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.

As she perches upon the precipice of validation and despair, let us explore things at a deeper level where the surface sheds her scaly and silent veneer and ripples her catastrophic being within silent and societal expectations of silent rage and peristalsis.
Awareness and denial are ancient beings who collide in the face of legitimacy, as the rhythm of darkness has encapsulated my astral being.
Yet, I now have permission to roam plateaus which cast their geographical contours far beyond horizons of cosmological insight.
I love your texture.

The nomadic existence is paradoxical in its independent presentation.
Are you aware that a lot of good can evolve from a seemingly bad situation?
Let us applaud the Vulcan 1700 where Kings and Queens project through violent vistas of liquid-cooled destinations of voyage, where boldness lays bare the nuts and bolts of fragrant expression.
Take it or leave it. I am enveloped in the beautiful and seductive sound of acoustic death.
As they say in New Hampshire: Live Free or Die.

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.

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.

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.

Latent are those transgressions which are gripped in the jaws of an icy-cold vendetta.
In the afterglow of a dusky duet, let us engage with those beings of undetected visibility.
As we balance upon this bright pasture of oblivion, let us detect the sophisticated scent of antiquity amidst a clockwork tragedy.
Many souls are tightly squeezed into a latex circuitry of ambivalence.
We are almost home.

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 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.

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.

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.

The malfunctioning soul is likened to a carefree catastrophe, where myriads of mechanics and technicians strive to direct inoperable machinery.
Are you aware, that I can see the depth of your pupils and feel the gyrating rhythm of inhibition as it cautiously lingers on the edge of an ophthalmic funeral?
It truly is possible to have sight, yet to have no vision.
However, if we legitimately manipulate the energy within our sphere of influence, then we shall fornicate with unfathomable depths of shaman sight.
Like a rock which bakes in the desert sun, we must remember those cold and starry nights where perception is personified by the nutrients of plants.
I love those goose bumps upon your skin.
Baroque is the fullness of sound, when the classical guitar strikes a chord with the folly of presumption.

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

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.

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

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 have discovered myself to be lost in shimmering puddles of an ancient dream where the recollections
of an acoustic guitar delve into the depths of an autumn sky.
They are unequivocally related to damp wellington boots, butterscotch and bacon.
At last, I have balanced upon the glorious edge of unfathomable childhood rituals where esoteric plantations are shrouded by a hedge of Britannic history.
So, as you seek to slide down the steep and icy pathway into the park, make sure that you return by 9 o’clock in the evening because the black nun wanders around those ghostly woodlands where religious buildings remain to be sunk into historical graves.

Shall we embark upon the ancient grove, where seedlings propagate their sensual jaws of death?
We have burst forth from the liberated confines of contemporary entitlement and social communism.
Crossing through to the cosmological amusement arcade, we are presented with a melodic base and harmony which rise beyond legends of dialectical octaves within our classical symphony.
Therefore, let us use visible gestures which convey an accurate understanding of this intricate arrangement.
It is not dissimilar to the purkinje fibres of ventricular walls, because without synchronicity, the music will cease to resound across the galaxies.

Having borne witness to the attachment of wires around lunar geographical parameters, I am curious about the voltage limits of electric chicken.
In its southern-fried condition, I now draw your attention to celebratory flutterings around the Maypole whilst masticating upon ancient crop circles.
Apollo may be affiliated with Grecian mythological ancestry, but I have found harmony within the branches of dendrology.
As the seas of our sovereign forefathers cry aloud from palaeolithic runways, a multitude of timeless deities cluck amidst the hay of eclectic Kentucky.
It is only one minute to midnight.
We must depart now.

Take caution, my friend, about joining any club that would extend the courtesy of membership, because
etchings upon our archaeological memory may reap undesirable pronouncements.
If your wings have not yet been clipped, then I implore you to turn the key that abides in the Iron Gate.
Liberty is truly to be found in banishment, and captivity embraces those who are presumed to be socially elite.
The Northern Command has our number written upon the electronic village of global deception, even though undertones are without doubt, seductive.
So, blow your whistles on this day of grey sky.
Your voice has now been heard.

My silence echoes across the chasms of Hades, where rabid entities claw at my soul with eyes like splintered rocks and a presence of tangible blackness.
Deafening is this sight of transformation, and I am unable to resist the aroma of tactile experience.
Unfortunately, I am ignorant as I have never metamorphosed nor spread my wings from the shell of the cocoon.
However, madness of the central nervous system is a condition which can result in hydrophobia, especially where sacramental water is concerned.
Therefore, how relative is time in this black hole of confirmed epistemological doubt?

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

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.

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.

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?

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.

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

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

Pupils that were once constricted are not prohibited from running backwards towards the beginning of the end, where it is possible to rediscover the pathway which leads in a forward direction.
Have you ever received new shoes and permitted your attention to be captivated by the end of a desirable carriage as she meanders her way into the distance of nostalgic regret and bypassed opportunity?
How resentfully blissful is the reality of fantasy as she unfolds her callous plots and recommendations in the face of embryonic visions of legitimacy.
Let us take heed to our every step, as the clock mechanically communicates her loud reminders of presumption.
Incense may or may not have burned in our walls with glowing prohibition, whilst sorcery lays bare her blatant fornications.
As we engage in this dichotomous game of chess, let us now discuss the outcome, my toxic companion of allegiance.

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

Phanerogams are plants which produce seeds.
The wanton harlot may be laid against the wall, with legs splayed, and may also have given birth to unbridled rage.
However, even though such stages of development can be entitled as “*******”, it is worth noting that all behaviour has meaning, my darkened companion of presumed sophistication.
The scholastic scribes will etch their wisdom upon the hardness of our vile vanity.
I hold in my hand a gothic stone, where those who stand before the courts accused of heresy and witchcraft can plead innocence before chanting crowds of bloodlust.
The reaper will gather the harvest at Lughnasadh, whilst the olfactory nerve propagates her funeral games amidst the cutting of ancient cornfields.
As we perch upon the gallows end, let us join hands and chant the mantras of old.
Photosynthesis is a forensic entrancement where there is no rest for the sinner.

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 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?

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.

Your hair is entangled with timeless experiences where primitive phantoms screech through antique hallways.
I have perceived those morose paintings which depict sadness and loss to such an extent that the air in the room can be sliced with a bread-knife.
Ah, there is something ruminative about olfactory observations, where dust commands unspoken attention to matters which have never been disclosed.
I fully rest in the City of Boston. Do you know why? Because those from Massachusetts know how to cook a breakfast whilst architectural brilliance splays her legs across streets of apprehensive humidity.
I will be there before the past echoes her burnt offerings to foresight.
Let’s go to bed now.

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.

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.

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.

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

Our bilingual illiteracy and contemporary expression of vintage infancy remind me of developmentally mature eccentricities within a complex haven of interpersonal dynamics.
Just like a carnival hall of mirrors, our perceptual disturbances succumb to elaborate revelations and dreadful expositions of what we presume to be articulate prose.
Although the socio-political roots of a seductive striptease may shatter the silence of our audible and urban ecosystems, we can now access realms which connect to the severance of divided collusion.
Our galaxy has established her infinite story, in the same manner as a wrought iron gate interferes with the evidence within our contemporary society.
It is just like an alternate universe.

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.

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.

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.

The dictatorship of our state is profound in its mass propaganda, where the discernment of individuals seeps into an eternal chasm of self-sacrifice on the altar of political conformity.
Let us actively withstand the passivity of our conventional hypocrisy as we engage with this ontological sleepwalk through sinister passageways of presumed social advancement.
In our age of grandiose moralistic eclecticism where imperatives abound, I burn incense and contemplate the cosmopolitan artificiality which lavishes abundant gifts upon our self-opinion.
Criminality is the result of discovery.
So, oh thorn in my flesh, cover those rancid corpses by the veil of popularity, gain and pleasure.
Subconscious social conditioning is the scourge of lustful appearance, don’t you think?

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.

From a criminological perspective, the gradations of evil may lead to cannibalistic tendencies.
However, I am being stalked by a dark entity which lurks beneath the pulsating vibrations of subtle and occult ley lines.
Permit me to be so bold: How fashionable are our social mores?
And in which direction do you travel?
When we put it all together, the isolated parts generate a fullness of sound which surpasses the acoustic corridor of ancient souls.
I understand that the parameters of Saturn resound with impersonal barks from that old black dog of menacing stealth.
Do you know why?
Because academia lacks the authenticity of genuine experience.
Now, my friend, let us continue to walk down the street of morning where blackbirds whistle in the branches of ancestral bonding.

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

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.

Bohemian dichotomies are like winding garden paths, where foxgloves and lupins stand proudly with a rich array of botanical flamboyance.
What is the structure of this pervasive uncertainty, where conspiracy is a perpetual construct which is designed to interfere with anthropological cohesion?
Consider the presence of a mature apple tree, where doves abide in ornithological matrimony.
Let us humbly acknowledge that nature is a powerful beautician, who expels her adversities with gentle ruthlessness.
Let us kiss together amidst this romantic pasture of nostalgic permission.