Pretentious proclamations.
Timorous desperation.
Drudge up the potency.
Drudge up the pain.
Converge in the tear washed streets.
Raise your gleaming weaponry.
The living fires of passionate elocution leaping off the blazing sabres...
Sabres more like to torches.
Their flames are breathing desire.
Now, Spar.
Spar unwearingly.
Spar to the death.
Because the gate is locked behind you.
Pairs of such force wielding such weaponry cannot pass.
Only the singular nouns fit within the strange passcode of that language.
I think I know what I mean. But it isn't worth explaining.
At least my strange bout of chronic nausea went away...