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It is indicative of the darkling twilight that it stamps wistful signatures on the soles of one's boots.
Only by kissing the savage dust can one cradle the fantastique.
When travelling monks drunk on the blood of sunsets command their personal vultures to alight on the serene luster of a crescent moon, this is the moment which signals that the "1234567890987654321 of Self" has arrived at the unlocked door of supercilious meaning.
It could be said that afflictions of esoteric intensity will always ricochet from flesh to fornicating flesh in a fantasia of caressive bondage, but such a conclusion only serves to trivialize the potential of forgotten and bombastic stagnations.
I think it is essential, even quintessential, that we should be ever on the look-out for the blood-stained boot of the outcast hero as it connects with the dizzy head of the fashionable zombie.
Perhaps the dark and silent watcher who observes naked females departing from subterranean chambers has an important part to play also - for he is the one who adores the way that long blonde hair rests upon the curves of vanilla fudge-coloured buttocks.
But having said that, it must also be remembered that tender pulses of pleasure and purpose always collect into a pressure-point before exploding with supernovian vigour, so it could be claimed that the way of the interlander is in truth the way of the over-lover, and that such a one must realize that his strong destiny is inexplicably linked to the deep crunching rhythms of skull-popping glut.
Overall, I'd say that the excess zing issuing from the phantom blush of finality is only worthy of study when the Six-Inch-Jesus is severed and cast into the bottomless abyss.
So in conclusion, it is most definately a fact that 2+2=5, and that, when all is said and done - the ultimate answer to the ultimate question is best summed up by the unbreakable axiom: CHAOS WEAVES THE WEB OF HARMONY.
Only by kissing the savage dust can one cradle the fantastique.
When travelling monks drunk on the blood of sunsets command their personal vultures to alight on the serene luster of a crescent moon, this is the moment which signals that the "1234567890987654321 of Self" has arrived at the unlocked door of supercilious meaning.
It could be said that afflictions of esoteric intensity will always ricochet from flesh to fornicating flesh in a fantasia of caressive bondage, but such a conclusion only serves to trivialize the potential of forgotten and bombastic stagnations.
I think it is essential, even quintessential, that we should be ever on the look-out for the blood-stained boot of the outcast hero as it connects with the dizzy head of the fashionable zombie.
Perhaps the dark and silent watcher who observes naked females departing from subterranean chambers has an important part to play also - for he is the one who adores the way that long blonde hair rests upon the curves of vanilla fudge-coloured buttocks.
But having said that, it must also be remembered that tender pulses of pleasure and purpose always collect into a pressure-point before exploding with supernovian vigour, so it could be claimed that the way of the interlander is in truth the way of the over-lover, and that such a one must realize that his strong destiny is inexplicably linked to the deep crunching rhythms of skull-popping glut.
Overall, I'd say that the excess zing issuing from the phantom blush of finality is only worthy of study when the Six-Inch-Jesus is severed and cast into the bottomless abyss.
So in conclusion, it is most definately a fact that 2+2=5, and that, when all is said and done - the ultimate answer to the ultimate question is best summed up by the unbreakable axiom: CHAOS WEAVES THE WEB OF HARMONY.
Don't talk nonsense! ;D
I read that from start to finish, and all I can say is:
"Fed-tt bh;d ooit/yhg bgf [hdyy]:trgfttg lpo:jhftty id hel-lito-pdgy iuy-jjs!"
I'm sure you'll agree.
"Fed-tt bh;d ooit/yhg bgf [hdyy]:trgfttg lpo:jhftty id hel-lito-pdgy iuy-jjs!"
I'm sure you'll agree.
I was drunk. What can I say.
Liquor + Nomad = riddles.
Liquor + Nomad = riddles.
Normad Soul eh? 2+2 actually equals 4. Oh, I geddit... ;c)
Yep.
It is indicative of the darkling twilight that it stamps wistful signatures on the soles of one's boots.
Only by kissing the savage dust can one cradle the fantastique.
When travelling monks drunk on the blood of sunsets command their personal vultures to alight on the serene luster of a crescent moon, this is the moment which signals that the "1234567890987654321 of Self" has arrived at the unlocked door of supercilious meaning.
It could be said that afflictions of esoteric intensity will always ricochet from flesh to fornicating flesh in a fantasia of caressive bondage, but such a conclusion only serves to trivialize the potential of forgotten and bombastic stagnations.
I think it is essential, even quintessential, that we should be ever on the look-out for the blood-stained boot of the outcast hero as it connects with the dizzy head of the fashionable zombie.
Perhaps the dark and silent watcher who observes naked females departing from subterranean chambers has an important part to play also - for he is the one who adores the way that long blonde hair rests upon the curves of vanilla fudge-coloured buttocks.
But having said that, it must also be remembered that tender pulses of pleasure and purpose always collect into a pressure-point before exploding with supernovian vigour, so it could be claimed that the way of the interlander is in truth the way of the over-lover, and that such a one must realize that his strong destiny is inexplicably linked to the deep crunching rhythms of skull-popping glut.
Overall, I'd say that the excess zing issuing from the phantom blush of finality is only worthy of study when the Six-Inch-Jesus is severed and cast into the bottomless abyss.
So in conclusion, it is most definately a fact that 2+2=5, and that, when all is said and done - the ultimate answer to the ultimate question is best summed up by the unbreakable axiom: CHAOS WEAVES THE WEB OF HARMONY.
Only by kissing the savage dust can one cradle the fantastique.
When travelling monks drunk on the blood of sunsets command their personal vultures to alight on the serene luster of a crescent moon, this is the moment which signals that the "1234567890987654321 of Self" has arrived at the unlocked door of supercilious meaning.
It could be said that afflictions of esoteric intensity will always ricochet from flesh to fornicating flesh in a fantasia of caressive bondage, but such a conclusion only serves to trivialize the potential of forgotten and bombastic stagnations.
I think it is essential, even quintessential, that we should be ever on the look-out for the blood-stained boot of the outcast hero as it connects with the dizzy head of the fashionable zombie.
Perhaps the dark and silent watcher who observes naked females departing from subterranean chambers has an important part to play also - for he is the one who adores the way that long blonde hair rests upon the curves of vanilla fudge-coloured buttocks.
But having said that, it must also be remembered that tender pulses of pleasure and purpose always collect into a pressure-point before exploding with supernovian vigour, so it could be claimed that the way of the interlander is in truth the way of the over-lover, and that such a one must realize that his strong destiny is inexplicably linked to the deep crunching rhythms of skull-popping glut.
Overall, I'd say that the excess zing issuing from the phantom blush of finality is only worthy of study when the Six-Inch-Jesus is severed and cast into the bottomless abyss.
So in conclusion, it is most definately a fact that 2+2=5, and that, when all is said and done - the ultimate answer to the ultimate question is best summed up by the unbreakable axiom: CHAOS WEAVES THE WEB OF HARMONY.