In a lost paradise where the sea shrinks by feminine consciousness, compassionate re-election in each flash in a striated calculometry, before which it attracts magnanimously to represent them in each speaking light and lightning when represented where the queen judges the king in Consummatum Est, with little difference in culinary artis and the extremely dense genre that generates and does not degenerate. Here is the coriaceous aspect of bluish faskéloma or exasperation of hands that move the indigo in occasional sub-vibrations, melting into the lustrous mark of the sessile columns inconsistency of their flimsy receptive spread and the unexposed masculine consciousness, lacking in what subconsciously thrives in regular damp sparkles cooling imbibition... creeping by thousandths of enchanted parasitic and superior ego.

I wonder after a long way and from a sacrilegious Para-celestial science in Lochnith, who, what and where could have supported him in such a ****** and in such cervices rising in gravels and beams that make a whole for all Menthe ?, where the mystery goes when breaking into the seventh external love..., in glades of magenta lights, on ultraviolet relief rounding out..., here is where everything lulls from Eleusis adverb, where a consonant fires that suffocates in spite of Pseudo Vernarthiano, in what and where it will go without exception disrupting threads of hesitation, not leaving us in hybridization, more if returning from loaded Cibatus or barley in the northeast that flattened in ultra winter, blinded until its pouring glacial azuloid water in arrhythmic thickening of fast secrets, in thirds of vox to call you borderline in a pair of trios and symbols of the subsoil reborn and flashed from a lifetime sheathed in its plain course and ministerial concealment that departs like a shadow from the himself and the end of the world.

Striking where nothing germinates from dreams, I waited for thousands of those like Me with senses of Anthesterion or March, leading me towards an enigma not posed even if it is not clarified, even not resigning to love or stinking in the singular aborted and desolate uni-lunar, in venerable fulminations of his annoyance and the branch of the bakchoi, whistling for an Aulos that is remade generic when restarting from a day fasted, rebuked and rewarded in the emaciated hands of the Cibatus, like grasses lights polarizing and outgrown when recovering in resounding beginnings of the rhizomatous hue an aroma in super-machined life, and of the metallic oscillation of the ****** with fires and hyper-navigated rites in his aromatic and of the psychoactive fireworks in Lochnith, nauseating him at night in flowing enigma and rictus, glimpsing as he yearned to ritualize his graceful plumes in feasts that honored their Canephore by pouring mead into the psychic adept Bakchoi, revealing themselves as masculine on e the aquous feminine in a positive bed and of supra negative redemption, fading into sharp matter and its cared for, while the world in which it would live for more than forty-one stratagems of love was created, its eminent Truth being praised before me.

I myself... being your own tyranny..., who re-establishes who classifies him sacramental, is fixed in the palustrious lack of control of the barbarism of flashing, when I still pursue the darkness of my purging, still falling and not having where to do it, however falling into his final and in thunderous guilty glances... but..., what more public decree do I wish? for more rituals near you when feeling sharp minorities of the aftertaste, although in double life and in double shadow, your memory continues to spy on whoever denatures the paganism of Lochnith, more than a proselyte, more than a lien conceived in dethroned galleys of homeland and a dark haze. Meanwhile, of so many Omphalos of the micro center and of the micro ego distanced from mine, a lost and tarnished throne that hallucinates lost, knowing that it is a plausible sculpted flash subject to the gleaning of the Cibatus in a fraction of cereal and sacred ritual to illuminate in tables that have of dwelling all the times that they revive in the bright red and purple sky of the clairvoyant mystery debtor, seeing itself in revealed luminescence, which casts itself in ornate nickels and acid rales at midnight that falls on a positive particle devoid of yours returning towards mine, preparing himself in praise to flash that makes him pigeonhole in lame theory, fallacious and previously suggested after favors by not being reconverted. Lochnitt's capitulation and enchantment suffer in radiance towards his beloved, placing his phalanxes on the circle of angular waves on the milky virtual river of Eleusis caressing her face and her radiance.

Me Lochnitt, I was on the cliff with my Canephore Aerse, near his agrarian fatherly Athenian, I was going to say goodbye to the carelessness of myself, not being able to see myself in the reflection of the water separated from the ego and myself, knowing that Aerse would not choose to Me of Me, less to my Superior Ego. In Keri on the Island of Zakynthos, I synchronized the fall of Aeschylus in Léucade, which perhaps without my district that would insult me with reputation and snoop on suicides, on cliffs that only see nascent effigies of the bakchoi as a potion in life serials and cities of the incongruous space in dramas where an anti-drama does not fit in the hamper that carries my priestess Aerse, flying over acropolis structures, and not yielding as a deity that prophesies where the world in which she and I can inhabit does not fit.

Lochnith, jumped behind her when she was falling through the Frontispiece of the Acrotera..., She looked at him as he fell..., forbidding him to skew gestures to approach her, so as not to fall where the wind is softer and more virginal, intervening in saurian thought Pashkein, and entangling them with snakes in their hair in a heroic way and in the evanescent reckless temptation of their suitor, catching the Onpahlo that he wore tied to his neck, transferred and shining with didactics, before childish confinement of the adventures and flower shops of spring next to Persephone's ragged serpents in the Kashmar and floating lilies of Aerse, on cliffs and cliffs, possessing sedimentary dolomites that emanated through her veins before falling on the side of the escarpment, over waterfalls of prayers for her knowing that he would always love her in her arms, on a singular excavation and enchantment base, as she looked at him smiling before falling. In the last forty-one seconds in which he fell..., Lochnith passes from one end to the other the Onphalo of his neck, by a plume of lofty winged love imagining in the mediocrity of a positive bleeding love of the mystery flashing Eleusino, by the ***** game that took them as they fell from the outrage of a sovereign world, in series of images of Aerse and the prehensile sacrifice of Lochnitt's cold hand as they fell together among themselves, polarized and vivid as they plunged one another and towards them, Lochnith knowing that he was going to survive him..