The Golden Ratio
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The Golden Ratio
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Examples of Posts/Styles
❤❤❤ohdearohdearohdearohdearo h d e a r !
❤❤❤
❤❤❤
❤❤❤
mary, mary, quite contrary,
how does your garden grow?
how does your garden grow?
- Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Duis id tortor ut tortor pellentesque lacinia vel nec nisl. Pellentesque habitant morbi tristique senectus et netus et malesuada fames ac turpis egestas. Nullam nulla lectus, bibendum sit amet posuere nec, viverra a mauris. Ut consectetur urna eget nisl congue sagittis. Aliquam tellus sapien, blandit non placerat quis, luctus in enim. Donec et urna ac justo ornare facilisis ac eget massa. Nulla in pharetra est. Vestibulum metus lectus, viverra at pharetra nec, suscipit et dui. Phasellus commodo tristique eros eget consectetur. Praesent id adipiscing lectus. Sed mi lorem, elementum et congue non, vehicula a diam. Sed faucibus dui quis mauris tincidunt at condimentum eros faucibus. Duis ac risus mauris. Aenean tincidunt placerat erat, quis feugiat risus iaculis id. Maecenas sed ante nisi. Ut accumsan turpis vitae odio feugiat at pulvinar tellus gravida. Aenean ultrices risus et leo tristique vehicula fermentum mauris ultrices. Aenean sit amet eros enim.
Aenean tristique dui sed elit suscipit ac ultrices sapien sagittis. Nam dapibus pretium auctor. Praesent magna diam, luctus non bibendum et, interdum sit amet lorem. Integer velit sapien, feugiat at adipiscing ac, aliquet in lorem. Aenean sagittis, ligula non pharetra ornare, nunc lectus consectetur justo, ac imperdiet nunc arcu ullamcorper tellus. Donec non diam lectus, quis convallis nunc. In purus dui, ornare in iaculis eu, elementum vehicula neque. Vivamus iaculis velit vel mauris rhoncus commodo. Etiam nec magna tellus, ac vehicula felis. Cras varius, urna sit amet volutpat faucibus, nunc odio laoreet mi, eu fringilla eros mi in leo. Quisque fringilla felis a mi faucibus a blandit dolor venenatis. In convallis risus non sem rhoncus lobortis. Sed dictum accumsan libero, quis sagittis ligula fringilla vel. Sed et diam augue, id commodo quam. Aenean ut eros tellus, imperdiet interdum justo.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Duis id tortor ut tortor pellentesque lacinia vel nec nisl. Pellentesque habitant morbi tristique senectus et netus et malesuada fames ac turpis egestas. Nullam nulla lectus, bibendum sit amet posuere nec, viverra a mauris. Ut consectetur urna eget nisl congue sagittis. Aliquam tellus sapien, blandit non placerat quis, luctus in enim. Donec et urna ac justo ornare facilisis ac eget massa. Nulla in pharetra est. Vestibulum metus lectus, viverra at pharetra nec, suscipit et dui. Phasellus commodo tristique eros eget consectetur. Praesent id adipiscing lectus. Sed mi lorem, elementum et congue non, vehicula a diam. Sed faucibus dui quis mauris tincidunt at condimentum eros faucibus. Duis ac risus mauris. Aenean tincidunt placerat erat, quis feugiat risus iaculis id. Maecenas sed ante nisi. Ut accumsan turpis vitae odio feugiat at pulvinar tellus gravida. Aenean ultrices risus et leo tristique vehicula fermentum mauris ultrices. Aenean sit amet eros enim.
with silver bells and cockle shells
and pretty maids all in a row xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
and pretty maids all in a row xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
❝bring the pain❞
- "Please... Please, get out of my ******** head..." My voice, like metal on metal, scraped out of my mouth. My shut, sewed mouth. That ******** voice box. At least it was more soothing than that whining noise in my brain. I could hear him, I could hear UNIT 18, even when he wasn't saying anything. Sometimes he'd just be chuckling softly at me, or whistling, humming or tapping his little ******** gears around. I lifted my slime coated left hand to the right, exposed half of my face. I couldn't feel the metal that they had put there, but I could see it in my mind's eye. It belonged to 18, not me, not Ignis. I could still hear my thoughts, I could still see... But everything was cast in a greenish glow. Yesterday I had looked into some broken glass. My eyes were green lenses, behind which were lights that allowed me to see.
I shouldn't be so afraid. There are hundreds others like me. But I know that their mechanical brains, their UNITS had taken control over them completely. They couldn't hear that insistent little voice in their head, telling them to kick that lice covered child, to burn that crumbling house, to punch that dying man. They couldn't hear it because it overpowered them, it controlled them beyond their ears. They didn't feel the pain of holding back these urges because they just did them.
I sat in my little hovel, the corner of a bombed-out brick building, muttering to myself. Muttering to 18. To, please, stop it. To, please, please go away. But he kept tapping. Kept humming. Kept laughing.
I tried to remember what it was like. To breath. To feel. If I thought hard enough, I could almost feel the cold, dead wind that rustled my dirty hair. If I really, really tried, I could almost feel the hollowness of being dead. I should have never died. Whatever I did to deserve this, I wish I could repent. I wish, at least, if it was my fate to become a war machine, then I wished I could have been controlled by my UNIT. I wished I didn't have to experience this nothingness that made my cold stomach feel sick. I wished I could die.
Oh, UNIT 18, you're being no fun. Come, let's do something.
"Don't ******** call me that, you monster!" I screamed. I couldn't take it anymore. He kept calling me that, calling me 18.
"My name is Ignis!" My mechanical voice box strained. I slammed the right side of my head against the crumbling brick, leaving a little dent. I couldn't feel it. I bet that ******** couldn't feel it either. This wasn't right. I had to get out of here.
I managed to get up onto my feet, to stumble past the low wall of bricks onto the broken sidewalk. I collapsed. I wanted to cry. But I was dead. I couldn't cry. I couldn't even shut my goddamn eyes. So I just balled up on the cracked cement, wishing I could breath again, feel again.
Burn...
UNIT 18 finally made some sense. I got back onto my unsteady feet and lifted my right arm, at the end of which, instead of a lower arm, was a flamethrower. My voice box made a evil scratching sound that might have been laughter as I set the world ablaze, my soul crying for mercy.
- ㊋
✟xxx✟xxx✟xxx
- A sigh, a ghost's whisper floated from his lips, mingling with the dust motes in the cold air before it disappeared, neither seen nor heard. The apparition of a young man sat on a shelf among bottles and jars holding numerous and endless oddities. He might have been crying, if ghosts could cry. Yes, this poor spirit, not yet ready to leave the earth, was bound to this little town, anchored to the apothecary's shop. The cause of this was dual; for one, the young man's heart lay preserved in a jar he could neither touch nor hold; the second being that his father, his killer, sat quietly at his desk, flipping rather tiredly through prescriptions. Glassy, dead eyes flickered to look at the man with a measured amount of disgust. His father had once been so proud of him. He had once been the light of his life. But obviously he hadn't been that important, since he had been cast aside so easily. Damn. Mr. Holzman was a man of a rugged, strong build, more deserving of the name Oberon than his son. He had crisp, white hair, dark green eyes, and skin that was somehow tan despite the lack of sun in Zeitheim. Oberon could cry just looking at him. He remembered the way those eyes, filled with hatred and anger, had come at him like knives. The way his father looked at him with such disownment hurt more than those bear-paws around his neck, hurt more than the screaming in his lungs, than the sharp jolts of pain when he brain screamed for oxygen. No. Even as he watched, detached from his own body, his father steal his heart and left lung from his chest, the pain from those eyes still lingered and over powered. Even as a scar formed on his ghostly self and he suddenly felt even more hollow and deprived, those green eyes still hurt him more. The only thing that was worse than that hateful stare was perhaps losing his locket. But even then, he found it. It was the only thing he could touch.
Oberon floated idly from his spot on the shelf. The white haired not-boy floated straight through the wall of the apothecary, out onto the bright white street of the town. Light, reflected endlessly off of the porcelain snow, shot straight through him. His younger cousins played in the snow, unaware of Obie. He looked at them with distaste. He didn't like children. Instead, he kept moving. Ever day he did this. He floated as far away from the apothecary as he could, to the border of town, in the direction of the city. He thought that maybe, maybe he could stretch the boundary. Like an athlete stretches his muscles so they can go farther and longer. Oberon made it to that big, old pine tree. That's exactly how far he had gotten last time. Oberon struggled forward, wishing he could grip the pine tree, pushing himself, pushing into that invisible barrier. If only his heart and lung could come with him. If only his father would die, if only these infernal bonds would break.
❤❤❤ohdearohdearohdearohdearo h d e a r !
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- ❤❤❤ blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah
- ❤❤❤ blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah
- ❤❤❤ blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah
im late! im late! for a very important date!
no time to say 'hello,' goodbye!
im late! im late! im late!
no time to say 'hello,' goodbye!
im late! im late! im late!
Oberon Axel Holzman
The Apothecary's Son ; Poor Obie
The Apothecary's Son ; Poor Obie
height : 5' 4"
weight : 0 lbs
eye color : glass
hair color : white
blood type : none
skin color : white
age : eighteen
weight : 0 lbs
eye color : glass
hair color : white
blood type : none
skin color : white
age : eighteen
- personality
- Oberon, or Obie as he was called as a small child, was always very serious. Later on, he proved himself to even be stoic. He never read a children's book, but always read his father's manuals. As a result, he could speak fluent German by the age of four, and knew just about all of his father's medical terms by the age of five. Obie never saw the need to wear bright colors, only to dress warm. Besides, the only dyes in the little town were few and rare, and usually saved for the girls. Obie liked rabbits fur the best, but usually ended up giving it all to his little sister. Once, she made a rabbits fur hat for him. He was going to hug her, but smiled curtly instead. People often joked that he was about as lively as the shrunken heads in the apothecary.
- biography
- Obie, before he died, was a very serious boy. Even when he was very young, he didn't believe any fairy tales his mother told him. He usually played alone, because the other town children (most of whom were his cousins of some sort) were very irrational. Obie was intrigued with his father's shop. Often times, when his cousins were out playing in the snow, Obie would sit in the dank coldness of the apothecary's. His crystal blue eyes, courtesy of his mother, would stare endlessly at the jars of wondrous and exotic cures that his father must have collected his whole life. Newt's eyes, baby bones, dragon teeth, shrunken heads. Fairy liver, whale fat, parasitic worms, lizard stomach. Some of the names were quite fanciful, so naturally Obie assumed they were probably just from more mundane animals. But they fascinated him nonetheless.
When Oberon was sixteen, and preferred to be called Oberon, his father suggested to him that he ought to go to the city and bring back a lass. Oberon gently refused, saying that he wasn't comfortable with that idea. His father was furious. Oberon was beaten for the first time in his short life. He cried, then told himself that it wouldn't help anything, and stopped. Being a serious, straight forward young man, Oberon decided to go to the city anyway, just to make his poor old pa happy. Even if he didn't find a lady. Low and behold, a year later, Oberon came back womanless. But he did have a shiny gold locket. His father snatched it away from him, snapping the chain. Inside the locket was a picture of a boy about Oberon's age, with whom he had had a brief affair with whilst in the city. He was beaten for the second time in his life that night. He was beaten for the last time in his life that night. His father chocked him to death, then panicked.
Thus the story of the hunting accident came about. To make use of his son's corpse, like any good hunting man, and also with a measured amount of spite, the apothecary removed his son's heart and left lung to put on his shelf. There was a funeral. The earth was too cold to penetrate, so Oberon's body was left to the wolves in the forest.
The Golden Ratio
The Golden Ratio
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The Golden Ratio
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The Golden Ratio
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The Golden Ratio
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The Golden Ratio
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The Golden Ratio
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Whorable conclusion
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The Golden Ratio
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Whorable conclusion
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The Golden Ratio
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Whorable conclusion
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Whorable conclusion
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The Golden Ratio
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