Step into the cobbled courtyard where highwaymen roar with drunken debauchery, and rotten vegetables pelt the bare buttocks of ancient harlots who are shackled to the stocks of occult accusation.
Forbidden encounters are a certain mischief in the rafters of aristocracy, where disgust and desire mingle in unspoken dialogues and roll within the stench of damp hay.
I am captivated by the vanity of those carnal gratifications where Black Death casts her treacherous shadow across European boundaries.
Our markets are organised by macabre executioners in the finest of linen, who shout joyous proclamations, whilst the wise are aggressively coerced by vile salesmanship.
Please, open the gates to the city wall.
My desire is to listen to the wind, as she whispers reassurance amidst the haunted woodlands where those who are superstitious and faint-hearted fear to tread.
There is no taxation in the wilderness.