c0ssette: Angel of Death,detail,Emile Jean Horace Vernet.
theevildead-: by Le Souffle blanc [on parution Each landscape was like a scene,material from a place where it could not go outunscathed, so that if one crashed if wrinkledtoo intensely retinas. It was a daycleared of any experiment, whose widthhowever, reached some fragile high wallsas instruments that discovered stonesflesh lying on the alcoholic sense of dreams. Hair wearing abyss by advancing, makingcircles around the linden silvering. To forgetthat existence is a black hole.The cry has become a crisis. Coracins formed in the thickness cracksdiametrical to write the lightness of a confessionthat could be heard only by raisingeyelids. The sun mixed ice cubescreating abyssal sparks in the pit of emptiness,with allocations between the hours firedwindling. Embers of writing. It is on a sanctuary that had considervenom errors and defects of Centauristemming from mares of Magnesia. The hour digsmemory with starved teeth. Each landscape tore nodes vaporson vascular cryptograms, calledcommonly ferns, whose fronds,type blue and purple provoked layer layer variances delicate despite its agesmillennia. The pounding was so sensitive that the downheart leaped at the lower achievement. On the kidneys, an eclipse offered to dust,this is a tribute atoning close to torture. The event that precedes the presentimentit had buried appearances throughnail. The night would soon devour everythingon the ground of an enigma immortal. The limits of sanctuaries
Anders Leonard Zorn, “Two Friends”.
waw, beautiful little creature.
arcadiaart: Édouard-León Cortès, “Les grands boulevards à Paris”.