I can feel the wails of ancient ghosts, as their rancid breath slithers past my historical and misty perceptions.
The highlands have a story to tell, so please attend the ceilidh.
Anglican troops have brought violence through those who are possessed by the spirit of treason.
Therefore, let us now make haste to the dance and travel together beyond timeless rails, where austere mist hangs in the air like a Celtic obituary.
Can we at least discuss this repetitive yet hypnotic sound of linear rage?
My motives are sincere.
I am related to the True North, and I appreciate the resonating pulse of your entity.