Prima facie evidence of pro bono publico psychaesthesia.
Walking a path towards classical butterfly meander oblivion, harping amidst the regress of childhood maze, leaving one obfuscated in a lush beautiful graze of one of the most endearing and elliptical passes in modern muse representation music. Short and sweetly divine, child-like qualities abound in this playground of sound. Delicate flower petals of softly lilting female vocals carried forth on a bed of strings, flutes, and all sort of other gentle things.
Breton, indefatigable. A red journey through the earth, tumultuous with gentle whispers of thought, harkening back to innocence supreme. Electronic swill for a moment, then a swift return to the rolling hills of murmuring cavalcade. Trickling triskelion traces of pure heart thought. A panacea for the weary ear. Dreamscape revelry unsurpassed.
Halfway across the forehead of rondel rundle to the heavens, precipitated percussively as well. No smile left unturned nor cockle un-warmed. Coursing through the vein of existence, this is the meaning of timeless. Swelling a progress repeatedly, until the vegetable matter speaks beneath the helium weight of the oracle whirlpool.
As if that were not enough, a gypsy caravan crescendo pokes its kerchiefed head about within the here, ever-presently nodding to the getting there. Escape your mountain of sadness on madness focus, deliver your self to the plateau mired in desperate contempt for unhappiness. There is a fool reveling in puffy trousers, awaiting thine arrival, curling about the delicate presence. Pulchritudinous and courageously pristine. Pukka of this earth.
