Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → Lore and Other Things
It took some debating to come up with the title of this thread. I have learned a fair bit from ROaTNO and WN, so I endeavor, with this new thread, to weave an embroidered cloth. One with less flaws, although it doesn't hurt to try something new.
Reference to the "Imaginarium" is almost an in-joke. However, I herewith introduce a new idea, one that is most certainly not novel but challenges the concept of the meta-term. This isn't the Imaginarium. This is the Phantasmagorium. No Children Under Eleventeen Admitted. If you are under eleventeen, leave now.
Silent serenades. Troublesome sighs. Solace in surreal ambience. A desired truth. A dose to dote, to dope, the wayward soul. It only works if you believe it would, sir, mister. Galatea? No, I do not know her name. Lindra, I think she is. Yes, sweetish. Ambrose? What's he to do with this? The supple wine of the nectar peach with rose hip tea would do. We drink a sip to drug our health. Our hearth? No, health. Oh, let him in, Letum's solemn twin. What worse could he do than what I have, such sombre song? I shall slip peacefully for once, sound and somnial some. Eos shall do what she does and I shall wake when it is done. So long imagined sun, the bull waits with you between its horns to enter into Lore.
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I was going to post something yesterday along the lines of "Heroes and Legends" further explaining the lore behind the gems and element theory, but then I realized I had no idea what I was talking about when it came the higher order and scrapped the whole thing. I need to take better notes. In any sense, the next part won't be up until I figure out what to do.
I don't know, it evokes pathos. It seems like something sad we can all relate to, and I'm a sucker for those sorts of things.
Like you can't help but believe someone who honestly and unconditionally believes in you, e.g. the maternal ideal?
Groanworthy since 2008!
A Rose By Any Other Name
"I do not kno-ow where the wind is blowing but that's where I'll be going. But I hope to be-e-e-e at the place where cows are lowing. I do not kno-ow where the water's flowing but that's where I'll be going. But I hope to be-e-e-e at the place where we were rowing gently alo-o-o-o-ong the stream where the cows are lowing. But we can never kno-o-o-ow how we end up growing."
The Holstein's singing was not the best, but the Bullman couldn't keep his ears away. He felt at ease, almost as if he were home, not his childhood home but the home where he was meant to be.
"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to eavesdrop while someone is singing to herself?" she asked.
The Bullman didn't know what to say.
Her tone of voice changed, as if she'd forgotten she'd asked a question. "We've never properly introduced ourselves. I'm Jenheifer."
He opened his mouth for a second answered, "People call me the Bullman."
"What do your parents call you?"
They were nearing his destination.
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