The True Impossibile Nature Of Carcosa As Glimpsed By The Dreamer In Her Visions, As She Wanders The

The best notes written in manuscripts by medieval monks

Colophon: a statement at the end of a book containing the scribe or owner’s name, date of completion, or bitching about how hard it is to write a book in the dark ages

Oh, my hand

The parchment is very hairy

Thank God it will soon be dark

St. Patrick of Armagh, deliver me from writing

Now I’ve written the whole thing; for Christ’s sake give me a drink

Oh d fuckin abbot

Massive hangover

Whoever translated these Gospels did a very poor job

Cursed be the pesty cat that urinated over this book during the night

If someone else would like such a handsome book, come and look me up in Paris, across from the Notre Dame cathedral

I shall remember, O Christ, that I am writing of Thee, because I am wrecked today

Do not reproach me concerning the letters, the ink is bad and the parchment scanty and the day is dark

11 golden letters, 8 shilling each; 700 letters with double shafts, 7 shilling for each hundred; and 35 quires of text, each 16 leaves, at 3 shilling each. For such an amount I won’t write again

Here ends the second part of the title work of Brother Thomas Aquinas of the Dominican Order; very long, very verbose; and very tedious for the scribe; thank God, thank God, and again thank God

If anyone take away this book, let him die the death, let him be fried in a pan; let the falling sickness and fever seize him; let him be broken on the wheel, and hanged. Amen

TIL anyone who's going to overwinter in Antarctica has to have had their appendix out. Because removing an appendix that's not causing any trouble just as a precaution is way better than having one that's about to burst when you're on the ass-end of the planet with no way to be rushed to a hospital if shit gets real.

Along the shore the cloud waves break,

The twin suns sink behind the lake,

The shadows lengthen

In Carcosa.

Strange is the night where black stars rise,

And strange moons circle through the skies,

But stranger still is

Lost Carcosa.

Songs that the Hyades shall sing,

Where flap the tatters of the King,

Must die unheard in

Dim Carcosa.

Song of my soul, my voice is dead,

Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed

Shall dry and die in

Lost Carcosa.

—"Cassilda's Song" in The King in Yellow Act 1, Scene 2

It may be that I saw the Yellow Sign, but... this is the first of a series of paintings for a project I am working on with @amyma-ymamy. Hope you like it, it is the first city I paint.

As usual, I know nothing.

Forest study to try out a new brush.

Barclay de Tolly and Bagration in Russian military camp circa 1812

the valiant never taste of death but once

@emilyenrose was my 1500th follower and so gets a fic of her choosing; she asked for something with Fingon. This is a complement to and one man, in his time, plays many parts; it covers the same time period but the other host.

                                                           act i.

Elves could see eight colors, depending how you counted them. A prism split them, always in the same order: on one side the far-red that hot things gave off, the color of living things in Endorë’s dark. Then red, then orange, then yellow, then green, blue, violet, then true-purple. Flowers were often true-purple because bees could see it best.

That these were the only colors the Elves could see had been unknown to Aulë until the Noldor had advanced the study of light far enough to describe it, and then it had been a source of delight and astonishment to him. To Aulë there were a thousand colors visible when a prism split, hundreds to the side of far-red and hundreds on the other side of true-purple, colors that the stars spoke, colors that the Eldar could not see. The  range of light that Elven eyes captured was just a tiny sliver of the true thing; the whole was vast beyond comprehension.

It was dark now, and the only color was the far-red of shivering Elven bodies and the distant pinpricks of cold and unforgiving stars. The fire on the opposite shore had long since burned down and out. Findekáno had not moved since it had, but in the long night his thoughts had already hit all their notes - grief, anguish, hatred, betrayal - and now circled idly around this, around colors.

His skin was going grey with cold, but that barely registered. His breath kept clouding his view, then dissipating in Araman’s harsh winds; every time he imagined he would see something different on the other shore. Every time he saw nothing at all. 

Even if they now regretted it, which they assuredly did not, what would he see? It was too late. The ships had burned.

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One of the most unhinged couples in rock history.

JohnandYoko from a screenshot of "Get back" where they looked VERY cryptid-like.

E altri grandi classici del liceo. Mi manca studiare latino? Sì. E non mi vergogno a ammetterlo 😂

Quick paintings on infinite painter. In the second version I added some giant lovecraftian jellyfish just for fun. I guess that the lighthouse keeper will like them.