Oh, to be cradled in the arms of a stringed quartet, where ancient phantoms tickle forbidden structures and intertwine with my wandering spirit across baron regions of the netherworld.
As the fallacy of alleged progress warms the darkest graves with ambivalent laughter, I now ask for your permission to caress your slippery soul as it seeks to slide into cosmological inertia.
Articulation of the Algerian torso punctuates the pervasive sanctuary where seduction of the King resonates with my Arabic woodwind instruments.
Therefore, let us embrace under the canopy of Ashtoreth, as her velvet hours are forever shortening like the contemporary expressions of a wanton Eve.