The Gnome is dead.

Atlantis, so long his unknowing child, littered with the toys of his imagination and intellect, mourns quietly.

The Gnome was its vital force, even the Thunderer said so.

And he chose to write a book titled, 'The Eastern Origins of Western Civilisation.'

He isn't the only one to have realised the truth.

Obviously a post-graduate student. There never seems to be an end, but the day comes when you have spun so many tales that the intended audience decides to release you.

This is the eightfold month. It ends with all hallows' eve, and progress is made.

Everything is orange
Fire blooming in the hills
Green out of fashion

"Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath ( Read more... )

"Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop ( Read more... )

"They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on ( Read more... )

"And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,
But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed -
Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid."

G K Chesterton

Sacrificed on a bloody altar
Two of each good beast