Et In Arcadia Ego
To be honest, she was so boring I was struggling to keep a conversation up; let alone anything else.
Anon
Far over the Misty Mountains cold, To dungeons deep and caverns old, We must away, ere break of day, To seek our pale enchanted gold.

The dwarves of yore made mighty spells, While hammers fell like ringing bells, In places deep, where dark things sleep, In hollow halls beneath the fells.

For ancient king and elvish lord There many a gleaming golden hoard They shaped and wrought, and light they caught, To hide in gems on hilt of sword.

On silver necklaces they strung The flowering stars, on crowns they hung The dragon-fire, on twisted wire They meshed the light of moon and sun.

Far over the Misty Mountains cold, To dungeons deep and caverns old, We must away, ere break of day, To claim our long-forgotten gold.

Goblets they carved there for themselves, And harps of gold, where no man delves There lay they long, and many a song Was sung unheard by men or elves.

The pines were roaring on the heights, The wind was moaning in the night, The fire was red, it flaming spread, The trees like torches blazed with light.

The bells were ringing in the dale, And men looked up with faces pale. The dragon’s ire, more fierce than fire, Laid low their towers and houses frail.

The mountain smoked beneath the moon. The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom. They fled the hall to dying fall Beneath his feet, beneath the moon.

Far over the Misty Mountains grim, To dungeons deep and caverns dim, We must away, ere break of day, To win our harps and gold from him!

The wind was on the withered heath, But in the forest stirred no leaf: There shadows lay be night or day, And dark things silent crept beneath.

The wind came down from mountains cold, And like a tide it roared and rolled. The branches groaned, the forest moaned, And leaves were laid upon the mould.

The wind went on from West to East; All movement in the forest ceased. But shrill and harsh across the marsh, Its whistling voices were released.

The grasses hissed, their tassels bent, The reeds were rattling—on it went. O’er shaken pool under heavens cool, Where racing clouds were torn and rent.

It passed the Lonely Mountain bare, And swept above the dragon’s lair: There black and dark lay boulders stark, And flying smoke was in the air.

It left the world and took its flight Over the wide seas of the night. The moon set sale upon the gale, And stars were fanned to leaping light.

Under the Mountain dark and tall, The King has come unto his hall! His foe is dead, the Worm of Dread, And ever so his foes shall fall!

The sword is sharp, the spear is long, The arrow swift, the Gate is strong. The heart is bold that looks on gold; The dwarves no more shall suffer wrong.

The dwarves of yore made mighty spells, While hammers fell like ringing bells In places deep, where dark things sleep, In hollow halls beneath the fells.

On silver necklaces they strung The light of stars, on crowns they hung The dragon-fire, from twisted wire The melody of harps they wrung.

The mountain throne once more is freed! O! Wandering folk, the summons heed! Come haste! Come haste! Across the waste! The king of friend and kin has need.

Now call we over the mountains cold, ‘Come back unto the caverns old!’ Here at the gates the king awaits, His hands are rich with gems and gold.

The king has come unto his hall Under the Mountain dark and tall. The Worm of Dread is slain and dead, And ever so our foes shall fall!

Farewell we call to hearth and hall! Though wind may blow and rain may fall, We must away, ere break of day Far over the wood and mountain tall.

To Rivendell, where Elves yet dwell In glades beneath the misty fell. Through moor and waste we ride in haste, And whither then we cannot tell.

With foes ahead, behind us dread, Beneath the sky shall be our bed, Until at last our toil be passed, Our journey done, our errand sped.

We must away! We must away! We ride before the break of day!

‘Far over the Misty Mountains Cold’ from The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkein.
“So I guess what I’m feeling is like a beautiful sadness.”

“So I guess what I’m feeling is like a beautiful sadness.”

“I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.” 
- Thomas A. Edison

“I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.”

- Thomas A. Edison

I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.
‘The Bene Gesserit Litany’

Dune - Frank Herbert

I wonder if you know, that I never understood. That although you said you’d go; until you did, I never thought you would.

Never thought the words you said were true. Never thought you said just what you meant. Never realised how much I needed you.

Never thought you’d leave, until you went.

Don McLean - Empty Chairs

(Source: eveninarcadia)

I live as a man wading through endless mist. The immediate distorted and unclear; what lies ahead obscured and indistinguishable from what lies behind. Enveloped by the swirling grey of half-forgotten memories; the only certainty comes in the consistency of the obfuscation and the knowledge that which ever way I turn, I am lost.
C
There don’t seem to be many laughs around these days… / What do you expect? The Comedian is dead.
Laurie Juspeczyk / Dan Dreiberg - Watchmen
Dr Seuss - Oh, The Places You’ll Go!

Dr Seuss - Oh, The Places You’ll Go!

My Grandmother just referred to an escalator as a “moving staircase”. I fucking love old people.

(Source: My Grandmother just referred to an escalator as a "moving stairc)

Dr. King’s policy was that if you are nonviolent and if you suffer, your opponent will see your suffering and be moved to change his heart. He only made one fallacious assumption, in order for non-violence to work your opponent must have a conscience; The United States has none.
Stokely Carmichael in 1967 (via brazenbitch)

(Source: sluteverbabe, via breathemystardust)

We may find that fighting a war with Iran is like making love to a gorilla: You don’t stop when you’re done; you stop when the gorilla is done.
Chicago Tribune: “The Folly of Attacking Iran”.

(Source: eveninarcadia)

You say that you love rain, but you open your umbrella when it rains. You say that you love the sun, but you find a shadow spot when the sun shines. You say that you love the wind, but you close your windows when wind blows. This is why I am afraid, you say that you love me too.
William Shakespeare (via princess-of-the-stars)

(via wewantbetter)

Alan Rickman reads Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130

(Source: eveninarcadia, via thesepaperlungs)

Once, in my father’s bookshop, I heard a regular customer say that few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its way into his heart. Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later—no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget—we will return.
Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind (via decrepito)

One of my favourite books of all time.

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