Among the various types of beauty in existence, there is one that can be feared instinctively by the subconscious cognition of an observer. This type of beauty is mingled with notions of worldly competitions over limited resources. It calls upon the bravest personalities to engage with it in careful admiration. The mission stands to tame the beautiful subject as artfully as a beautiful wolf would hunt the fastest deer. It is a race for the mastery of the warm arts stemming from British history and the civil statistics of a British Empire. It is to succeed in the challenge of women who wish to overwhelm the cold sciences by their emotional intelligence one day in the near future. A milestone as rich as I welcome the good of man to appreciate the good of all women by adhering to monogamy.
A wolf can be beautiful and loved. The risks remain. But a man can decide the better honour to live with a beautiful danger in line with bitter understanding – upon a world of risky adventure and the welcoming sadness of potential loss. Dear gentlemen, you are to shed your tears proudly – this is a mixture of absurdity in the quest to explore most of what is unknown, and you are welcome to pack alongside the commander of honesty on this track.
Let me tell you this story. I could have been honoured to tame a wolf in our backyard because at least I have the habit of giving a try to whatever sounds almost impossible to human logic, but sounds romantic to the heart. I developed a beautiful character in my own self to instill peace in violence, to teach honesty to wickedness and to appreciate the wolf all along, despite its lupine rigidity against warm blood.
I must have known this shedding of emotional tears with pride is an act of honour contained in a public nutshell. But it is fine at the end of the day, and this is no place for irony. This is the throne of a serious archer, described in ample words to break offensive javelins into pieces by my arrows. This is me, a British writer, drowned in the English language, and therefore breathing an air of leonine love in the vulpine waters of the North Sea. It is hard. It is immensely, I know well, to be with the lack of time against which I race abreast. I am to replace violent sounds of fire with musical instruments playing sensationally ashore. I will certainly do, as you trust my gentle bow that shoots arrows carrying packets of food, tasting philanthropically, to reach the many hungry children offshore and beyond poor ports. You trust me. I know you will, as I sail and fish the North Sea for Pampus argenteus by my accurate archery, and as I introduce and donate the fish to a community of respectable widows from the Arctic whose rowing aboard their longboats can get them to the Southern coasts of a warmer land in the hope of selecting another prosperity for the babies they will bear.
Gentlemen, please appreciate the serenity, as you learn where warmer lands are, and as you advise this discourse to whoever cherishes the cherry-flavored passion for peaches and roses at heart, whether on the mainland or in the sea.