The solar system reclines in the flowing locks of your hair.
Floss the soul from the rhythm of nocturnal galaxies.
Can I please urge you to humbly acknowledge those strato-cumulus signs which signify the altitude of brazen sensuality?
Pressure gradients are real you know.

Breathless are those archaeological excavations which once occurred within the geographical contours of Wisconsin.
Many times, we have questioned the whereabouts of your face amidst this crisis of disbelief. It’s like a cake which has been sprinkled with mid-Western naiveté.
Edward was once adorned in deviant beauty, where presumed innocence was held captive by strategic intellect which surpassed stereotypical assumptions.
How virile is your temperament, as it sails within the lower decks of a Spanish armada across strato-cumulus formations?
We have just commenced our finality, where words are unable to reflect utmost confusion within a paradoxical insight which transcends ontological awareness.
Forgive me, as I have swallowed a battalion of deviant souls, where netherworld lubricants simply whet my unfathomable appetite.
Death is our intimate and co-habiting stranger on the left-hand-side, don’t you think?
I have drawn my sword in anticipation.