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?