The blackened eyes of the distressed mare bulge from her cranial vortex, as she gallops through the darkened labyrinths of hades.
If you can cast your mind back like a fish on the end of a rod, to those earth-shattering moments where the sensitivity of our taste buds  in earlier childhood echoed across urban geographical contours.
Are you able to recollect the quality of those apostolic and culinary delights which were not divorced from the prints of contemporary issues which lay bare their scars upon our very hands?
It was all about the roll.
Yet, we have levitated and projected along secure boundaries where our silver chord has never failed us.
The sound of diesel locomotives are relatively hypnotic. Therefore, permit us to swear oaths upon this Celtic altar where the annals of history depict their runes upon the precipice of haunted equestrianism in "the back".
The beat of North America is mundane and predictable.
When we piece it altogether, we have a beautiful array of anthropological tragedy, with a subservient twang...if that makes any sense?