The seasons are not dissimilar to laryngeal *******, where dark reptiles slink into the undergrowth of humanity, beside our deep intercostal deviances.
Are you registered? If so, then what is your range?
Perhaps a shotgun is incapable of reaching those harmonic octaves which rise above the shores of Neptune.
I beseech you, my lonely patron of inertia: let us meet in the middle of the Fertile Crescent where our ideas can blend into a kaleidoscopic vulnerability within the tents of promiscuity.