The storms of life may never cease to blow in their unanticipated direction. However, you are able to withstand in the same manner as a Jacobean fortress which is not dissuaded by the extremity of Highland elements.
The color of your hair is a sure sign of wisdom, despite those self-doubts which are not uncommon to the sincerity of our humanity.
So, my fellow sojourner, in this perplexing yet beautiful pilgrimage: rest assured that the dark side of awareness can be applauded by our empathic insights, where those who are haunted by ghostly shadows can bask in the radiance of legitimate validations.
Therefore, I urge you to carry that blazing torch into seemingly unfathomable depths of human experience, and to illuminate those treacherous paths of uncertainty with the confidence of ontology.
There is no price upon that which you can impart. Therefore, humbly acknowledge the taste of apple pie, and display your bountiful banquet before those who are emaciated.
The universe requires your personal enrichment.

Take a glimpse back down the cobbled Roman road, and you will bear witness to a catalogue of decadent milestones which await unrestrained consummation.
But I am now a weary pilgrim who wanders through misty forests, where the sound of cracking twigs around the badgers sett, shatters the serenity of twilight ecosystems.
Toadstools are not a part of my current diet. Therefore, I bid you farewell. When you stand by the sparking fire at the ancient gatehouse, you will resolve the carnival of hypnogogic and hypnopompic startlements.
Therefore, before you begin your journey of forgotten mystical awareness, I must ask one thing of you: are you able to recollect your whereabouts in the next lifetime?

The paradise of darkness is like a climactic and physiological déjà vu, where souls have been swallowed by ancient daemons amidst an **** of oral sacrifice.
Aren’t you tantalised by such forbidden seductions?
Although I am somewhat acquainted with the blackness of unfathomable depths of the ancient abyss, I sincerely call upon your superior wisdom to beckon me across craggy chasms of mathematical perplexity, where eternal ghosts wail with agonising obscurity from the turrets of architectural stronghold.
If you light a candle toward the incarnation of depravity and reveal the sacred circle, then I will ensure safe passage down those historical and spiral staircases where dungeons hold innumerable fetishistic secrets.
I am captivated by co-existing opposites.
Let us talk with the goat, and arrive at a mutually agreeable pact.

This specific autumnal celebration is characterised by throbbing obscenities, where a masquerade of piety resembles the trembling jester as he performs before medieval royalty.
Oh, to witness the salmon run in Northern ecosystems where the caniform classification stands in a dominant stance at the edge of the falls.
So, my independent and competitive contemporary, let us bow with sober reflection at those anthropological schools who swim upstream in this spiritual river in the vain pursuit of unattainable freedom.
Today, on this second Monday of October, the name of the game has been brutally ***** by propagandist salesmen.
So, at this juncture of existential consumerism, we stand within the jaws of our ever-smiling aristocracy. But, if you dare to open your eyes, my friend of unfathomable denial; you will find that the tradition is called Thanksgiving.

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

Hugging a wall that is made of brick is a certain projection of an identity which has never been discovered.
Shower your soul with the warmth of French kisses and laugh at those imposed moral rectitudes.
******* bonding is a coercion of unity where aggressive independence lurks on the banks of youthful sexuality.
So, dominance no longer maintains power, and an empty shell of proclaimed significance is now rendered inoperative.
Truth has bared her gorgeous glory, and endless voices of self-disclosure resound throughout the cosmos.
Can you hear them?

The spirit of the age projects a myriad of peculiarities which are diametrically opposed to the wisdom of our ancestral manoeuvres of foreboding contemplations.
It is sufficient for me to say, that I have rolled up my trouser-legs in metaphysical resignation.
Lest you forget, that the history of our posterity is shrouded in post-Edwardian etiquette, as she balances on the brink of relinquished community.

Like a Victorian harlot who wears long-sleeved velvet gloves, her ghostly fingers tantalised the trigger of my ancient dreams, where vulnerability paraded herself with a boisterous demeanour.
However, my friend, the eyes are the window of our aching souls.
So, as we balance upon this verge of hypnotic entrancement, it is vital that we pay homage to the plants of the dark forests.
Just like the canopy parade of parental ambivalence where suppressions assert their course fumbling of contemporary controls, the atmospheric silence is deafening.
As I have already mentioned, the dichotomy of equality has slid herself up and down upon the phallus of historical expectations and self-abandonment, don’t you think?
Now, the frontier beckons us with her harsh legitimacies, so we must never forget the power of the diviner’s sage as she leads her flocks beyond the parameters of perception.
Can we now have an immediate discussion?

Difference involves a discernable set of identifiable concepts, where soft cheese can be wrapped in cosmetic triangulations.
I know that electricity is a paradoxical commodity, where black diamonds resonate with something which is dissimilar to the larger expectations of society.
Like I said: miscellaneous conceptions of mature virility are evident to three-sided arguments. Aren’t they? There are three sides to every savoury story.

Let us now decorate the symbol of life and ensure that the protection from Scandinavian and Turkish witches is confidently displayed at our thresholds whilst snowflakes silently fall.
Are you able to recollect the innocence, where the magic circle of Arctic captivation nurtured the sending of burnt letters through anticipatory chimney flues, deep into the twinkling sky at night?
There is a certain connection to the pattern of Odin - the guide of souls.
In wisdom, I have left savoury and alcoholic sustenance for ancestral spirits between the high places of Ounasvaara and Korkalovaara. So, here it is my sibling energy field of eternal carbon footprints. Once again, the Yule buck and its Old Norse master are soon to descend upon us.
So, although it may have been outlawed in colonial America by Puritans in 1659, we must also acknowledge those infinite prints of cloven hooves in the deep snow of 1038 a.d. in this mid-winter nativity of Cristenmasse.
As we celebrate the harvest of Kekri and consult with Joulupukki on the forest ridge, the symbolic colours of red, green and gold will lavish perceptual and spiritual gifts which are unable to be purchased with material commodities.
As this festival has gradually evolved into an obscene Western construct of politico-economical prowess, we must identify one more thing: Santa is an anagram for Satan.
Is this truly Finnish or Byzantine? Perhaps it is just cosmological ethnography?

I have travailed over the foresight of previous decades where we balanced upon the brink of trauma.
The end is just the beginning.
Coal fires emit a wonderful fragrance and they cast flickering shadows where thought-provoking sexuality displays her wanton brilliance across the walls of contemporary debauchery, don’t you think?
As snowflakes fall across strata’s of lost innocence, let us contemplate echelons of depravity where solitary existence is characterised by gallant company in the English countryside of Georgian extravagance.
The female servants flutter their extended eyelashes at ******* gentry, whilst social mores dictate the silence of rage.
Prepare the horses, oh sanguine being of unspeakable beauty. You and me: we need to talk.

Venturing across the threshold of blatancy - Can you navigate your way through the complexity of this intoxicating labyrinth?
Political smiles greet the masses with plausible uncertainties. Like parasols and blue skies? Or cinders and ashes?
Waterfalls continue to flow and bumblebees pollinate great plantations. It’s coming to a close. The curtains of finality are hastily swishing together in this last triumphant finale. Progress is the name of the game. It’s a picture of lost innocence – a catholic calamity involving haunting silhouettes of the great and mighty perimeter. What do you think? Death warmed up? Give a great round of applause for Vanity Fair.

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

The City of Derby holds her breath amidst the crisis of historical ramblings and talkative expressions of inhibition.
Do not be deceived. Roaches are not mere insects, but are also three-course celebrations of haunting and religious engagements. There are Peaks which lie beyond the stratospheres of Leek.
Although the parameters of yesteryear project their own splendour, let us acknowledge the silver hair which drips with eternal statements of antagonistic adoration in Curzon Street.
Oh, rose of Sharon, in my sheer lack of understanding, I do not invalidate those instructions to depart from Birmingham New Street.
I have deeply immersed myself in Welsh pools of genuine loss, and have found a precious commodity which I had never beheld in former lifetimes.
Furthermore, I lament the loss of such generational integrity.

New England is triumphant, as she maintains the historical roots of North America.
Rebellions were concocted in order to inform and subdue those who were impressionable.
It is unfortunate that truth was concealed by presumed greatness, and that the problem continues.
Political agendas prevail in the West in the name of consumerism, and the Great Architect of the Universe continues to unravel the delusion of a seemingly greater design. The obelisk will bow to cosmological establishments, and the flag of unity will no longer be recognised. I will now say goodbye to the President and his constituency.

Anticipation is like a former actress who eagerly awaits a future prospect, where delicate wallflowers hang with certain fortitude.
Similarly, our medieval ancestors played the harpsichord, whilst later English Baroque flaunted her chauvinistic flamboyance to those who fluttered their eyelashes in the name of socio-economic harlotry.
I am pleased to meet your acquaintance, my friend of gallantry.
However, the roots of Portugese expression are conveyed in the aristocracy of our heritage.
As purity is the laughing stock of assumed independence, and pride is buried in lascivious presumption, we must remember that the classical piano shares an Arabesque flavour which stands in juxtaposition to our Saxony.

Let us contemplate the superiority of striking presumption, as it seeks to pontificate the order of architectural allegiance.
Oh, Grand Master of Greco-Roman antiquity, I bow before the sacred volumes of legal pronouncement where unseen rituals tangibly assert their authority over those who seek to embrace the ancient pathways of knowledge.
As the degrees of freedom transcend the definition of a mere mathematical concept, we must never forget the formulations of our Hellenistic forefathers who chiselled the shape of the Order into the annals of the future.
As we give thanks to Set, we acknowledge the blindfolded ceremonies of sibling homicide which encourage wisdom in this circular lodge of self-binding.
Harpocrates is our God of silence who gained sustenance from feminine anatomical structures – and we are like Isis who has been impregnated by Osiris.
So, as we cast our gaze beyond the rites of this ****** union, let us acknowledge those ***** masonry structures of obelisk stability.
Have you been born yet?

Recollected memory is subject to a host of ancient inaccuracies, where psychoactive crises are currently attributed to ghosts of a distant netherworld.
Have you ever wrapped your hands around the power of a train as it meanders down the tracks of contemplation into the distance of realisation? How loud is the scream of the butterfly?
I fully appreciate that there is a difference between visual and auditory senses, even though one may see with their ears and hear with their eyes.
Can you taste the classical mantras of sanskritic language where vedic chants find solace in the bridge of the sitar?
How phenomenological! I can feel your trembling pulse, my antiquarian partner of contemporary lusts.

The ancient future of a misbegotten conception is likened to a diametrically opposed depersonalisation of incarnate resilience, don’t you think?
Although the far reaching corners of the end resound her mystically alluring and pessimistic chords across galactical ponds of ecstatic connection which are currently unable to establish the depths of vocabulary; can we now consider the possibility of becoming mindful of our present moment of uncertain awareness, where forbidden dreams shed their lubricated skins in a mass ******* where consummated liberty is alleged to loose her bonds of socio-political confinement?
Nightfall has now dawned and cast her circle in this ignorant awakening of insulted intelligence.
Knowledge has perceptual degrees of boundless limitation, where regulation and relinquishment bow their soul in reverence to a spirit of learning beyond that which we have been taught, if this makes sense?

Those who embrace the morose departure immediately transition to their arrival destination, in the same manner as the crystal-clear droplet of dew which steadily detaches itself from the leaf on the end of a branch.
Stroke your soul and acknowledge the reality of fantasy, if you dare to venture into the realms of vulnerability. However, one must fully accept that presumed freedom is usually nothing less than serving a harsh custodial sentence.
Forgive me for being bold: How do you define the concept of cost? It is wise to step back and look deep inside, as one will find that the roots are laid bare and that they are screaming for sensitive caresses.
I have already distributed the tickets, and there are many that remain to be freely available. But it is only seconds until departure.

Blues guitar has caught us in our transgressions, where the summer blossom splays her beauty like a New Orleans Madame amidst the afterglow of a musky and nocturnal vibrancy.
I have a fully loaded clip on my possession, and I am hungry.
So, shall we begin?
Your carotid artery is pulsating with tense anticipation within the sweet toxicities of a tragic and fretful solo.
There is such a responsibility of being a parent, and you owe me some money.
Let us purchase some Bourbon chicken on this eve of celebratory shame, because I have contemplated the chasm between the West and those who reside on the East coast of vice.
We have much to discuss.

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

Rain-clouds linger in cumulonimbus fascination where the cultural class-formation is shaped by abstract territoriality.
Pressure gradients of global awareness are impacted by the adiabatic process.
So, turn up the heat and chill in the waves of dialectical ontology.

Orphan roots are banished into Bermudan-like triangular realms of presumed stability off the coast of Neptune,
Whilst abandonment firmly establishes her ancient dendrology.
Are your connections deeply entwined in the postmodern era of presumed certainty and deluded rationalism?
The method of self-transfiguration is evidenced on the mountain-tops of vanity, where the purging of the soul with self-flagellations is an archaic and scornful memory to those who claim to be enlightened.
How rooted are your roots? Does your reason stand trial in the docks of uncertainty?
The autumn leaves are changing color, and the birth of death reveals a beauty which, when embraced, flutters her powerful wings in the dawn of a frosty voyage.
I believe in ripples of probability.

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

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

I can feel the rhythm of death.
Have you ever been deceived by esoteric allegiances to presumed sophistication?
I have to make a statement: It is necessary to set the temperature, and to yield to the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.
I resonate with sorrow at this festival of Winter Solstice.
Feel the beat.

Have you ever heard those flat harmonies of death, where operatic assertions resound throughout damp and ancient crypts of macabre folklore?
Time is slowly running out, and the flame of life is flickering in the winds of captivating finality.
Although haunting screams are like echoes which transcend fatty spreads of digestive mediocrity, the stalagmites and stalactites of gothic caverns display their ***** features which defy rational explanation.
Feel the depths of soulless forests as they chant messages of reconciliation amidst tangled weeds and branches of self-stimulation.
Amitriptyline can facilitate sleep at the end of an indulgent evening.


S

There are certain gradations of evil within our tragic yet beautiful cosmological vacancy.
As there are particular typologies, we must not allow ourselves to be infatuated with ex-partners nor allow ourselves to succumb to the temptations of delusional sadism.
Do you exhibit dangerous characteristics within this antisocial and eclectic blend of euphoric ambivalence?
Let us make arrangements for a special room in this forensic hotel of diversity where criminality can slice across the vistas of humanitarian presumption, like a psychological autopsy.
Everything is not as it may appear to be.
That, my friend, is the finesse of humanitarian deception.
Welcome to the brotherhood.

The wheat harvest is Magickal, and you have always invited me into your damp crypt.
Apples are ripe when Demeter searches for her lost offspring, amidst shades of nocturnal eroticism.
Therefore, let us now bake bread with feminine or masculine features in the name of Southern rhythms where the hunt takes place upon acreage of the aristocracy.
Do you have any regrets or farewells in this season?
Let it flow like a bubbling brook through woodlands of this recollected netherworld.

What are the legalities of coleslaw?
Are they the mere sum of the whole where chocolate is presented as a thin skin which spans the surface of a wheat-based figment of elusive imaginations?
As we casually stand under this winter sky, it would be irresponsible of me to maintain silence as we race towards the beginning of a checkered board of savoury perplexity where the science of food may be held in question.
Are you ready to remove your coat?

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

I exonerate your freedom of expression, as it reminds me of a grandiose display where extravaganza proudly flaunts herself to captivated masses, without shame.
The evidence permeates its way through our fallen souls.
If you were to caress the jagged edge of freedom and acknowledge the liberties of unequivocal slavery, then perhaps we could interact beyond the deepest and darkest hours of early morning recommendation?
Wanton lusts are irreligious as they parade themselves among the throngs of a murderous vindication.
Therefore, we must make haste to the throne of divinity and stand before the king, oh harlot of discrepancy, where we can give an accurate account of musical utopia.
Is there anything that you want from me?
A brief encounter is characterised by reckless youthfulness, and reveals itself before the parameters of respectability.
We hang on with vanity.
You can **** me now.

How dashing is the rain, as it forcefully kisses the skin upon our cheeks, amidst this precipitation of damp uncertainty.
Can we please scramble across the moorlands of Provincia Britannia, whilst blazing torches flicker across blatant boundaries where royal promiscuity succumbs to reluctant allegiance to the King?
Oh, great creator of ambivalent meteorological predictions, let us have a séance as we race through thick forests where ancient runes are carved into the trunks of establishment.
Don your armour, my friend. We are approaching the threshold where history lies ages before us.

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

I have liaised with ancient phantoms that have sprinkled seeds of magical faculties, deep within the borderline of the soul. I am a mere passenger - but we are all susceptible to enlightened impressions which resemble the sound of an empty can, as it is blown up a cobbled street by Westerly winds.
So, my ancient and philanthropic partner, it is important that you realise that the legitimacy of our captivations is suspended in an atmosphere of interrogatory purgatory.
However, let us forever acknowledge that our beloved spectres bear witness to the true nature of psychopathy. Are you able to balance the moonlight silhouettes on your tightrope of materialistic nirvana?

Will history ever alter her ego across the seven seas of my swelling heart?
I love your unkempt hair, as it reminds me of a slippery ghost with unfathomable locks within the bounds of gender usurpation.
I must now make contact with my forefathers who hearken from ancient pastures of nether region mysteries.
As we balance freedom with permission, we can abandon ourselves to economic conundrums where we shake hands with our master.
I love your blackened pupils as they remind me of a casual vortex which seductively spirals into the abyss.
Lost authenticity has been retrieved.

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

Let us run with lunar amazement whilst celestial beings bring bizarre revelations to our finite comprehension.
Can you hear the chanting of Celtic monks resound throughout the beeches of extraterrestrial seduction?
Footprints are powerful, as they leave eternal impressions which will never be unrecognised by the mighty collage of our spiritual predecessors.
I celebrate the continuation of what is deemed to be the future, simply because it is also a feature of the undefined end.
The texts and languages of malevolent souls are open to the advice of familiars.
Conjure my soul, oh forbidden mistress of ancient blasphemies.
We will always be connected to the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.

Let us mine into the depths of Shakhty, and scorn the Western state of communist superintendence.
We are embroiled in a political and industrial conglomerate where cold wars lay the foundations of unstoppable monstrosities.
Converse with Andrei Romanovich Chikatilo, as you splatter milk across the surface of your psychological cereal, and raise questions around the episodic nature of criminal profiling.
I love the olfactory beauty of a railway station, whose stench is dissimilar to the pastures of raunchy and deadly opportunities which result in Rostov butchery.
Nevertheless, it is rooted in crop failure and the enforced collectivization of agriculture.

Who are the seers of this world?
Oftentimes, their perceived sense of safety is fenced-in by their very constraint.
Dare you be different in the age of minimalistic conformity?
On our own heads be it, my delicately-dancing friends of eggshell walkways.
Seasonal variance has already begun, despite our willful resistances.
In our perceived safety, we have mismanaged a nest of rich paupers.
But our administrative denunciations will crumble in the state which dwarfs individuals for the purposes of cultivating docile allegiances at a cost that no words could ever articulate.
Thank you, my postmodern travelers of continuum.
One more thing - have a good night.

I am already saddened at the severed tie of unanticipated disconnectedness.
Bonds of the soul are beyond the figment of our frail imaginations.
Black Sunday may give us what we call a “special deal”, but we have to pay greater homage to the powers that be – namely our ridiculous “White House”.
In the era of advancement and confusion of colour, I give thanks for your genuine being.
The forgotten will truly be remembered, and we will raise a final toast to the anaesthetic of contemporary propaganda.
Do you honestly think that you will be safe? Nobility does not reign in absolute finesse and the Fertility of the land is not without its benefits.
In my obscurity, I urge you to plough the fallowed ground in the spirit of the English countryside.

Wisdom of an Aged Ally

Carry my archaeological parchment around this historical site of future predictions, where the
tombs of Anubis are a scent of confusion amidst this welcomed display of harlotry.
Blues music may be ******, as she communicates her utmost intensities with sensual hatred.
However, I have driven through canyons of ****** and violent fantasy, where the abyss is shallow and neighbourly death is sold to huntsmen who are vagrants upon the rail-road tracks of collusion.
Just think about that for a second.
Who are the hunters among us in this echoing swampland of sophistication?