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

So, help me out. Where do we go from here? Do you have any suggestions? Because I am open to cooking a dish that is beyond gourmet. There is something truly pertinent about time-keeping. Diligence is required in the metaphorical kitchens of existence. Recipes are diverse, and the appeal varies amongst those who partake of such culinary delicacies. So, my cyber-babe of astral travel - what have you got cookin'?

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

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

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.

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

The simple leaf displays her complexity with utmost transparency, whilst beautiful chords convey a rhythm which is beyond the parameters of articulation.
A droplet of dew can generate a deep sense of perspective in the South Eastern gardens of Saxony, where uncertainty droops her head with daily lamentations and the quest for connectedness.
Is it possible for us to be at one now?
Let us give credence to ancient runes, as we are wanting in our understanding of pagan orchards.
Every picture tells a story under a forest canopy, where stagecoaches compete against highwaymen of contemporary political propaganda.
Numerology is depicted in your iris.
Grow your plants, and we will engage at an opportune time, with wise insights.
Semantics are inadequate to define familial bonds.

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 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.

The haunting sound of medieval bells toll for those who travel the plains of astral execution,
whilst our chemical consistency is painted upon an easel of timeless rectitude.
Menacing is your gaze, oh mistress of death, yet also bewitching on this eve of eclectic consummation.
As blackness slowly consumes my fibres during this sensual dance of mortality, to the point of euphoric execution, I cannot help but think about the ****** *******, because she is a galactic mystery of anatomical predictability.
So, believe it or not, my friend - beauty is in the eye of the beholder, even though darkness may imprison you beyond the recitals of gothic prayer.
Do not pull my teeth out, while this artistic bass delivers resounding echoes throughout those wonderfully oblique plantations of our Mother Earth.

I love your curvaceous contours, whilst physiological precipitations calmly shoot their nectar across longitudinal and latitudinal expressions of ontology.
How seductive are your displayed features of blatant enticements.
I truly give thanks for your explicit revelations, where blatancy and discretion collide with dialectical icebergs.
So, my friend of uncertain deliberation, put it on the altar of sacrifice where botanical skies of elliptical infernos resound throughout the classical universe.
I love this revealing and scientific corridor of acknowledgement.

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

I 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.

The Gregorian calendar has evolved from insular Celtic languages, whilst the epitome of death is witnessed by desolate tree-tops of silent and haunted hills.
As we bask in the radiance of harsh winter precipitations, I acknowledge his birthplace in Ayrshire. We are asked to give credence to the important lyrics: Haste Ye Back.
The national party has pronounced Brosnachadh Bhruis, whilst partaking of the offal pudding at the address of the laird.
Our sectarian intercourses are ceremonial ejaculations in the bedlam of staunch affiliation.
I can feel the spirit of damp historical ancestry on this Presbyterian eloquence which surpasses Hogmanay by a mere 25 days.
One more thing: Don’t be a stranger.

Vulnerability is characterised by a beautifully ambivalent experience for the majority of anthropological subjects, if the risk is indeed to be embraced.
But, haven’t we already surmounted the impossible ranges of mountainous biopsychosocial corridors in this geographical war against oblivion?
If we have, then let us raise our brazen shields whilst the cheerleading and aristocratic seductress chants her ceremonial and political letters of pronouncement.
Cosmological resistance of physical objects to any change in their sense of motion, speed or direction, is characterised by hilarity.
Yet, what does it matter?
It is likened to bursting forth from a position of submerged freedom of speech, where we must then tread precariously across uncertain ponds.
Stepping out from the metaphorical boat, we can acquaint ourselves with the beauty of The Vocal Artiste and conduct our transaction.

There is a resonating rhythm which cultivates a warm embrace from electric boldness.
Congruence is to be found within the fire of an athame, where familiarity can direct energy from each quarter of sacred space.
As nature displays her petals with utmost sincerity, there is certain direction to northerly earth, eastern air, southern fire and westerly water.
Invocations are personal. I now feel the need to consummate our equilibrium. Please do not be offended.

I am lost for words, as I am empathic with the planet.
Although we truly stand in line for death and the afterlife, it is important that we mother our young.
I do not deny the allurement of sociopathic inclinations and I heartily validate the sexuality of suburban expression.
But, we both know – politicians rise like winged beasts from the murky depths of sociological oceans.
Can I touch your skin and give you compliments?
I love your being, just as it is.

There is a beat, where the rhythm of questionable origins pulsates throughout the uncertainty of our lost generation.
Insects which crawl into the darkness flamboyantly portray the message of Liverpudlian honesty,
Whilst desolate railway arches echo the sound of destination in the face of bewilderment and a heightened awareness of loss.
Oh, to be found in the midst of the brickwork tunnels of death!
I remember how the sticky leads of the ECG scan and my declarations of abstinence merely resulted in intravenous gambles with the reaper of the ancient abyss.
So, I urge you to burn incense, my friend of forgotten rock festivals, whilst I seek to connect with your vein.
You are a lifetime away, yet you are ever present.
Thank you, for sitting with me in my hour of death and for your Isle of Wight being.
The price of MD 20/20 will be etched on my heart forever.

Aren’t you amazed at the propagations of politics? But let us not become enraptured by the plausibility of oratory wonders. That which is palatable, yet unexpected, is revealed in spectacular semantics. The winds may blow the surface of grass from side-to-side, as we perch on the threshold of a new dawn, while rhetorical laughter echoes her hysterical shrieks in familial connectedness. We are truly on the brink of advancement – don’t you think? Scottish mist hangs her powerful head over the glens of Rannoch moor, in a manner which is ghostly atmospheric. The clearances of old will never be forgotten in the valley of Glencoe.

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 perforations within our assumed wisdom, lay bare the essence of our very folly.
Similar to the tea-bag, our prestige fills a void which lies below the strainer of presumption.
Will we ever count the cost of our labors? Is our money invested in the wrong opinion?
How unique truly are we, in the midst of mass conformity?

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

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.

Aluminium ladders from the attic creak during forbidden midnight ventures, whilst auditory perceptions of Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy echo within the magical darkness.
Many times, Dolly stood at the edge of the platform and articulated prismatic pronouncements, as the train hurtled along the tracks.
We must permit our nostalgic souls to remain attached by silver chords, as we travail along the corridor of indiscernible planes towards twilight.
Therefore, my slippery soul of simplicity, we must hold up the lantern in this obscure existence. Joe, I have toasted bread by the coal fire within the flickering shadows of overwhelming anticipation. Your carriage awaits.

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

Leprechauns abide in pastures of Gaelic folklore where those who are susceptible to their mischief will be spellbound by galloping horses across medieval dunes in the name of allegiance to the King.
We need to cross the causeway at the correct time, in anticipation of tidal waves which approach a finite limit.
Have you ever consumed whiskey in a culture of superstition?
An environment of dark precipitation is atmospheric, especially when the ghosts of ancient battles exonerate our ignorance amidst our blatant lack of understanding.
Let us bow our knee in humble acknowledgement of those phantoms of olde, who teach us about seeing.

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

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

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.

Conflict resolution is like a field of mines where shrapnel explodes and uncertain footings pervade their way through the flesh of our workplace relationships.
Professionalism has crossed invisible boundaries beyond the realms of Saturn, don’t you think?
Please, will you consider having political interactions on the territory upon which I reside? You will then truly understand the mechanics of being.
I can correct you. But you must be willing.
Come on, babe! I dare you to venture outside of the box of predictability, because we can then truly arrive at a mutual understanding.

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

There is a certain mystique about Essex County where Wiccan boutiques smite the eyes with linguistic confusion.
Salaam reminds me of cold meat and Shalom reminds me of Welsh breakfasts even though the 1700s knew nothing of peace.
So, now that we almost reach the threshold of Spring Aequus Nox, I commend Julius Caesar for his respect towards atmospheric refraction.
We need to talk.
Come on, and let us delve into classical and mythological philosophies where games of death are an aphrodisiac with a sprinkling of risqué.

Oh, to be cradled in the arms of a stringed quartet, where ancient phantoms tickle forbidden structures and intertwine with my wandering spirit across baron regions of the netherworld.
As the fallacy of alleged progress warms the darkest graves with ambivalent laughter, I now ask for your permission to caress your slippery soul as it seeks to slide into cosmological inertia.
Articulation of the Algerian torso punctuates the pervasive sanctuary where seduction of the King resonates with my Arabic woodwind instruments.
Therefore, let us embrace under the canopy of Ashtoreth, as her velvet hours are forever shortening like the contemporary expressions of a wanton Eve.

How bombastic is the traditional English breakfast, as she spreads her colorful and cardiac enticements across the span of our traditional expectations.
We have far surpassed the golden age of steam, my gorgeous friend of midnight festivals.
Their truly is an eerie silence which is deafening, when seaweed caresses the surface of oceanic intrepidity. So, my brother of anthropological inseparability – kiss the breeze of this powerful and enigmatic mysticism.
I praise the shamanic divinations of Bolivian forests, where entrails are the delight of Haruspex and the Erythroxylum Coca bends her rigid stem on the West face of the Andes.
I have one question to ask of thee: How do we truly interpret Mesopotamian liver?

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?

As we speak, I am in the vortex of a Purple Haze.
Seattle has produced more than a reputable brand of coffee and the great hall of fame resounds throughout eternity.
We are acknowledged by Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain - don’t you think?
Come as you are, because freedom is just another word for nothing less to lose.
So, my sensual mistress of musical engineering - shake those deep and hypnotic dreams from your hair and watch where you point that gun! Okay?

Who is the law of this land of lunacy?
I have rubbed my nose in an upward direction and have arrived at no logical conclusions.
So, as we walk across this trestle of heightened vulnerability, I am reminded of gustatory uncertainties where monetary recompensations are the focus of subjective rock-bands.
I fully appreciate the various instruments as they perform in Aberdonian synchronicity.
How timeless are the cries of those from the depths of the abyss of unfathomable galaxies.

Step into the cobbled courtyard where highwaymen roar with drunken debauchery, and rotten vegetables pelt the bare buttocks of ancient harlots who are shackled to the stocks of occult accusation.
Forbidden encounters are a certain mischief in the rafters of aristocracy, where disgust and desire mingle in unspoken dialogues and roll within the stench of damp hay.
I am captivated by the vanity of those carnal gratifications where Black Death casts her treacherous shadow across European boundaries.
Our markets are organised by macabre executioners in the finest of linen, who shout joyous proclamations, whilst the wise are aggressively coerced by vile salesmanship.
Please, open the gates to the city wall.
My desire is to listen to the wind, as she whispers reassurance amidst the haunted woodlands where those who are superstitious and faint-hearted fear to tread.
There is no taxation in the wilderness.

How disjointed is our formation, where the robes of the deceased are removed in the ancient catacombs of political espionage in the name of solidarity.
Are the concepts of “meaning” or “definition” limited to the unfathomable parameters of what we call “time”?
I need you to take the lead, where thermals amongst cirrus vertebratus formations generate a sense of lift in our seemingly jointed and articulated society.
Have you ever felt the power of a vice? If you have, then how fictitious is reality?
She is the Spirit of our Age, and the English countryside needs your dark and ghostly shadow.
As the vanity of composure is not dissimilar to a charismatic vortex, I bid you to release my lyrical heart into the stratosphere where proclamations of ambivalent identity understand the nature of sound.

I can feel the wails of ancient ghosts, as their rancid breath slithers past my historical and misty perceptions.
The highlands have a story to tell, so please attend the ceilidh.
Anglican troops have brought violence through those who are possessed by the spirit of treason.
Therefore, let us now make haste to the dance and travel together beyond timeless rails, where austere mist hangs in the air like a Celtic obituary.
Can we at least discuss this repetitive yet hypnotic sound of linear rage?
My motives are sincere.
I am related to the True North, and I appreciate the resonating pulse of your entity.

Are you able to feel the depth of the forest, where wisdom screeches throughout the branches of the olde English cemetery.
The harpsichord is majestic in its historical and royal sexuality.
Render your ****** taxes unto the so-called order of the sophisticated wilderness.
I am perplexed at what we have been conditioned to believe.
But the Church of England is now obsolete.
Thank modernity for relativism if you so desire.
But understand this: The foliage of humanity will never be swept under the metaphorical carpet of autumnal bewilderment.

As we run with this extravagant hunt, donned in fine apparel, our forefathers are said to be effectively communicated through the aristocratic echelons of our contemporary excuse of societal connectedness.
However, my meridians ache with this eternally echoing façade, where those insignificant mongers of presumed energy exert their influence and pronounce fabrications of various and mystical cravings.
Therefore, it is important to understand those infantile proclamations, which are inert in their inarticulate and disengaging philosophies.
The sheer magnetism of our awkward interactions is not dissimilar to a child who has been caught in the midst of a forbidden action.
It is all about tidal hemispheres, don’t you think?

Please enlighten me in my utmost presumption, because I fall victim to the limitations of sense-datum.
However, I feel no conviction around my ambivalence because their truly is an ebb and flow of permissiveness.
Oh, the texture of Egyptian cotton is shameless within the spread of her luxurious, symmetrical and prestigious corners.
Please, do not open the door, for I suspect that the wolf will be at large. Let us not become so encapsulated by systems at the expense of metaphysics.

I am intrigued by the questionable science of what is deemed to be equilibrium, where the dance of shadows evolves into an exhausting predictability.
Please: Give me nourishment in the name of planetary appeasement.
Diligence may pay a simple reward, but I am tired.
Thank you for the surging power of electricity. I can feel its superior waves.

The psychologising of the masses is a contemporary pestilence where those who are metaphorically deceased by political wiles, form impetuous lines in the quest for an array of implanted micro-organisms.
Although I have never conversed with the ghosts of Tombstone, I have blown sand away from many obscured surfaces.
As bryophytes are damp botanical mats which cleave to the ancient and symbolic markers of death; so the writing is similarly attached and strewn across our grand societal walls.
That which was once concealed is now blatantly revealed.
Therefore, I appeal to the social construction of what is presumed to be reality: Can we please now unite and carve humanitarian lines into the stony face of our confabulated habitat?

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

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

Celtic and warrior spirits reside amidst the undergrowth of our shallow and contemporary delusions.
So, let us take stalk of farmers’ fields where crop rotation is subject to the ritualistic attempts of the prophets of Baal.
There is something which is delectably acceptable about Jack the Ripper, where powdered noses spread their orifice of congestion across alleyways of Victorian London.
I love the smell of cobbled streets as they convey an aroma of coconut and damp resilience.
Let us not lament the death of sophistication where contemporary entrails spread their distance across the tank of customised motorcycles.
What are you lookin’ at?

The soothing and nostalgic rhythm of yesterday beats like a hypnotic pulse which cannot be denied. It really happened - for good or for bad. Can you enter into the olfactory memories where innocence was shrouded by an authority, where social sanctions were conflicted?
Loaves of bread in a supermarket are not the subject of mere chance. Systems and procedures are required in order to display the final product. Do you understand? I am not so convinced that you do. So, fill up your tank with gas you ******’ idiot and keep on keepin’ on…just like the rest of mediocrity. Well done! You are almost there. But where is “there”?

I am somewhat perplexed at the clash between neutrality and expectation, as we genuinely present our being on the field of open vulnerability. I seek to find synthesis in this very moment, between emotional thesis and antithesis. Oh, my literary companions of global interconnected and eternal being, I beseech you by the power of respiratory arrest: dare to surpass the line of expected mediocrity, where few will ever tread. I am hungry. Let us acknowledge that "authority" is a questionable truth and let us resonate with the awareness that truth is an infallible authority. The character of perceived vulnerability is steadfast in the face of assumed evidence.