Your beautiful iris reminds me of a captivating and ancient ice-age.
So, haste ye back to the final origins of the beginning and blink tears from those heavy ducts where chords are a warm and rhythmic expression of your audible silence.
This democratic estate has been compartmentalised and displayed for all to purchase.
Therefore, let us now ***** watchtowers in cross-cultural locations of diminished Gaelic solidarity and submit our souls to the spectres of haunted forests.
How mystical is your awareness, my friend of questionable statements. I lavish your growth in fertile soils, where explanations lay bare their very soul to the wrath of the gods.
Cast it outward and share the spoils of the spell, because sound can be kicked in a forward direction.
Oh, brazen star, I worship your stealth amidst this universal parade of elocutionist conquistadors.
Draw your sword in the rising mist of the dawn and let us nakedly parade around fires of fertility.