Do I have permission to board your train of unequivocal resilience, as we waltz into the aromatic contours of an Arabian illusion?
Letters have been written in the annals of predictive history as we slide down those astrological poles of heightened depravity.
Can you hear the chants of the spiritual forest, where silence screams her prohibited philharmonic octaves throughout the strata’s of seventh heaven?
The spirits of northern tundra have beckoned my weary soul to withstand the tides of obscurity.
What is your name? And, are you a victim of this desert storm of acoustic serenity?
I urge you to remain on the path, because if you ever get lost, then I will not have the privilege of meeting your acquaintance.
That is the sequel of linguistic wealth and intimate resentment.