The wheel of the year spirals in her established and revolutionary celebrations; and the spirits of the dance move freely amongst the bonfire of lunar festivals, whilst innocence parades herself in the streets of contemporary entitlement.
Will you please proclaim a feast for the ghosts of the land who reside in our momentary presence?
A portal to the fairy-world may be obstructed by our diluted perceptions of the significant occasion, even though alcohol and explicit *** are expected rituals by our ancient and sovereign forefathers.
Oh ancient Goddess of pagan folklore, I am truly thankful for your inviting and feminine secretions. But I cannot glide with ease in my quest to find a suitable compromise between the turnip and the pumpkin.
Treat me according to your seductive and encapsulating will. But I implore you: Please do not trick me, because I trust the power of your group intercourses. Let us spread the seed of superstition and burn black candles in the midst of this urban graveyard of symbolic and haunted attraction. I crave the treat of your femininity, oh Goddess of the West.

The bond of brickwork is vital to the structural integrity of delusional tradesmanship.
Idaho is a state to be reckoned with when the future of marital and maternal roles stand in juxtaposition with self-loathing.
Yet downtown Boise is a cultural centre of safety even though massacres occurred on the Oregon Trail.
I am now drawn to consider the simplicity of a cheese and pickle sandwich.
It is all in the shape and tactile quality of the word.
Teachers can be boring in their unconvincing sterility, so it all depends upon the type that we are talking about, doesn’t it?
Let us never forget, that we cannot build meaning upon the foundations of a vacuum.
It is incumbent upon us to hold hands as we traverse this challenging path where we seek to avoid psychological ****.

The equilibrium of the ecosystem is challenged by the rites of the 11th Century Norsemen. Smell the pine in the forests of North America where the dream catcher swings in the branches of the misty Boreal forest.
We must never forget in our futile plight for supremacy, that the roots of trees are deeply connected to the annals of history where contemporary grandiosity is a mere mirage of what we call sophistication.
Toccata and Fugue in D Minor is where Johann Sebastian Bach communicated his message as clear as the cries of those who were slaughtered in the Highland Clearances. Parallel octaves of our Viking ancestry are firmly established and will never be altered despite the quests of the New World Order.

Synthetic sympathy is like an epidemic across the surface of our baron horizon of sophistication, where predictable greetings and condolences are proclaimed with interpersonal detachment.
An aperture is a hole through which light travels across a threshold of darkness.
Gullible are those voters who strive for independence whilst firmly clamped in the jaws of proclaimed democracy, where reporters become lively at dramatic scenes of carnage and death.
Oh sibling of the expanding universe -  I implore you to project your voice across constitutional and cosmological  municipalities.
Let us run for office beyond the confinement of bureaucratic galaxies.
After all, our modulations echo throughout solitary cells of our revered bedlam.

Insecurities are usually masked by specific external characteristics.
Looking back, I can visualise dead wasps as they floated in water-filled jam jars on the foundations of the Campsie Fells.
Please, will you save all your kisses for me amidst this mass observation of our voyeuristic society?
I give thanks for the blood that pumps through your veins. Can I explore your labyrinth within these flittering and electric shadows of death?

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

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

How exotic is this curvaceous dance within our brazen synaptic hemispheres?
The scholastic wisdom of the ages boldly pronounces licentiousness when Ashtoreth makes herself readily available to ravenous self-projections of post-modernity.
As we saunter around the parameters of entitlement, the monster will reveal itself with narcissistic glory whilst cotton candy is purchased by naïve populations of bewitched obedience.
Scan the desolate horizon where economical lap dances are nothing more than a mere mirage of repressed Oedipus conflicts.

Parental affiliations shroud the perimeters of sociological desperation. Like a gorgeous eye which cries in Gaelic rainstorms. Feel the texture of bracken, as she scrapes her tangible beauty against your pale and excited skin. But hold your breath, my ever-connected member of covenantal being. Do not let go of the tantric touch of spatial awareness.

Do you perceive the deep crack within the fulcrum of the universe?
Daylight and darkness blend into a hypnagogic and hallucinatory kaleidoscope, where the art of fantasy rises from oceanic depths in the form of a seductress who rides upon the wings of a horned god.
We could even enter into meaningful discourse, as we contemplate psychoactive echelons of spiritual intensity?
Are you hungry?

The solar system reclines in the flowing locks of your hair.
Floss the soul from the rhythm of nocturnal galaxies.
Can I please urge you to humbly acknowledge those strato-cumulus signs which signify the altitude of brazen sensuality?
Pressure gradients are real you know.

Forensic psychology is not an exact science, despite the lofty assertions of those who are deemed to have expertise in the face of non-empathic presumption.
Please, do not dismiss the wisdom of those who are seasoned in the metaphorical school of life. It is far too expensive, even though there is an apparent and mutual understanding between those on each side of the great divide.
Dazzling suits and coherent reports do not adequately represent intricate diversities in the docks of criminality where the laughter of the prosecution echoes throughout the beams of formality.
Therefore, sociopathy and psychopathy remain to be inadequately defined.

I have heard the haunted whispers of screaming and necrophliac anguish from the depths of the eerie crypts of ancient mausoleums.
There is a damp smell in disused railway tunnels which generates a fearful sense of grateful awareness.
Flying down the streets in astral projections of nocturnal liberation reminds me of the warmth of hateful urinary incontinences.
Does a Gold Star adequately represent a brand of brown sauce, or does it represent something else? Please enlighten me, as the guise of Rabatak inscriptions unravel ******* dismay.

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

Taste the after-glow from a deepening twilight extravaganza of Victorian burlesque.
I am saddened by those Machiavellian splendours of geographical landscapes, which interfere with the dance of spirits between the mystical stones of druidry.
Have you ever tasted cheese from the New Forest?
There is a subtlety of flavours, and I celebrate the orchestra when torrential rain saturates the soul with flash floods of sensuality.

Your pre-frontal cortex is delectably oral amidst this maze of psychological violence.
Oh, mistress of certain uncertainty, I cannot articulate the essence of ontology, as human language is inadequate. But, you truly capture the flow of irregularity in this mass mockery of societal fabric.
Therefore, I simply appeal to our mutual and primitive impulses. Let us be rough, despite the misguided assumptions of those who claim to have affiliation.
I like old school choppers, because they are not polished.

Is trust really a delicate dance of uncertainty?
A lamb may skip with innocence over the bright dandelion-covered meadows of our majestic urban constructs, whilst Mother Nature unravels her thick carpet of jeopardy, without reservation or shame.
It is possible for us to refrain from captivations which allure us to the psychological precipice and to appreciate the chords of the blues which beautifully tantalise the innermost recesses of suppressed and forbidden yearnings.
So, join hands with the sonic waves of Saturn and respect the psychological precipice with sober awareness. Darkness and daylight are not dichotomous astrological differences where fatalistic determinism stands in diametrical opposition to authentic internal equilibrium.
Contemplate the soothing and beautiful anticipations of dusk, where the flight of the bat reveals a miraculous contrast against the deep pastel curtains of the night; and acknowledge that twilight exposes her morning glory in the simple droplet of dew.
The shadows hold no substance. Metamorphosis is a tangible possibility in the realms of existence. Do you believe it?

Philanthropic gesticulations are an evident dismissal of Anglican legends.
In this Northern hemisphere, we are unified on the verge of an axial tilt, whilst equestrian ladies in jodhpurs of champagne delicacy seek profanities beyond the confines of social respectability.
Let us sit under the wise branches of the oak tree in nocturnal dimensions of Newtonian questionability, and broaden our horizons as we contemplate our ancestors.
Listen to the bubbling brook as she whispers timeless stories of enchantment.
Oh, bearer of liberated pain, I resent fox-hunting.
The rooster always crows at dawn.

I miss the fields of Andalucía, where the Sierra Nevada can be seen in the East from Costa Del Sol perimeters; and community is something which far surpasses the façade of being in the same room. Sliced onions in the abode of La Villa Rosetta will permeate the Milky Way on Spanish rooftops, as herds of goats amble along mountain roads. But let us forever remember that chorizo is beautiful, as she proudly displays her scent against the turrets of Algeciras. I love a fiesta, because familial chords remain uncut.

What is fun, in its perceived definition? I can only imagine bountiful beauty as I contemplate such psychological explorations. It takes me to places where there are no limits, and where that which is deemed to fit inside the barb-wired fences of acceptability do not prevail. Let us retire to this intimate beach of oneness in a state of being which transcends time.

Scale the walls of knowledge, if you will, my Western friend of ambivalence.
But, before we leap into the crevasse of botanical diversity, it is important that we understand that the smoke reveals beings which traverse physical paths of obscurity.
So, we must relax and give careful attention to the details with which we presume to be confronted.
Interpretation is a concept that reminds me of chocolate-covered mint fondant.
It is all in the power of the suffix, don't you think?

Fragile projections of a delicate solar system are foretold behind the gates of the damp castle walls.
I recognise the commanding gentleness of the icy North Wind as it teases with advances of forthcoming brutality.
Chunks of freshly baked bread and thick wedges of cheese are stapled to history with the blessing of a contemporary Mother’s Pride.
We have travelled light years apart, yet we are inseparably joined at the metaphorical hip.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, my acquaintance of sombre excellence.
So, please do not be deluded by expectations from particular designations and social strata.
As teardrops drip from ancient clouds above multigenerational transmissions, I can feel those Celtic waves of classical death which resound throughout our hollow shell of existence.
It is just like malignant optimism, don’t you think? Coitus is always permissible, but it is not always beneficial.
Therefore, board this aquatic bubble and follow the current downstream at your ludicrous peril, whilst intrapsychic processes drive the train off socio-cultural junctions.

A mere flickering shadow of innocence is engulfed by a tidal wave of abominations.
Although I have been stolen from the wings of the elements, I perceive salvation in the face of eternal execution, as the sound of the bubbling brook cheerfully communicates to the Mare Tranquillitatis.
Oh, cratered regions of death – your guise is blatant, and I have not yet eaten.
So, I bow in humble acknowledgement of such treasures of frivolity, and consider the aroma of baked apples.
How magnetic is this attraction?

The altar of exactitude is as tedious as cooking a turkey by the flame of a matchstick.
Listen to the whispering spirits of the forest, as they echo in a beautifully haunting perpetuity.
Do you feel the chants of the ceremony as they flicker against your skin and penetrate your apprehensive soul?
Symbolic feasts abound in the turrets of the ancient and crenellated towers of gothic castles where gargoyles reign in masonry brilliance.
That which is assumed to be forgotten by contemporary presumption remains to be fully present, despite contemporary dismissals.

The gates of aristocratic chaos swing wide open amidst our political order of denied chaos.
Can you feel the depths of this political vortex where time clenches her muscles in order to enunciate the conflict?
Those who lay claim to portrayed originality are steeped in the hypocritical depths of duplicity where classical music reverberates across cosmic explanations of unspoken revelation.
Unspeakable are the criminalities of those who don mere veils of propaganda, as they are neither superior nor dissimilar to maximum security psychopathy.
Listen, my friend, to the frequency of our radio identification.
The New World Order is the unseen pulse of the progressive world, where seemingly primitive customs are dismissed in the name of mass deception.
Let us take chances of revolutionary discovery and stand in unity; otherwise we shall fall in this calamity of obscene consumerism.

Wrap my slithering soul in layers of wanton and historical bark, where dendrochronology branches her gorgeously captivating system of vascular cambium and seals me within the vice of her vengeful caress.
History has truly borne witness to the brigand of robbers who interfered with travellers in the depths of the forest of aristocratic whoredom.
I am buried underneath chords of feminine expression, where the synthesis of bass, melody and harmony unite into an unspeakable realm which cannot be interrupted by parallel expressions of sterility.
Your carriage awaits, Madame.

I have openly altered my state of consciousness and have connected with astral planes where the channelling of transcendental energy into the room has occurred through vibrations from the soul of music.
A spellbinding stream of conscious connectedness truly pulsates through unseen realms of reality.
In order to participate, we must understand that healing cannot be defined by the limitations of familiar vocabulary. Therefore, let us permit shamanic drumming to throb within the network of our being.
Thank you. I can feel your transparency.

Delve into the void where ecstasy spirals her sensuality into a cosmological inertia. Do you know what it is like to be suspended in catatonic amazement? If not, then trust the keeper of the cast-iron gate, because I know the power of your appetites. Ancient battles may be considered to be trivialised injustices in the age of self-aggrandisement. But justice will prevail, whilst the indelible character of history casts her shadow of memorable resilience, where Jacobean ghosts will never rest.

The anatomy of madness is a psychedelic and epistemological vortex that is not dissimilar to singing nursery rhymes whilst swinging from a street-lamp without a stitch of clothing.
Having laid bare the essence of deluded stigmatisation, my questionable and fair-weathered friend - I now challenge the concept of sophistication and the fallible parameters of meaning.
It's hard to believe, isn't it? I have borne witness to the wisdom of squirrels who store their food underground in anticipation of winter; and I can honestly feel the cosmic impulses as they ripple throughout the complex and biopsychosocial pond of astral and ontological hierarchy.
Therefore, I now appeal to your travelling spirit: do not dismiss those shards of ice where gothic stones lay scattered outside the cavern of solitude.
The well of souls has determined that we connect to tidal vibrations of our global sanitorium.

Have you ever tasted the finality of abandonment?
I fully acknowledge the ambivalence of hateful and loving connectedness.
But, there is something wonderful about lunar eclipses amidst dark forests where trees creak and groan with the pains of animism.
The dial of the sun will emphasise her eternal wheel of galactic sobriety, whilst interaction transcends her promiscuous limitations of what is deemed to be sophisticated.
What do you understand about hormones?
Thank you, oh priestess of resentful misogyny.
I applaud your sexuality.

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

If you were able to slice the moon, would you truly be able to consume it?
Those who wish to connect to the spirit-world must not be deluded by the presumed maintenance of an abhorrent character.
The essence of non-ordinary reality, where the personification of the unseen surrounds our material emptiness, requires a level of humility beyond the depths of Palus Putredinis.
Therefore, let us not scoff at exclusion, oh small fish, in an ocean which has eternal shores of teachings beyond the parameters of superior ignorance.
Egocentrism will not satiate the hunger of a lunatic who proclaims independence, yet who truly abides in slavery.
How can we demonstrate a happy medium without being consumed?
Trance is an open state where bias can be banished by gravitational collapse, if you believe it.
In my current solitary state, I can feel a host of sacred dynamics tugging my soul as the golden chord anchors my being to that which is considered to be “real.”

The corridors of eternity are filled with a pungent black smoke, where seductive goats dance amidst the aroma of flickering shadows.
Regret and lost opportunity have forever lifted their elegant skirts with brazen mockery, and paraded their alluring nakedness with political and fornicatory statements.
From which Order do you harken, my brethren of unrestricted and universal boundaries?
Oh, ancient accomplice from unknown nether regions, venture into the underworld where spectres enforce their varying ranks of forgotten presence and renovate my dilapidated existence amidst this catalogue of brilliance, where simplicity and elegance collide.
It has been passed down to us by way of oral tradition.
My goblet has been raised along with the ceremonial blade in acknowledgement of sensual and procreative acts.
It’s a simple expression of gratitude to my Succubus.

Look before you leap, because there is a chasm of fashionable awareness which is subject to the discriminations of the wise.
The cactus is a survivor in the desert of Arizona. But I will follow you if you dare to escape. Tadpoles will truly fertilise the obscurity of fallopian wells. Rise up and walk. Come on…break away from the chain-gang.

The cushioned fabrics of early sensorimotor expression placate the salivating ghouls of formative destinations which lurk at the neurological gates of repulsive awareness - stripping our fragments and revealing the cellular walls of repelling invitation.
Unfortunately, each surpassing second dictates her significance across zones and frequencies, while we succumb to the arduous process of being ignorantly unwrapped and unleashed into the bountiful emptiness of insight.
That’s life.
In this crude and psychological pre-operational stage of misplaced trust, we are pressing against cosmological forces, into the realms of internalised experiences where the veneer is eventually understood to be characterised by utmost deception.
Let us become formal amidst this abstract projection into harsh environments where the donning of masks can no longer be undertaken with sincerity.
Here, my universal being of connected severance, is the gorgeous discovery of abhorrence.
Like I said: it is the beauty of our beast.

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

Vision is an inexplicable experience, where perception blends with distant intellect and galactic rationalism.
As we sit together and lay aside our preconceptions, we both know that it will melt in the fifth year.
As we engage in this beautiful marathon and paste ontology across wasteful walls of graffiti, can we now please die?
Oh ancient soul, I am intrigued by your mysterious aura, as your flickering flame has made contact with my ectoplasmic and innermost hatred.
Nationalism is not yet lost, and everything is said to be well.
It is said to be our mistake for not yet having the realisation.
We can only prevent decay for a limited period of time.
It’s just like an inadequate reprimand, don’t you think?

The action of a stiff-upper-lipped sophistication hinges upon a fornicators conception where the intensity of lyrical articulation blinds her unwitting recipient with a spellbinding embracement of non-reality.
It is an aristocratic relinquishment where two barrels emit their projections with wilful intent as they posture themselves side-by-side amidst this gothic oasis of shimmering puddles which reflect light against the darkness of our ontological ambivalence.
It goes without saying: duplication is grievous to the creativity of a searching soul.
As death has been birthed into our lives, it is important to pay homage to our predecessors who began the end with conception.

It is an ancient tradition, and we cannot pull the cosmos apart.
Nightfall is upon us, and the spirits dance with sensual provocation.
Thank you for the scattering of seed, oh mistress of water, air, wind and fire.
Grant us inner insight and carry our prayers to the Goddess at each quarter of this explicit circle.
I am inspired by the elements.
But, please do not allow the gallows to prevail, because I am innocent.
Can we meet at dawn?

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

Your belief system can alter that which is considered to be reality.
Although vulnerability is a parade of commonality which adorns blissful blinkers, we must never forget that we are inseparably connected to parental validity and unequivocal yet treacherous insecurity.
I do not believe in gender stereotypes and embrace the promise that the taste of copulation is as beautiful and rebellious as teenage wanton prowess in possession of a ligature in a dense forest.
So, my darling, wear your crown.
It’s an acoustic romance where death has cultivated a harmonious melody with an essential bass.
How beautiful is a classical symphony of sadness which is enriched by a recent discharge from hospital?
The train meandered its way along distant tracks toward South-Eastern utopia.

The fiddle of the early settlers shrouds societal expectations with the warmth of impenetrable solidarity. So, buy into the fields of the farms, as the wheat sways in the fields of the mid-west.
Rock your chair on the porch of possibility and consider the howling winds of northern loneliness.
I have to ask: To what depth are your intercourses?
As the saloon echoes with screams of debauchery, the Sheriff flaunts his badge of moral rectitude. “Do not speak to me!” he said. “You are deserving of death!”

The spirochetes of the ages embellish themselves in a mystical quartet, as our respirations reverberate across sanctimonious plateaus of Oedipus and Electra complexes.
Your celestial convictions are tasteful as they wistfully meander through the fuselage of hydrangea bushes and ***** foxgloves.
I can feel the beat of your apprehensive pulse.
As we applaud the demise of this psychological stage-show, where connected separations unravel their shameful mysteries into a vortex of deluded academia; it is evident when someone communicates deep convictions across pulsating swamps of cosmological hemispheres.
So, as we merge into this cataclysmic vortex of enshrinement, let us embrace the past understanding of future ambivalence where the beginning can only be understood within the context of the end.

Show me the forbidden petals of your dark side, where enlightenment pulsates with her superior intellectual reliance upon rationalism.
What are the parameters of absolutism and relativism in this age, where I have discoursed with austere figures of the debased brotherhood?
Can you wrap your fingers around the girth of societal modernity, and stroke the length of paradoxical sophistication where philosophical death displays her unfathomable depths?
I have found resolution to this mathematical perplexity amidst our blatantly secret desert storm, where the cosmological clock ceases to denote her tick beyond the circumference of our interior sociology.
Looking back to the future – what do you think of your first love?
As we gather in the sacred circle around ancient and dreamy wishes, the spectres of dark forests are worthy of homage on this calendar season of historical significance.
Limp, is the phallus of political rectitude.
There is something beautifully menacing about the sound of bass drums, especially whenever there is a cultural context.
Do you know why? Because, they are connected to the melody and harmony, where the fullness of ontology is climactic in its lofty debasement.

Chords of expression fray into the misty atmosphere of a nocturnal energy field, where hermits display magical arts on the cliff-tops of allegiance.
The application of force is intensified with heightened awareness, as it will produce the desired effect.
Are you willing or able to acknowledge that there is a resonating vibration which surpasses timeless universal parameters?
My cat is watching me.
Therefore, the question arises around whether the concept of perception is defined by conservative projections or unbridled liberty?
So, if we meander down those narrow and solitary roads of Andalucia to the small village of Pastelero, where snakes discreetly writhe into the fields of golden grain, we will find that an exploding teardrop is more powerful than a sonic boom.
The sickle is an astrological formation which compels me to ask: Where have all the flowers gone?

The orchestral and harmonic vocals of monks echo down spiralled and cast-iron staircases to the dungeons of our carefully crafted castle chambers of submission.
It is all in the warmth of our carotid pulse.
Oh delusional salesman of presumed superior status, it is important to acknowledge those spasmodic and physiological celebratory responses which resound like cross-cultural and cosmological anthems within the questionable corridors of fitness to stand trial.
I can feel your quivering pulse.
However, we must recognise that the required reports are not dissimilar to a beautifully carved chicken which is subject to the paradoxically crude and culinary eloquence and deviance of the gleeful pyromaniac.
The geometry of midnight has clearly outlined her symmetrical shapes, which require seasoning and the skillful administration of being quartered.
Chef, can I ask you: is designation superior to our authentic anthropological status?

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

Osiris is the Egyptian god of the afterlife and triangulation is a mystery within the context of interpersonal dynamics.
The world, as we know it, is subject to greater influences, despite the manipulations of those who presume to be sophisticated.
I love my cat. He is my familiar Sphinx of the West, and I have been acquainted with his wizardry for hundreds of years.

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