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.

It is always a pleasure to engage with the rich tapestry of life, even though the prognosis may be utterly questionable.
Are you able to articulate that in which you believe?
Whenever we examine the contours of this forbidden rush of ghetto adrenaline, the texture of sound flows like an estuary of hypnotic rhythm amidst our myriad of assumed identities.
Deoxyribonucleic acid is tasty, but only whenever it is spread on burnt toast, don’t you think?
Cast your mind to those dreamy recollections of the dual carriageway, where hip-hop bass resonates with eternal unravelling and the launch of a new vessel is applauded as it ventures across geographical ponds of progress.

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.

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.

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

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?

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

There is fulfilment within the emptiness of a generational façade, where flat keys depict a winter scene, upon which sleep is characterised by haunting screams of enragement.
Stringed instruments have the power to convey a deep sense of loss, and I have not yet gone anywhere.
Forgive me for asking: Are you a victim of secrecy, where illicit fornications abound beyond the parameters of Ashtoreth?
I accept the resolution of this enigma, whilst standing on the inside of the circle.
It truly is an artistic prowess of elegant hatred.

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 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.

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?

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.

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.

The horse and cart slowly meander along the cobbled village lane,
as smoke projects her pungent and spiraling emissions from thatched rooves - casting her grey contrast as she penetrates the menacing darkness and caresses the trees of the ancient forest, in her journey of elemental consummation.
Rotten teeth, debauchery and tankards of ale abound at the candle-lit inn, where the curvaceous ******* and buttocks of the wanton ***** are roughly groped in medieval lust.
Her shrieks of surprise are an expression of unleashed restraint, that release a shower of blazing embers of interconnectedness, which prohibitively fertilise the barren land of depleted social mores.
Let us now share explicit and superstitious tales around the crackling moonlight fire tonight, as the screech of the owl shatters the eerie silence of Olde English folklore.
Look at the children as they gaze wondrously with sleepy eyes and open mouths, in a state of nocturnal slumber.
The tension is tangible.
Long live the King.

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.

Mockery forcefully tiptoes her way beyond the barricades of fiction, and confronts populated dunes where ambiguous legs protrude.
Are you a prisoner in this proclaimed age of democracy?
The branches of the trees are still, as we avoid the precipice of calamity in the name of upright citizenship.
Therefore, walk with me along the crumbling castle walls and you will learn that there is a familial bond which lies beyond vain constructs of presumed superior architecture.
I know that it is an altered state of consciousness, so it is important to share your perspective because it is a prominent feature.
It is the memories of the living who are tortured by unspeakable possibilities.
Tickle me pink with choreography.

The Spirit of Winter carefully tiptoes her way along the continuum of forgotten Gaelic intensities, whilst mischievous laughter resounds throughout the geographical conveniences of complacency.
How gorgeous is the anatomy of madness, as she perches on gorgon ledges of sophisticated depravity.
I do not even hail from the land of the Gauls.
Yet, ghastly and seductive are those flittering silhouettes of fortitude and perceived harlotry, as they penetrate damp walls of ancient entertainments with multiple partners.
Harken to my lament and do not banish my soul into eternal blackness, as we conjure the sword and kiss with fivefold and unconventional intensities beyond the circles of the forest.
You are now given permission to ring the bell sevenfold, Oh master, where scientific inscriptions are splayed with the blatancy of wanton chastity.
I was born by the river that is never the same whenever it is stepped into with more than one dribbling expectation.

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

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.

I can taste the flow of your brazen energy, as it meanders like an electrical impulse which spans recollected dimensions of distal awareness.
Although we are neither flat-lined nor spiking in our electromagnetic throbbing, that mystical union of physiological members displays the blatancy of our connected conquistadors.
It is important to embrace the promise on the banks of hydrological cycles without fusion of both commodities.
Like an interference pattern which is undiscernible in its direction, we are in a stable rhythm.

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.

I have spent considerable time engaging with reflections of Narcissus, to no constructive avail,
And I have also borne witness to those very specific colours which parade themselves across public squares of irreverence.
I wish no harm, my friend of diminished insight.
Shall we dance across this planetary genius, where cosmological families are able to expose their tantric beings without reserve?
I bid you farewell, my dear.

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.

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

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.

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.

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?

The figment of a naïve imagination is likened to a complex system of underground roots.
How elaborate are your projected destinations?
The pathway is not dissimilar to that of one where angels fear to tread.
I have borne witness to flourishing palm trees as they float on their desert islands across planetary divides where the blue whale ***** her powerful wings across the atmospheres of dreamy lunar memories, galloping towards the origins of infinity.
I am grateful that the ancient spectre resides within the deep seated split of our sophisticated inertia.
Can I now pollinate your petals, where witches cast their spells beyond the castle walls and where the mare wanders in the depths of the forest?

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 ****.

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 quest for both burial and resurrection are significant, as their flickering shadows of the self-depreciatory abyss chant their silent and hauntingly audible presence under the canopy of the ancient forest.
Let us celebrate the night together, as we are traumatically enveloped within an exposed and dialectical pronunciation during this classical and acoustic daylight romance.
Although I truly hate your love, I also reject your evident indifference.
This is the essence of feeling like a fake within the genuineness of our actual and perceived realities.
It is heaven-sent, like a feathered breed of unresolved investigations within our socio-political climate of assumed advancement, where the intensity of the beat gyrates her percussionist hips across ******* expressions of the cosmological sound barrier.
Concurrently, the tangible rhythm of nature’s pulse considerately consummates her forcefully placid interactions within the context of gender specific diversity.
It is all in the name of discriminatory wholeness, my friend.
Our ambivalent connectedness to that which is catastrophically uncertain reminds me of drawing curtains across this conglomerate dawn of darkness and uninhibited concealment.
Just look at our ornithological formation, where leadership spreads her wings with censored zoological resignations and simplistic wisdom.
You have truly lifted my soul within the complexity of this circuitry, and I wholeheartedly acknowledge that we are a myriad of expressions which cannot be adequately articulated within the thermals of our cosmological stratosphere.
Yet, there is a certain finesse to delinquency, and I have bridged the metaphorical gap across the chasm of divided entities, where we can embrace the cool and gentle breeze right at the fulcrum of unforgiving landscapes and shamanic pastures.
Like an artistic depiction of woodland serenity, we are engaged in this wonderful neutrality where it is all about the dance – otherwise known as the energy of modern choreography.
Epistemology can be questionable, where assumptions are sickeningly grounded within the soil of egocentric perceptions of supremacy.
Trust me, my seasoned partner of those astral plains of Nirvana: my lips are sealed in this putrid reconciliation of proclaimed opposites, which are said to mutually attract.

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

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.

It is important for North Americans to creep out of their box of competitiveness and shallow threat.
What is there to prove? And what do you truly fear?
Feather your nest, my disgusting and chameleon-like bane of miserable existence.
What is your exact destination?
We need to sit down somewhere quiet, and talk.

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.

How ghastly are those camouflaged and articulated presumptions, which are evidenced by their catastrophic and interpersonal lifelessness?
It is bad for business, when silent screams echo throughout the depths of unfathomable anguish and cross the mysterious canopy of dendrology.
You may have failed to recollect that fried eggs are not dissociated from electrical riffs nor uninvited objects which force their way through open windows.
My hunger was sincerely naïve as it surfed the waves of paternal mockery.
Therefore, take caution, as you pass those nocturnal insects which flutter their feeble wings in the corner of Glaswegian crevices with intimidating powerlessness.

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

The exact representation of deception is likened to a delusional cognition which tunnels its way through craggy mountain ecosystems of the prefrontal cortex.
The impairment of your executive functioning is evident, oh grandiose master of self-aggrandisement.
It is now 04.20hrs in the Britannic pastures where desert storms are a figment of extravagant wishes to be recognised.
Although it is charmingly magical to harken to your lunacy, it is mercenary of the battalions to fathom the pathology of your blatant insignificance within the universe of vain imaginations.
Hereford is the base of winning, if you are brazen enough to engage with the feat.
Selah, my psychotic expression of wishful psychopathy.
One more thing: please check your spelling.

The enchantment of a chase through the damp forests of Celtic mysticism is a treacherous yet beautiful feature of uncertain anticipation.
Just like the bustle of the contemporary metropolis, with her predictable and hypnotic flow of trans-national capitalism, we are caught within the web of paradoxical liberty.
Thank you for igniting my torch, as I travel across spiritual plateaus where the elements reveal the spirits of the dance.
My torch has brought comfort to those stallions who lead me beyond Hungarian kingdoms where Vlad Dracul continues to reign.
Hastening into the Societas Draconistarum, the wheels of my carriage have lodged themselves into the stoney and tragic tracks of seductive ******.
Please do not forget me.

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 such a conflict between ontology and task.
Being and doing collide in our ****** society where the earning of favour is diametrically opposed to cosmological principles.
Our identity is secure and is not to be ever found in what we think that we may do.
I really want to eat some bacon and eggs right now.
Do you know why?
Because olfactory memories trigger naïve preferences where footballs crash through open windows.
I have walked up spiralling stairwells, where moths flutter in ghastly avoidance.

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.

Mescalito is around us.
He verges upon the release of inhibition, and stalks those who are willing to see.
Let us pursue oneness amongst these flickering flames of planetary and future nostalgia.
As I can taste your apprehension, it is wise to be aware that preconceived ideas break the flow of the sacred circle, my friend of genuine naivete.
In lunar amazement, I beckon you to join the dance of perception, where what is deemed to be reality is a mere mould of societal conformity.
The definition of fear is nothing less than False Expectations Appearing Real.
If you dare to acknowledge the force of a gentle breeze of the wind, then you will become aware that she is a directional voice in the wilderness.

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.

Do I have permission to board your train of unequivocal resilience, as we waltz into the aromatic contours of an Arabian illusion?
Letters have been written in the annals of predictive history as we slide down those astrological poles of heightened depravity.
Can you hear the chants of the spiritual forest, where silence screams her prohibited philharmonic octaves throughout the strata’s of seventh heaven?
The spirits of northern tundra have beckoned my weary soul to withstand the tides of obscurity.
What is your name? And, are you a victim of this desert storm of acoustic serenity?
I urge you to remain on the path, because if you ever get lost, then I will not have the privilege of meeting your acquaintance.
That is the sequel of linguistic wealth and intimate resentment.

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.

Shake hands with the soul of my flickering shadow as it flitters around the confinement of paths which are visually observed by their myriad of sounds.
I can smell tragedy as it pervades the atmosphere, in the same manner as the keys of a grand piano echo their confident assertions with the resonating comfort of finality.
Can we have dinner together, and discuss those compensatory adaptations which are necessary to bridge the gap over crumbling cliff-top roads as they meander below our spirit with unnerving anticipation?
Let us continue to guide each other beyond superficial perceptions.
After all, we are allies.

The blackened eyes of the distressed mare bulge from her cranial vortex, as she gallops through the darkened labyrinths of hades.
If you can cast your mind back like a fish on the end of a rod, to those earth-shattering moments where the sensitivity of our taste buds  in earlier childhood echoed across urban geographical contours.
Are you able to recollect the quality of those apostolic and culinary delights which were not divorced from the prints of contemporary issues which lay bare their scars upon our very hands?
It was all about the roll.
Yet, we have levitated and projected along secure boundaries where our silver chord has never failed us.
The sound of diesel locomotives are relatively hypnotic. Therefore, permit us to swear oaths upon this Celtic altar where the annals of history depict their runes upon the precipice of haunted equestrianism in "the back".
The beat of North America is mundane and predictable.
When we piece it altogether, we have a beautiful array of anthropological tragedy, with a subservient twang...if that makes any sense?

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.

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.