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.