monks who chant in the sacred forests of explicit storytelling.

Oh Yea, Oh Yea! Cometh hither to the dance of festivals, around bonfires of medieval superstition.
The gates are closed firmly behind us, whilst woodland creatures seek to gain mastery over our misplaced traditions.
Look at the tracks of the cart, as they meander along the trenches of muddy lanes where loitering prostitutes display their coveted merchandise.
I know that innocence has unveiled her lusts with brazen splendour, whilst chastity resigns herself to the unspoken beauty of illegitimacy.
However, I plead with your sombre awareness. Stoke the fire, and let us reminisce over mystical horizons where infinity casts her spell across the ages of history.
What is your price?

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.

Your choreography reminds me of chicken soup which has been adulterated with amphetamines, with a burlesque twist.
If you believe in mother Earth, then come back and engage in intellectual discourse and physiological ******* where silent assassins are unable to infiltrate our borders.
Like a triple-x expressive disorder, I only have one question: Who is our assumed Emperor?
It's like a feline expression of extravagant and classical awareness.
So, how sealed is your fate within this lonely, yet busy road, of cosmic dualism?
Mysteries are dripping from your hair, like a conglomerate of tantalising expectations which yet remain to be unfulfilled.

I think that it may be necessary for you to reconsider your original plan of action.
Consider the power of an old school chopper, as she purrs along desert highways with malicious intent.
Stroke your own cylinder if you may.
But I stand at the bar with timeless convictions that are not dissimilar to innocent victim pathology.
The steel industry has spiralled into a timeless vortex of despair, whilst white-collar crime explodes into an ******* fountain of exposition.
Remember tomorrow, as the sun sets over Western industries, where the streets are paraded by whoredom.
Let us pray the sinner’s prayer.
Thank you for your planetary participation.

Cloven hooves continue to dance around the fire at Walpurgis Night, as we keep at bay those phantom hounds which salivate with carnivorous intent.
I love your costume.
Can we hang sprigs of foliage or butter our bread in faith, as we converse into the dawn?
Let us also cook dairy products on this sacred altar as cattle walk around the flames of Bealltainn.
But please do not place a blindfold upon me nor mark me with coal, as I do not wish to enter the flames threefold.
I am alive.
I belong to the Northern Hemisphere where crops flourish in the name of fertility.

The hunter is beautifully horned, and I admire those roots of nature which are suggestive in their depth beyond mere herbalist remedy.
So, remove your robe amidst this prominent woodland rainfall, where the eerie silence echoes her morbid song throughout battlefield plateaus of fungal extravagance.
The Spirits of the North beckon me with their homecoming allurements, where flickering flames cast their captivating shadows across sacrificial altars where the netherworld respects the night.
Shape analysis may cast light upon those geographical lines where energetic geometry casts her undeniable history.
As owls perch upon the turrets of ancient church steeples, our English history is presently encompassed by a living ignorance, where branches are truly laden with meaning.
If you are acquainted with your neighbour, can you turn your head 180 degrees?

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?

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?

Let us walk across hot coals with a spiritual guide, where somber chords heartily communicate a joyous morbidity - chanting forbidden licentiousness in the name of dilapidated psychological constructs.
Can I have permission to delve into the unfathomable abyss of your kaleidoscopic soul?
As we claim to have spun quite the web of deceit in our contemporary societal fabric of advancement, then let us now join hands in celebration around this presumed magic circle, ensuring that connection between the dampness of our soul and pleasurable resentment is not divorced from the ghastly genitalia of grammatical deviance.

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

Provocation is irksome to the humble soul who is incited to cross those conventional norms with ferocious and lustful pursuits.
As we summon the ancient souls of the abyss through questionable mediums, I am truly disappointed by the lack of authenticity.
My roots are important to me.
Therefore, let us move beyond this childish and cryptic crossroad where curses are said to have been released before the sight of those who presume to have been summoned.
The experience of deviance will never be divorced from a state of dissociation, where sincere possession withstands the empty assertions of rationalism and intellectualism.
The scientific futility of violence is an enigma.
Although the ritualistic consumption of various ****** fluids is a characteristic of ceremonial magic, I am unaware of that black light which flickers her forbidden permissions within the deepest recesses of my damp and historical ontology.
My dawn of golden equations is sympathetic to the threefold chiming of the bells.

Can we ever tread pathways which surpass the expectations of our fallibility?
Loss can be beautiful, as she pronounces her unforgiving denials, whilst solace sheds her tears of joy at the unity around the richness of nothingness.
Similarly, arrival can be likened to departure, and departure can be likened to arrival.
It is important to understand that cognitive restructuring along pathways of Celtic and sombre insight is releasing, especially when precipitation falls unrelentingly upon the skull of a dead sheep.

Having followed tram-lines along cobble-****** roads of marine industry, I am reminded of the smell of cold meat and the sound of an early siren, which beckons me to dilapidated buildings and disused railway tunnels.
There is a loud sound when car headlamps are dropped from a height onto pornographic concrete.
All that you have to do is to go to the dairy and reach over the counter, and you will find that a jubilee leaves indelible evidence to scrutinising faces and invites unwelcomed interrogations.
Let us walk up this crescent and kick leaves into puddles of Autumnal darkness.
The number five will always trigger the musky scent of cats and the sound of diesel locomotives, whilst uncertainty and aggression seek to establish a sense of equilibrium amidst social isolation.
Having said this, I will leave you with one final admonition: never forget the power of a steak pie from the butchers shop.
This is the essence of Partick.

The voice of a jury is likened to the sound of a falling pin which shatters the silence of an empty auditorium.
How challenged, do you think, are our sophisticated and deviant ecosystems?
Colorful chords are not dissimilar to our ancient and perpendicular attachments to the transcendental concepts of time and space.
Although our socio-political and oratory genius have confined themselves to the caverns of contemporary debasement, your skin reminds me of a drenched hillside, where meteorological adversities display their historical guilt, whilst the soulful cries of murdered clansmen echo across monumental valleys of geographical distaste.
Look at those majestic ships, as they find their ambivalent salesmanship within the docks of emasculation.
The criminal code of perplexity has revealed her wanton fornication in the peaks and troughs of farmland swell.
I acknowledge the rhythm that is to be appreciated as the waterfall of cosmological infringement dangles her seductive strands of subversive proclamation across the face of justice.
And I wholeheartedly accept your unacceptable suggestions, oh mistress of the abyss.

The distortion of rectitude maintains the guise of a charismatic persona, with a co-existing ulterior motive.
Searching for our lost soul is intensified by the diametrically opposed collision of ancient and modern pizzicato.
Listen to the voices as they forcefully project powerful messages into the darkened recesses of presumed enlightenment.
I have released my imprisoned being from this custodial fabric of presumed alignment, into the lofts of undetectable thermals, where soaring wings surf undefined boundaries of spatial awareness.
Cosmological democracy is the State in which our orchestral garden grows, light years beyond the doorway of the beginning.

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.

I can taste the dark ancestry of ghastly dreams where cloven hooves and flickering flames dance along the castle hallways in ritualistic celebration; and I love the night, where haunting apparitions caress my slippery soul and tantalise my deepest fears.
Listen to the grandfather clock, as its hypnotically audible awareness transports our being to a myriad of dusty volumes upon the ancient shelves of a Golden Dawn.
Owls are beautiful creatures of nocturnal stealth.
Yet, the beginning is nothing more than the end, in her deceptive disguises.
Although their are eight points to her identity, Ishtar has innumerable expressions. Therefore, attempts to domesticate are futile.
Let us now invoke ancient daemons and engage in the wisdom of counsel, as we remain awake and share our confessions.
Men are visual creatures.

Extravagance is characterised by the excessive expenditure of materialistic resources, where those unbridled lusts of the masses have catapulted our anthropological status from an initial experience of innocence and ****** us forth into a debauched state of relativistic and allegedly progressive utopia.
Can I now be reborn into unknown astrological pastures of yesteryear, where time and space confine themselves to boundless parameters and cosmological streams trickle beyond black holes?  
Droplets of our soul are seeping through the cracks of superfluous constellations.
Having been admonished to merely adhere to instructions, it is worth giving consideration to the possibility that we may simply lack accurate realisation.
Yet, the anatomy of integrity is contextual and is juxtaposed with popular and palatable propagandist dogma.
Therefore, although the nature of reality is ever-changing, there is a pattern of non-conforming adherence which spans those artistic ages of presumed literary and oratorical genius.
We know that defense mechanisms are dichotomous, as they may ward off personally undesirable experiences – yet they can also inadvertently champion the cause for solitary confinement.
As we unwrap this explosive socio-political gift, let us reach across the infinite gap and radically accept the folly of what is deemed to be prestigious.
Let us now make a record.
Saturn has rings.

What is matter?
Is it defined by a mere substance?
Or, is it more accurately depicted within the context of sincere appreciation or concern?
As a lost lyric may be likened to a tragedy within the context of literary expression, so the dampness of ancient Sanskrit wells has led me to embrace a repelling submission to the wrath of our various gods.
Like an elliptical clause, the pattern and logic of this specific subject exposes the ghastly genitalia of wanton and grammatical genius.
Yet, how flamboyant are your philosophies?
Let us now sink into unfathomable depths of celestial mud and congratulate ourselves in the name of hollow epistemology and  arrogant uncertainty.

Breathless are those archaeological excavations which once occurred within the geographical contours of Wisconsin.
Many times, we have questioned the whereabouts of your face amidst this crisis of disbelief. It’s like a cake which has been sprinkled with mid-Western naiveté.
Edward was once adorned in deviant beauty, where presumed innocence was held captive by strategic intellect which surpassed stereotypical assumptions.
How virile is your temperament, as it sails within the lower decks of a Spanish armada across strato-cumulus formations?
We have just commenced our finality, where words are unable to reflect utmost confusion within a paradoxical insight which transcends ontological awareness.
Forgive me, as I have swallowed a battalion of deviant souls, where netherworld lubricants simply whet my unfathomable appetite.
Death is our intimate and co-habiting stranger on the left-hand-side, don’t you think?
I have drawn my sword in anticipation.

Life is like a garden path which meanders through a resolution of dichotomous experience.
Let us make haste, oh weary traveller, beyond the beginning of finality.
As calamity can be a figment of our imagination, so security can be masqueraded by the Angel of Death.
How does your garden grow?
And, are you truly as contrary as we have been led to believe, my deviant little Mary?
We must reach within the depths of our vacant and immortal souls and claw out that ghastly demon who entangles her subjects with cobwebs of sensuality, because the aroma of floriculture tells us that blossom is a reproductive structure.
It is difficult to believe that the dark is rising.
Anyway, let us pray.

Let us refrain from the race against time, in order to avoid surpassing ourselves prior to our birth.
It is not dissimilar to an inarticulate promise, when Corpus Callosum damage interferes with communication strategies between both hemispheres.
In this age of seemingly superior wisdom and unreasonable demand, we must address the question of when we can truly interact.
Emotional are those chords of retirement and defiance in the face of a perplexed fret board.
Can’t you feel the electromagnetic field, where aquatic immersion avoids the accusation of political sharks?
Thankfully, there is a design.

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.

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.