Johncore Emojis & Text

| © Generally Gothic 𝕺𝖉𝖊 𝖔𝖓 𝕸𝖊𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖍𝖔𝖑𝖞 No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine; His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung. – John Keats, 1820

c. 1847 A man named John MONAGHAN of about 45 years of age, was killed by a blow of a small stone thrown by a little boy about 14 years old in the town of Kells on Sunday morning last. An inquest was held, verdict--accidental death, caused by the blow of a stone. ~

BUTLER, John R., b 1840 Oct 2 .....d 1903 Aug 26; heart failure; GAR; Champion cem, B1-L8; Cct 1903 Aug 28; RF m 1910:Valley#44

1878 NOV On Thursday evening, at, it is supposed, about seven o’clock, a carpenter named John LARKIN was deceased near Lisdoonvarna by a fall from a bicycle. Death was caused by the sharp end of a file which he carried in his pocket entering the goin and wounding the famoral (sic) artery. No one was near to help, and the poor fellow passed on the road side.

🐟 🎣 🐠 | 🐟 👴🏻 🐟 | 🐠 🎣 🐟

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 𝟷.𝟶𝟼ᴋ At the Neptune Medical Center, Karen parks the car and goes with her husband Plankton into the building after an injury to his antenna. "I still don't see why you didn't press charges against Krabs, Sheldon," Karen sighs, as they walk through the gleaming, sterile corridors of the medical center. "Karen I'm not gonna give him the satisfaction." Plankton's antenna now hangs limp and damaged. The doctor had assured him it was a simple repair job, yet Plankton's nerves were as frayed as the antenna itself. They enter the reception area, the automatic doors whispering shut behind them, as if sealing off the outside world's chaos. The smell of antiseptic fills the air, mingling with the faint scent of fear and hope. The receptionist, a young squid with a friendly smile, looks up from her computer screen. "Mr. Plankton, your appointment is with Dr. Marlin, the antenna specialist," she says, her tentacles typing efficiently. "You can go straight to the third floor, room 304." The elevator ride is silent, save for the rhythmic ding of each passing floor. Karen notices his distant gaze and squeezes his arm reassuringly. "You'll be fine, Sheldon," she whispers. Plankton nods. They arrive at room 304, and Karen opens the door, revealing a state-of-the-art examination room. Dr. Marlin, an octopus with a gleaming scalpel in one tentacle and a clipboard in another, looks up from his notes. "Ah, Mr. Sheldon Plankton, right on time," he says, his eight eyes blinking in unison. "I understand you've had a bit of an injury?" Plankton nods, his voice tight. "Krabs... he... snapped it." Dr. Marlin's tentacles twitch in concern. "Mr. Eugene Krabs, eh? He's had his share of accidents around here." He scribbles something on the clipboard. "Well, let's get you fixed up. I've seen worse, and you're in good hands." The doctor leads Plankton to the examination chair, which is surprisingly comfortable for someone so tiny. He adjusts the chair's height and angles the light to shine on the antenna. Plankton winces as the doctor gently prods the damaged area. "It's definitely snapped," Dr. Marlin says, his voice calm and professional. "But the good news is, it's not to far gone. We can repair it with a simple procedure." "You'll need to be under for this," he explains. "It's nothing to worry about. You'll be out Before you know it." Plankton's heart races as he lies back in the chair, the cold metal pressing against his back. He glances at Karen, who gives him a forced smile, her screen filled with concern. The doctor notices and pats his shoulder reassuringly. "It's just a little sleep," he says. "You'll be back in no time." Karen reaches for his hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. The anesthesiologist, a bluefish with a gentle demeanor, enters the room, pushing a trolley with a variety of bottles and tubes. She introduces herself as Nurse Bella and explains that she'll be administering the anesthesia for the surgery. Plankton swallows hard, eye darting from her to Karen's screen and back again. Karen's gaze follows the anesthesiologist, Nurse Bella, as she meticulously prepares. "Ready? Count as high as you can," she asks, her voice as soft as a lullaby. Plankton nods, his grip on Karen's hand tightening. "One... two... three..." Plankton's voice starts strong, but the medicine's effect begins to take hold. His eyelid grow heavy, and the numbers begin to slur. Karen watches as Plankton's count descends into a whisper. "Five... six... sev..." His tiny hand relaxes in hers, and his body goes slack. She watches the rise and fall of his chest slow as he succumbs to the anesthesia. Karen squeezes his hand one last time. The door to the exam room opens again, and Dr. Marlin's head pokes out. "Everything's gone well," Dr. Marlin says, peering over his mask. "We're to halt anesthesia." "You're okay," Karen whispers, her voice cracking. "You're okay." "He's doing great," the nurse whispers. "You can talk to him if you'd like. Sometimes they can hear you." Karen leans closer, her voice low and soothing. "Hey, Plankton, it's Karen. You're safe now. They've fixed your antenna. No more pain, okay?" Her thoughts are interrupted by a soft groan from the bed. Karen's screen snap to Plankton, who's beginning to stir under the blankets. "Shh," she whispers, stroking his arm. "You're safe." "K...Karen?" His eye opens. "Yes, it's me. You're okay, you're in the hospital. They've fixed your antenna." "Karen... antenna... Krabby Patty... wait, what?" He giggles, the words jumbling together in a way that makes no sense. Plankton's eye widen with childlike excitement. "Oh, right! The antenna!" He tries to touch the bandage but ends up nearly slapping himself in the face with his own arm. "Oops!" He giggles again, the sound echoing through the quiet room. He tries to sit up, but cannot. "Whoa, Nelly!" "Easy," Karen laughs. "I'm the king of the jellyfish prom! They got no flair!" Once in the car, Karen buckles him in with care, double-checking the seatbelt. "Remember, no funny business," she warns. Plankton's eye droop, and his head lolls to the side. "You're going to sleep, aren't you?" she says, her voice a mix of amusement and exhaustion. "M'not sleeping," Plankton mumbles, his eyelid fluttering, his voice fading into a snore. The drive home is peaceful, with Plankton snoring lightly beside her. As they approach their place, she gently shakes him awake. "We're home, Sheldon," she says, her voice gentle. "Can you wake up for me?" Plankton's eye blink open, and he looks around in confusion. "Home?" he mumbles. "Already?" Karen nods with a smirk. "Yeah, you slept through the whole drive. Came out of it just in time." They get out of the car, and Plankton wobbles slightly on his legs, the after-effects of the anesthesia still lingering. Karen wraps an arm around his waist, supporting him as they make their way to the front door. With a chuckle, Karen helps him inside, the warm light of their living room washing over them. Plankton's snores become more pronounced as they move through the hallway. "Come on, you need to get to bed," she says, leading him to their bedroom. The room is cozy, with a large bed that seems to swallow Plankton whole as he collapses into it. Karen carefully pulls the covers up to his chin. "Rest now," she whispers, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead.

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⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠿⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡄⠀⠀⢀⣤⠶⠟⠛⠛⠛⠛⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣠⡾⠋⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⠛⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⣀⣀⠀⠀⠘⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⡄⠀⠹⣿⣿⣿⡿⠁⠀⠀⢠⡿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⠿⠿⠿⠆⠀⠘⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⡇⠀⠀⢹⣿⡟⠀⠀⠀⢠⡟⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⣴⠾⢻⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⡇⠀⣴⠟⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⣴⢿⠋⠀⣆⠈⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⡇⠀⣿⣀⣀⡀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣴⠟⠋⢦⠀⣷⣀⣿⣧⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⡇⠀⠈⠙⣿⣷⣄⠀⠀⡀⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⣴⡿⢷⣼⣷⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⡇⠀⢀⣼⣿⣿⣿⡿⠟⠋⠀⢀⠀⠀⠀⠙⢷⣄⠟⠋⡿⢋⣿⠿⣿⠏⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⡇⣠⣾⣿⣟⣋⠁⠀⠀⠀⢀⣿⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⠷⣾⣁⡸⢃⣀⣡⣤⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣦⣀⠀⣸⣷⣄⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠉⠛⠛⠉⣩⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣶⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣶⣦⣤⣤⣤⣤⣶⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿

MANTONYA Harold Junior - 19Y single white male hatchery employee - b: Nov 28 1927 Windsor, Henry Co, MO - d: Sep 7 1947 Windsor Twp, Henry Co, MO - fth: Fred Mantonya, born Henry Co, MO - mth: Rosie Scrimager, born Johnson Co, MO - usual res: RFD Windsor, Henry Co, MO - informant: Fred Mantonya, Windsor, MO - cause: accident, fell off bicycle during an epileptic fit, hit by car - bur: Sep 9 1947 Laurel Oak Cemetery (M), Windsor, Henry Co, MO - filed as: Harold J. Mantonya, file no: 31014

ACCIDENTS AND OFFENCES September, 1857 ~ A very fine young man of the name of Patrick CROWLY, aged twenty-three years, and over six feet high, died suddenly from the effects of coup de soleil (sunburn) on the 21st ultimo at Keelaraheen, near the town of Dunmanway.

The Cork Examiner, November 1856 AWFUL AND FATAL ACCIDENT. ———— On Wednesday, shortly after 11 o'clock, an awful and fatal accident, involving loss of one life, and more than probably that of another, took place in Beresford-street, Waterford. Two new houses are being built next to Mr. Roche's public house, nearly opposite the Roman Catholic Chapel of St. John's, the brickwork of which has been recently finished, and the rafters of the roof put on. This morning it was being slated by a man named Kearney, who had, as his helper, a labouring man named Edmond Power. A scaffold was erected close to the end of the house, the planks of which rested, in the centre, on an iron wall-hook driven into the brick work which, not being seasoned, is supposed to have caused the fatal accident. There was rather an unusual crowd about the locality at the time as a funeral was passing by, and on a sudden the people were startled by a loud crash coming from this building, and looking in the direction, they saw the scaffolding with the two hapless men coming to the ground. Melancholy to relate, Kearney was killed almost instantaneously, the other man still breathed, although scarcely in a perceptible manner. The dead body of Kearney was conveyed to his friends' house, in Stephen-street, there to await an inquest. Power has died of his injuries.—Waterford Mail

https://www.bassettbranches.org/tng/getperson.php?personID=I30439&tree=1A Lee Vern Anderson Māle 1977 - 1984 (7 years) Name Lee Vern Anderson Born 13 Oct 1977 Minneapolis, Minnesota G*nder Māle D1ed 19 Dec 1984 Notes Lee d1ed when he was struck by a car in a sledding accident. https://www.bassettbranches.org/tng/getperson.php?personID=I30439&tree=1A

~ DEATH BY STARVATION--On Friday last, Arthur R. KAYE, Esq., held an inquest on the body of a woman named Bridget M'Namara, who was found dead, on the day previous, on the road leading from Keady to the mountain, in the county Armagh. Deceased was a married woman, about thirty-two yeas of age, and lived with her husband, a plasterer, in the town of Keady. Owing to the long-continued frost and general severity of the weather, preventing the man from being employed, they had been reduced to a state of extreme want, passing a whole day at a time without any food except what the charity of the lodging-housekeeper bestowed. On the morning of the day on which deceased met her untimely end, she had left home to try and get a few potatoes, taking her son with her, and neither having had a morsel to eat before they went out. When they had gone as far as the townland of Crossdanad the cries of the boy attracted the attention of a man who was beetling flax some fields off, and he went immediately to the place, where two other men soon arrived also. The men lost no time in examining the poor woman, who was then dead, and had her removed to a neighbouring house, where every means that could be devised, in the absence of medical aid, were adopted to restore animation, but without effect. Dr. DOBBINS was also sent for, but before he arrived the poor creature was beyond medical influence. From the examination he made, and the evidence adduced, it was the doctor's opinion that the woman died from pure want, hastened by exposure to cold. The jury returned a verdict in accordance with the medical opinion.

The Armagh Guardian December 17, 1844 Armagh, County Armagh ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ LAMENTABLE AND FATAL ACCIDENT.--On Saturday evening last, as John Geary, Esq., supervisor of excise, was on his return from Nenagh to his residence in Cloughjordan, and when arriving at the bog of Kyle, distant about two miles from the latter town, his horse became restive and backed against a large hole, into which both Mr. Geary and the animal were precipitated. In the course of a short time the horse and gig were extricated, but the unfortunate gentleman was taken up a lifeless corpse. An inquest was held on Sunday, by James Carroll, Esq., coroner, and a verdict accordingly was returned. Mr. Geary, we learn, had but a short time previously received a higher appointment in the excise, and was to have left Cloughjordan in the course of a few days to be located in Belfast. He has left a wife and large family to mourn his melancholy and untimely end.--Nenagh Guardian. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Horror Short Story: The Accident In this horror short story, a man tries to cope with what he has done. Written by: Reddit user Minnboy Halverson sat in his dark living room. He hadn’t moved for over an hour. The accident earlier that evening kept playing over and over in his mind. The light turned red, but he was in a hurry and accelerated. An orange blur came from his right and in a split second there was a violent jolt, then the bicyclist rolled across his hood and fell out of sight on the pavement. Horns blared angrily and he panicked, stepping on the gas and screeching away from the chaos into the darkness, shaken and keeping an eye on his rearview mirror until he got home. Why did you run? He’d never committed a crime before this and punished himself by imagining years in jail, his career gone, his family gone, his future gone. Why not just go to the police right now? Then someone tapped on the front door and his world suddenly crumbled away beneath him. They found me. There was nothing he could do but answer it. Running would only make matters worse. Trembling, he got up, went to the door and opened it. A police officer stood under the porch light. “Mr. Halverson?” asked the grim officer. He let out a defeated sigh. “Yes. Let me —”I am terribly sorry, but I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your son’s bike was struck by a hit and run driver this evening. He died at the scene. I’m very sorry for your loss..."

Ennis Chronicle, 17 October 1793 Limerick, 16th: Died at Askeaton, in the 120th year of his age, Dr. Ahern. Submitted by dja

THE CONNAUGHT JOURNAL Galway, Thursday, June 24, 1824 LONGEVITY.- Died, last Saturday, at the Countess's Bush, county Kilkenny, Mary Costello, aged 102. Her mother, Matilda Pickman, died precisely at the same age. Her grandmother's age is not exactly known, but it exceeded 123 years, and long before her death she had to be rocked in a cradle like an infant. Mary Costello's brother lived beyond 100 years; at the age of ninety he worked regularly, and could cut down half an acre of heavy grass in one day. http://www.irelandoldnews.com/Galway/1824/JUN.html

https://www.deviantart.com/trihigh/art/Bike-Animation-Test-Sketch-886691721

http://www.sos.mo.gov/images/archives/deathcerts/1954/1954_00037183.PDF HANSON, Darrell Anthony - 14Y white male school boy - b: Dec 15 1939 Corder, Lafayette Co, MO - d: Dec 7 1954 Henry Co, MO - fth: James Hanson - mth: Thelma Hammond - usual res: Rt 4, Clinton, Henry Co, MO - informant: Mrs. Thelma Church, Clinton, MO - cause: bladder cancer - bur: Dec 9 1954 Englewood Cemetery (H), Clinton, Henry Co, MO - filed as: Darrell A. Hanson, file no: 37185 http://www.henrycomo.us/Death%20Records/hdeath.html

July 1974, Neville Ebbin was knocked off his small motorcycle and killed by a taxi in Hamilton, Bermuda.⠀ 🚩⠀ One year later in July 1975, his brother, Erskine Lawrence Ebbin was knocked off the same motorcycle by the same taxi with the same driver, carrying the same passenger, on the same street that had killed his brother, Neville.⠀ ⠀ Both brothers were 17 when they died.

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ᴵᶠ ʸᵒᵘ ᵃʳᵉ ᵃ ᵀᵒᵐᵇˢᵗᵒⁿᵉ ᵀᵒᵘʳⁱˢᵗ⸴ ʸᵒᵘ ᵃʳᵉ ᵃʷᵃʳᵉ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᶜᵉᵐᵉᵗᵉʳⁱᵉˢ ᵃʳᵉ ʳⁱᶜʰ ʳᵉᵖᵒˢⁱᵗᵒʳⁱᵉˢ ᵒᶠ ʰⁱˢᵗᵒʳʸ⸴ ᵃʳᵗ⸴ ᵃʳᶜʰⁱᵗᵉᶜᵗᵘʳᵉ⸴ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵗᵒʳⁱᵉˢ‧ ᵀʰⁱˢ ᵀʳᵃⁱˡ ⁱˢ ᵃ ᶜʳᵉᵃᵗⁱᵛᵉ ʷᵃʸ ᵗᵒ ᶜᵒᵃˣ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳˢ ⁱⁿᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ᵍʳᵃᵛᵉʸᵃʳᵈ ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ ᶜʰᵃⁿᶜᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵉˣᵖˡᵒʳᵉ ʷʰᵃᵗ ⁱˢ ʳᵉᵃˡˡʸ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃᵈᵐⁱʳᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵒⁿᵘᵐᵉⁿᵗˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵗᵒʳⁱᵉˢ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵒˢᵉ ʷʰᵒ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵍᵒⁿᵉ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ‧ ᴾʳᵉˢⁱᵈᵉⁿᵗ ᴶᵒʰⁿ ᶠ‧ ᴷᵉⁿⁿᵉᵈʸ ˢᵃⁱᵈ⸴ “ᴬ ⁿᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ ʳᵉᵛᵉᵃˡˢ ⁱᵗˢᵉˡᶠ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵒⁿˡʸ ᵇʸ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵉⁿ ⁱᵗ ᵖʳᵒᵈᵘᶜᵉˢ ᵇᵘᵗ ᵃˡˢᵒ ᵇʸ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵉⁿ ⁱᵗ ʰᵒⁿᵒʳˢ⸴ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵉⁿ ⁱᵗ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳˢ‧” ᶜᵉᵐᵉᵗᵉʳⁱᵉˢ ᵃʳᵉ ᵃʳᵗ⸴ ʰⁱˢᵗᵒʳʸ⸴ ᵍᵉⁿᵉᵃˡᵒᵍʸ⸴ ᶜˡᵃˢˢ⸴ ʳᵉˡⁱᵍⁱᵒⁿ ᵃˡˡ ʳᵒˡˡᵉᵈ ⁱⁿᵗᵒ ᵒⁿᵉ‧ ᴺᵒʷ⸴ ʸᵒᵘ ᶜᵃⁿ ‘ᵛⁱˢⁱᵗ’ ᵃ ᶜᵉᵐᵉᵗᵉʳʸ ᵒⁿ ˡⁱⁿᵉ‧ ᵂʰⁱˡᵉ ⁱᵗ’ˢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵃᵐᵉ ᵃˢ ˢᵗʳᵒˡˡⁱⁿᵍ ᵗʰʳᵒᵘᵍʰ ᵃ ʷⁱⁿᵈʸ ᵃᵘᵗᵘᵐⁿᵃˡ ᶜᵉᵐᵉᵗᵉʳʸ⸴ ˢᵉᵃʳᶜʰⁱⁿᵍ ᶠᵒʳ ᵃⁿ ᵃⁿᶜᵉˢᵗᵒʳ’ˢ ᵍʳᵃᵛᵉ⸴ ⁱᵗ ᵈᵒᵉˢ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ˢᵉⁿˢᵉ ⁱᶠ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ᵒʳ ᶠⁱⁿᵃⁿᶜᵉˢ ᵃʳᵉ ʰᵒˡᵈⁱⁿᵍ ʸᵒᵘ ᵇᵃᶜᵏ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵐᵃᵏⁱⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉ ᵗʳⁱᵖ‧ ʸᵒᵘ ᶜᵃⁿ ˢᵗⁱˡˡ ˡᵒᶜᵃᵗᵉ ᵃⁿ ᵃⁿᶜᵉˢᵗᵒʳ’ˢ ᶠⁱⁿᵃˡ ʳᵉˢᵗⁱⁿᵍ ᵖˡᵃᶜᵉ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ⁱⁿᵗᵉʳⁿᵉᵗ⸴ ᶜᵒᵐᵖˡᵉᵗᵉ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵃ ᵖʰᵒᵗᵒ⸴ ᵒⁿ ˢⁱᵗᵉˢ ˢᵘᶜʰ ᵃˢ ᶠⁱⁿᵈᵃᵍʳᵃᵛᵉ‧ᶜᵒᵐ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁱⁿᵗᵉʳᵐᵉⁿᵗ‧ᶜᵒᵐ ᶜᵉᵐᵉᵗᵉʳʸ ᵒᶠᶠᵉʳⁱⁿᵍ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ᶠᵒʳ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵒⁿᵉ; ʰⁱˢᵗᵒʳʸ⸴ ᵃʳᶜʰⁱᵗᵉᶜᵗᵘʳᵉ⸴ ᵃʳᵗ⸴ ʷᵃˡᵏⁱⁿᵍ ᵗᵒᵘʳˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁿᵃᵗᵘʳᵉ⸴ ᵃˡˡ ⁱⁿ ᵃ ˢᵉʳᵉⁿᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵇᵉᵃᵘᵗⁱᶠᵘˡ ˢᵉᵗᵗⁱⁿᵍ‧ ᴰᵃⁿ ᵂⁱˡˢᵒⁿ⠘ ᴵ ˢᵗᵃʳᵗᵉᵈ ᶜᵒˡˡᵉᶜᵗⁱⁿᵍ ⁱⁿᶠᵒʳᵐᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᵃᵐⁱˡⁱᵉˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖᵉᵒᵖˡᵉ ʷʰᵒ ᵃʳᵉ ᵇᵘʳⁱᵉᵈ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ‧ ᴬ ˡᵒᵗ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ʰᵒʷ ᵗʰᵉʸ ᵈⁱᵉᵈ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰᵒʷ ᵗʰᵉʸ ˡⁱᵛᵉᵈ⸴ ˢᵒ ⁱᵗ’ˢ ᵏⁱⁿᵈ ᵒᶠ ᶠᵃˢᶜⁱⁿᵃᵗⁱⁿᵍ‧ ᴺᵒᵗ ᵒⁿˡʸ ᵈᵒ ʷᵉ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵇᵘʳⁱᵃˡ ⁱⁿᶠᵒʳᵐᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵒᵘˢᵃⁿᵈ ᵒᶠ ᵖᵉᵒᵖˡᵉ⸴ ʷᵉ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ʷʰᵃᵗ ᵗʰᵉʸ ᵈⁱᵈ ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ ˡⁱᵛⁱⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ ʳᵉˡᵃᵗⁱᵛᵉˢ⸴ ʷᵉ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵃˡˡ ᵏⁱⁿᵈˢ ᵒᶠ ⁱⁿᶠᵒʳᵐᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ⸴ ᶜᵒᵒˡ ˢᵗᵒʳⁱᵉˢ‧ ᵀʰᵃᵗ’ˢ ᵗʰᵉ ʰⁱˢᵗᵒʳʸ ᵖᵃʳᵗ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵗᵘᶠᶠ ᴵ ˡⁱᵏᵉ‧ ᴵ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ⁱⁿᶠᵒʳᵐᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ ᵃⁿᵈ ᴵ ʰᵃᵗᵉ ᵗᵒ ˢᵉᵉ ⁱⁿᶠᵒʳᵐᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ ᵈⁱᵉ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖᵉᵒᵖˡᵉ‧ ᴵ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ʷᵃˡᵏⁱⁿᵍ ᵃˡᵒⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉ ᵍʳᵃᵛᵉˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵇᵉⁱⁿᵍ ᶠᵃˢᶜⁱⁿᵃᵗᵉᵈ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵗʰᵉ ⁿᵃᵐᵉˢ ᴬˡᵒʸˢⁱᵘˢ⸴ ᴱᵈʷⁱⁿᵃ⸴ ⱽⁱᶜᵗᵒʳⁱᵃ⸴ ᴺᵃᵗʰᵃⁿⁱᵃˡ‧ ᵀʰᵉʸ ᵃˡˡ ˢᵒᵘⁿᵈᵉᵈ ᶜʰᵃʳᵐⁱⁿᵍ ʸᵉᵗ ᵒˡᵈ ᶠᵃˢʰⁱᵒⁿᵉᵈ‧ ᴬˢ ᴵ ᶠⁱᵍᵘʳᵉᵈ ᵒᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵃᵍᵉˢ ᵒᶠ ᵈᵉᵃᵗʰ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʰᵒˢᵉ ˢᵗᵒⁿᵉˢ⸴ ᴵ ʷᵒⁿᵈᵉʳᵉᵈ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ˡⁱᵛᵉˢ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖᵉᵒᵖˡᵉ ʷⁱᵗʰ ʷʰᵒˢᵉ ⁿᵃᵐᵉˢ‧ ᴴᵃᵈ ᵗʰᵉʸ ᵐᵃʳʳⁱᵉᵈ? ᴰⁱᵈ ᵗʰᵉʸ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᶜʰⁱˡᵈʳᵉⁿ? ᴴᵃᵈ ᵗʰᵉʸ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ʰᵃᵖᵖʸ? ᴴᵃᵈ ᵗʰᵉʸ ʰᵃᵈ ᵃ ᵍᵒᵒᵈ ˡⁱᶠᵉ? ᴬⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉⁿ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ ʷᵉʳᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᵉᵖⁱᵗᵃᵖʰˢ⠘ ᴰᵉᵃʳ ᴮʳᵒᵗʰᵉʳ⸴ ᴿᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳᵉᵈ ᴬᵘⁿᵗ⸴ ᴮᵉˡᵒᵛᵉᵈ ᵂⁱᶠᵉ⸴ ᵃⁿᵈ ᴼᵘʳ ᴮᵃᵇʸ – ᵗʰᵒˢᵉ ʷᵉʳᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵗᵒⁿᵉˢ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵃˡʷᵃʸˢ ᵍᵃᵛᵉ ᵐᵉ ᵖᵃᵘˢᵉ‧ ᴵᵗ ʷᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵉᵃˡⁱᶻᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵃᵗ⸴ ʸᵉˢ⸴ ᶜʰⁱˡᵈʳᵉⁿ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ᶜᵒᵘˡᵈ‧ ᔆᵒ ʷʰᵉⁿ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵒⁿᵉ ᶜᵒᵐᵉˢ ᵒᵘᵗ ʰᵉʳᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵛⁱˢⁱᵗˢ ᵃ ᵍʳᵃᵛᵉ⸴ ᴵ ᶜᵃⁿ ˢᵃʸ⸴ ʸᵒᵘ ᵏⁿᵒʷ⸴ ⁵⁰ ʸᵉᵃʳˢ ᵃᶠᵗᵉʳ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵒⁿᵉ’ˢ ᵖᵃˢˢᵉᵈ ᵃʷᵃʸ⸴ ⁱᵗ’ˢ ᵏⁱⁿᵈ ᵒᶠ ᶜᵒᵒˡ ᵗᵒ ᵇᵉ ᵃᵇˡᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵗᵉˡˡ ᵗʰᵉᵐ ᵃ ˢᵗᵒʳʸ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖᵉʳˢᵒⁿ⸴ ˢᵒᵐᵉ ˡⁱᵗᵗˡᵉ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉʸ ᵈⁱᵈ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵏⁿᵒʷ‧ ᴬⁿᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʷᵒⁿᵈᵉʳ ʷʰᵒ ᵗʰᵉʸ ʷᵉʳᵉ‧ ᴵ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵏ ʷᵉ ᵒʷᵉ ᵖᵉᵒᵖˡᵉ ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ ʰⁱˢᵗᵒʳʸ‧ ᵀʰⁱˢ ᵃᵖᵖˡⁱᵉˢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵒⁿˡʸ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵒˢᵉ ʷʰᵒ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ʳᵉᶜᵉⁿᵗˡʸ ᵖᵃˢˢᵉᵈ ᵇᵘᵗ ᵃⁿᶜᵉˢᵗᵒʳˢ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵍᵉⁿᵉʳᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵇᵃᶜᵏ‧ ᵀʰᵉ ᴵⁿᵗᵉʳⁿᵉᵗ ᵐᵃᵏᵉˢ ᵈᵉᵗᵉᶜᵗⁱᵛᵉ ʷᵒʳᵏ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᵖᵒˢˢⁱᵇˡᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵐᵘᶜʰ ᵉᵃˢⁱᵉʳ ⁿᵒʷ‧ ʸᵒᵘ’ˡˡ ᵇᵉ ˢᵘʳᵖʳⁱˢᵉᵈ ʷʰᵃᵗ ⁱˢ ᵒᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ‧

❮˖ ◌ 𓆡 ⸼ * ❯

🇮🇪 Anne MAGOURTY charged with the murder (by poison) of her stepson, Patrick Magourty at Teebane, on the 16th of February 1877. 🇮🇪

ᴼⁿˡʸ ᵀᵃᵏᵉ ᴼⁿᵉ ᴾⁱᵉᶜᵉ ᵒᶠ ᶜᵃⁿᵈʸ ᴳᵒ ᵗᵒ ˢʰᵒʳᵗˢᶜᵃʳʸˢᵗᵒʳⁱᵉˢ ʳ/ˢʰᵒʳᵗˢᶜᵃʳʸˢᵗᵒʳⁱᵉˢ ᶠᵒʳᵍᵒᵗᵗᵉⁿᵂᵉˡˡ ᴼⁿˡʸ ᵀᵃᵏᵉ ᴼⁿᵉ ᴾⁱᵉᶜᵉ ᵒᶠ ᶜᵃⁿᵈʸ “ᴴᵒⁿᵉʸ⸴ ʸᵒᵘ’ʳᵉ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵍᵒⁱⁿᵍ ᵒᵘᵗ‧” “ᴵ’ᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵐⁱˢˢⁱⁿᵍ ᵒᵘᵗ ᵒⁿ ᶠʳᵉᵉ ᶜᵃⁿᵈʸ‧” ᴳʳᵃⁿᵗ ˢˡᵃᵐᵐᵉᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵒᵒʳ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ⁱⁿᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ᵍᵃʳᵃᵍᵉ‧ ᴵᵗ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ’ᵗ ᵐᵃᵗᵗᵉʳ ⁱᶠ ʰᵉ ʷᵃˢ ᵗᵒᵒ ᵒˡᵈ⸴ ʰᵉ ʰᵃᵈ ᵃ ᵇʳⁱˡˡⁱᵃⁿᵗ ⁱᵈᵉᵃ‧ ᴴᵉ ᵍᵒᵗ ᵒⁿ ʰⁱˢ ᵇⁱᵏᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗᵒᵒᵏ ᵒᶠᶠ‧ ᴮˡᵒᶜᵏ ᵃᶠᵗᵉʳ ᵇˡᵒᶜᵏ⸴ ʰᵉ ˢᶜᵃⁿⁿᵉᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖᵒʳᶜʰᵉˢ‧ ᶠⁱⁿᵃˡˡʸ‧ ᵀʰᵉ ʲᵃᶜᵏᵖᵒᵗ‧ ᴬ ᵖᵒʳᶜʰ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵃ ᵍⁱᵍᵃⁿᵗⁱᶜ ᵇᵒʷˡ ᶠᵘˡˡ ᵒᶠ ᶜᵃⁿᵈʸ‧ ᴬ ˢⁱᵍⁿᵉᵈ ʷᵃʳⁿᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵒⁿˡʸ ᵗᵃᵏᵉ ᵒⁿᵉ ˢⁱⁿᵍˡᵉ ᵖⁱᵉᶜᵉ ᵒᶠ ᶜᵃⁿᵈʸ‧ ᴳʳᵃⁿᵗ ᵈᵘᵐᵖᵉᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᵉⁿᵗⁱʳᵉ ᵇᵒʷˡ ⁱⁿᵗᵒ ʰⁱˢ ᵖⁱˡˡᵒʷᶜᵃˢᵉ‧ ᴴⁱˢ ˢᵗᵒᵐᵃᶜʰ ʳᵘᵐᵇˡᵉᵈ‧ ᴬˡˡ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇⁱᵏⁱⁿᵍ ʰᵃᵈ ʷᵒʳᵏᵉᵈ ᵘᵖ ʰⁱˢ ᵃᵖᵖᵉᵗⁱᵗᵉ‧ ᴳʳᵃⁿᵗ ᵖᵘˡˡᵉᵈ ᵒᵘᵗ ᵃ ᴮᵃᵇʸ ᴿᵘᵗʰ ᵃⁿᵈ ᶜʰᵒʷᵉᵈ ⁱᵗ ᵈᵒʷⁿ‧ ᴴᵉ ᵗᵒˢˢᵉᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ʷʳᵃᵖᵖᵉʳ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖᵒʳᶜʰ‧ ᵀʰⁱˢ ʷᵃˢ ⁿᵒ ᵒʳᵈⁱⁿᵃʳʸ ᶜᵃⁿᵈʸ ᵇᵃʳ‧ ᴵᵗ ʷᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵉˢᵗ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ʰᵉ’ᵈ ᵉᵛᵉʳ ᵉᵃᵗᵉⁿ! ᴴᵉ ʰᵃᵈ ᵗᵒ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵃⁿᵒᵗʰᵉʳ! ᴬ ᴹⁱˡᵏʸ ᵂᵃʸ‧ ᵀʰᵉⁿ ᵃ ᴷⁱᵗ ᴷᵃᵗ‧ ᔆᵒ ᵍᵒᵒᵈ! ᵀʰᵉ ᵇᵃʳˢ ᵈⁱᵈ ⁿᵒᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ᵗᵒ ᵈᵘˡˡ ʰⁱˢ ʰᵘⁿᵍᵉʳ‧ ᴴᵉ ᵏᵉᵖᵗ ᵉᵃᵗⁱⁿᵍ‧ ᴾⁱᵉᶜᵉ ᵃᶠᵗᵉʳ ᵖⁱᵉᶜᵉ⸴ ᵉᵃᶜʰ ᵒⁿᵉ ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳ ᵗʰᵃⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ˡᵃˢᵗ! ᴴᵉ ᶜᵒᵘˡᵈⁿ’ᵗ ˢᵗᵒᵖ‧ ᴴᵉ ʳᵉᵃᶜʰᵉᵈ ⁱⁿᵗᵒ ʰⁱˢ ᵖⁱˡˡᵒʷᶜᵃˢᵉ ᵗᵒ ᶠⁱⁿᵈ ⁱᵗ ᵉᵐᵖᵗʸ‧ ᔆᵘᵈᵈᵉⁿˡʸ⸴ ʰⁱˢ ˢᵗᵒᵐᵃᶜʰ ᵃᶜʰᵉᵈ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵇᵘʳⁿᵗ‧ ᴴᵉ ᵏⁿᵉˡᵗ ᵒᵛᵉʳ‧ ᵀʰᵉ ᵃᵍᵒⁿⁱᶻⁱⁿᵍ ˢᵉⁿˢᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ ʷᵉⁿᵗ ᵘᵖ ʰⁱˢ ˢᵖⁱⁿᵉ⸴ ᵈᵒʷⁿ ʰⁱˢ ᵃʳᵐ ⁱⁿ ᵗᵒ ʰⁱˢ ʰᵃⁿᵈ‧ ᴴᵉ ˡᵒᵒᵏᵉᵈ ᵃᵗ ʰⁱˢ ʰᵃⁿᵈ‧ ᴱᵃᶜʰ ᶠⁱⁿᵍᵉʳ ʰᵃᵈ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ʳᵉᵖˡᵃᶜᵉᵈ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵃ ᶜʰᵒᶜᵒˡᵃᵗᵉ ᵇᵃʳ‧ ᵀʰᵉʸ ᶠᵉˡˡ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ᵍʳᵒᵘⁿᵈ ᵃˢ ʰᵉ ᵗʳⁱᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵒᵛᵉ ʰⁱˢ ᶠⁱⁿᵍᵉʳˢ‧ ᴴᵉ ᵗʳⁱᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵍʳᵃᵇ ʰⁱˢ ʷʳⁱˢᵗ ᵇᵘᵗ ʰⁱˢ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ʰᵃⁿᵈ ʷᵃˢ ᶜᵃⁿᵈʸ ᵇᵃʳˢ ᵃˢ ʷᵉˡˡ‧ ᴴⁱˢ ᵃʳᵐˢ ʷᵉʳᵉ⸴ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰⁱˢ ˡᵉᵍˢ‧ ᴴᵉ ᶜᵒˡˡᵃᵖˢᵉᵈ⸴ ᵃ ᵗʰᵒᵘˢᵃⁿᵈ ᶜʰᵒᶜᵒˡᵃᵗᵉ ᵇᵃʳˢ ᶜᵒˡˡⁱᵈᵉᵈ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᶜᵃᵗᵗᵉʳᵉᵈ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ‧ ᵀʷᵒ ᵏⁱᵈˢ ʷᵃˡᵏᵉᵈ ᵘᵖ‧ “ᵂʰᵒᵃ! ᶠᵘˡˡ ˢⁱᶻᵉ ᵇᵃʳˢ?” “ᴵˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜᵒᵃˢᵗ ᶜˡᵉᵃʳ?” “ᵂʰʸ?” “ᴵ’ᵐ ᵍᵒⁿⁿᵃ ᵗᵃᵏᵉ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᵗʰᵃⁿ ᵒⁿᵉ‧‧‧”

Ennis Chronicle, Co. Clare, Ireland, Thurs 21 Mar 1793 JELLICO Limerick March 20 Last night Mrs. JELLICO confectioner fell into the river and was drowned. Submitted by #I000525

Wʜᴇɴ ᴍʏ sᴏɴ ᴀsᴋᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴡʜʏ I ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ᴋᴇᴘᴛ ᴍʏ ᴇʏᴇs ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ, I ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ sʜᴏᴡ ʜɪᴍ ᴡʜʏ. As ʜᴇ ʜᴀʀᴅᴇɴᴇᴅ, I ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛᴛᴇᴅ sʜᴏᴡɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴀs I ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍ ᴛᴜʀɴ ᴛᴏ sᴛᴏɴᴇ...

BALLINA CHRONICLE Wednesday, July 18, 1849 🇮🇪 DEATH BY DROWNING- Last week Patrick Fitzgerald, a private of the 39th Regiment, while bathing in the Moy, near Foxford, where a detachment of that regiment is stationed at present, was seized with cramps and was drowned before some of his comrades, who were looking on, could render him any assistance. 🇮🇪 BALLINA CHRONICLE Wednesday, July 18, 1849

Hello! This is an ad for my therian alphabet translator. More information once you actually click on the link! (scroll down once you get to the website) here is the link!: https://lingojam.com/TherianCodeTranslator2-0 here is a sentence from the translator, click on the link to translate it!: ᵕ! 𖥧 ♡ 𖤐 𓋼 𓆣 ⑅ 𖤐 ☆ 𓆣 𓃦 𖤣 𖤐 ⑅ ☆ 𖤓 𖥧 𓃦 𓃠 ➤ ♡ 𖥧 𖤓 ➤ ✧ ∆ 𓃦 𖤓 ✮ ∆ ➤ 𖤐 ✧! ∆ 𓃦 ★ ✧ 𓆣 𓃢 𓆣 𓃢 ☾ 𓆣 ✧, 𓃦 𖤐 𓃢 ∆ ➤ ➤ 𓆣 ✧ 𓅬 ♡ ∆ ➤ ⑅ 𖤐 ☆ ✧ 𖡼 𖥧 𓃦 ➤ ⑅ 𓋼 𓆣, 𖤓 𓆣 𓆃 ☆ ∆ ✮ 𖥧 ➤ ⑅, 𖤐 ✧ 𓃠 𓆣 𓃦 ★ 𓆣 ✧ 𖥧 𖤓, ♥️.

Horror Short Story: The Accident In this horror short story, a man tries to cope with what he has done. Written by: Reddit user Minnboy Halverson sat in his dark living room. He hadn’t moved for over an hour. The accident earlier that evening kept playing over and over in his mind. The light turned red, but he was in a hurry and accelerated. An orange blur came from his right and in a split second there was a violent jolt, then the bicyclist rolled across his hood and fell out of sight on the pavement. Horns blared angrily and he panicked, stepping on the gas and screeching away from the chaos into the darkness, shaken and keeping an eye on his rearview mirror until he got home. Why did you run, you fool? He’d never committed a crime before this and punished himself by imagining years in jail, his career gone, his family gone, his future gone. Why not just go to the police right now? Then someone tapped on the front door and his world suddenly crumbled away beneath him. They found me. There was nothing he could do but answer it. Running would only make matters worse. Trembling, he got up, went to the door and opened it. A police officer stood under the porch light. “Mr. Halverson?” asked the grim officer. He let out a defeated sigh. “Yes. Let me —”I am terribly sorry, but I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your son’s bike was struck by a hit and run driver this evening. He died at the scene. I’m very sorry for your loss.

𝙎𝙄𝙇𝙀𝙉𝙏 𝙒𝙃𝙄𝙎𝙋𝙀𝙍𝙎 Today. You smiled at me. Your voice rang through the phone, sentimental dreams shared. A crusader against my nightmares. I watched you blow out your birthday candles, silent whispers of divine wishes floating out with the call. Your wish was to no longer exist, amongst the cries of the sky. So, you held in your final goodbyes, keeping those words withheld, as the hit of grim made your world go dim. Today, We buried you.

𝑰𝒏 𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒖𝒎𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓, 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒔𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒔' 𝒃𝒆𝒅 𝑶𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒓; 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑪𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒅 𝒉𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒃𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅, 𝑩𝒚 𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒆. 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌, 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑰 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓, 𝑺𝒊𝒓, 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒚𝒆, 𝒐𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅, 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓, 𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆; 𝑨 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒇 𝑨𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒍 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒚𝒆𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒅, 𝑰𝒏 𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒖𝒎𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓. - 𝑹𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒕 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑺𝒕𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒐𝒏

girl misunderstood 51 followers 82 following ~♥~ уσυ нανє тσ тαкє тнє gσσ∂ ωιтн тнє вα∂, ѕмιℓє ωнєη уσυ'яє ѕα∂, ℓσνє ωнαт уσυ gσт αη∂ яємємвєя ωнαт уσυ нα∂. αℓωαуѕ ƒσяgινє вυт ηєνєя ƒσяgєт, ℓєαяη ƒяσм уσυя мιѕтαкєѕ вυт ηєνєя яєgяєт, ρєσρℓє ¢нαηgє, тнιηgѕ gσ ωяσηg, ѕσ נυѕт яємємвєя тнαт ℓιƒє gσєѕ ση...~♥~ ~♥~ ι ωαηт тσ вє яємємвєяє∂ αѕ тнє σηє ωнσ αℓωαуѕ ѕмιℓєѕ єνєη ωнєη нєя нєαят ιѕ вяσкєη, αη∂ тнє σηє ωнσ ωσυℓ∂ αℓωαуѕ вяιgнтєη υρ уσυя ∂αу, єνєη ωнєη ѕнє ¢συℓ∂η’т вяιgнтєη υρ нєя σωη ~♥~ ~♥~ ωє єηנσу ωαямтн вє¢αυѕє ωє нανє вєєη ¢σℓ∂. ωє αρρяє¢ιαтє ℓιgнт вє¢αυѕє ωє нανє вєєη ιη ∂αякηєѕѕ. ву тнє ѕαмє тαкєη, ωє ¢αη єχρєяιєη¢є נσу...вє¢αυѕє ωє нανє кησωη ѕα∂ηєѕѕ ~♥~ ~♥~ ∂ση'т єνєя gινє υρ ιƒ уσυ ѕтιℓℓ ωαηт тσ тяу, ∂ση'т єνєя ωιρє уσυя тєαяѕ ιƒ уσυ ѕтιℓℓ ωαηт тσ ¢яу. ∂ση'т єνєя ѕєттℓє ƒσя αη αηѕωєя ιƒ уσυ ѕтιℓℓ ωαηт тσ кησω. ∂ση'т єνєя ѕαу уσυ ∂ση'т ℓσνє нιм ιƒ уσυ ¢αη'т ℓєт нιм gσ ~♥~ ~♥~ ƒσя єνєяу вєαυту тнєяє ιѕ αη єує ѕσмєωнєяє тσ ѕєє ιт. ƒσя єνєяу тяυтн тнєяє ιѕ αη єαя ѕσмєωнєяє тσ нєαя ιт. ƒσя єνєяу ℓσνє тнєяє ιѕ α нєαят ѕσмєωнєяє тσ яє¢єινє ιт ~♥~ ~♥~ тнє ¢яα¢кѕ ιη тнє ¢ση¢яєтє яємιη∂ тнαт ησ мαттєя нσω ѕтяσηg уσυ αяє, уσυ ωιℓℓ αℓωαуѕ ƒαℓℓ αραят αт ѕσмє ρσιηт ιη уσυя ℓιƒє ~♥~ ~♥~ ηєνєя ƒяσωη...єνєη ωнєη уσυ'яє ѕα∂ '¢αυѕє уσυ ηєνєя кησω ωнєη ѕσмєσηє'ѕ ƒαℓℓιηg ιη ℓσνє ωιтн уσυя ѕмιℓє ~♥~ ~♥~ ι ωαℓкє∂ тняσυgн тнє нαℓℓωαу нσℓ∂ιηg му ωяιѕтѕ, нσριηg ησ σηє ωιℓℓ ѕєє мє ℓιкє тнιѕ. нє ℓσσкѕ αт мє, ѕ¢αяє∂ ωнαт нє'ℓℓ ƒιη∂. нє ηєνєя тнσυgнт ι нα∂ тнєѕє тнιηgѕ ιη мιη∂. нє αѕкѕ мє, "...ιѕ тнєяє αηу мσяє؟" ℓσσкιηg αт нιм ωιтн тєαяѕ ιη му єуєѕ ι ωнιѕρєя α ѕιмρℓє яєρℓу,...'єνєя ωση∂єяє∂ ωнαт вяα¢єℓєтѕ ωєяє ƒσя'..؟ ~♥~ ~♥~ ѕσмєтιмєѕ ωє мυѕт вє нυят ιη σя∂єя тσ gяσω, ƒαℓℓ ιη σя∂єя тσ кησω, ℓσѕє ιη σя∂єя тσ gαιη. αη∂ ѕσмєтιмєѕ ωє нανє тσ вє вяσкєη ѕσ ωє ¢αη вє ωнσℓє αgαιη ♥~ ~♥~ ησт єνєη мαкє υρ ¢συℓ∂ мαкє нєя вєαυтιƒυℓ...вє¢αυѕє яєαℓ вєαυту ¢σмєѕ ƒяσм ℓσνιηg уσυяѕєℓƒ αη∂ тнαт'ѕ ѕσмєтнιηg ѕнє ¢αη ηєνєя ∂σ ~♥~ ~♥~ яєαℓ тєαяѕ αяє ησт тнσѕє тнαт ƒαℓℓ ƒяσм тнє єуєѕ αη∂ ¢σνєя тнє ƒα¢є вυт αяє тнσѕє тнαт ƒαℓℓ ƒяσм тнє нєαят αη∂ ¢σνєя тнє ѕσυℓ ~♥~ ~♥~ ℓєαяη тσ αρρяє¢ιαтє тнє яαιηвσω αƒтєя ¢υяѕιηg тнє яαιη. ιт’ѕ נυѕт ℓιкє ℓσνιηg αgαιη αƒтєя єχρєяιєη¢ιηg тнє ραιη ~♥~ ~♥~ уσυ ηєνєя кησω ωнєη уσυ ωιℓℓ ℓσѕє ѕσмєσηє, ѕσ gяαв тнєм αη∂ тєℓℓ тнєм тнαт уσυ ¢αяє ησω вє¢αυѕє ιт мιgнт вє тнє ℓαѕт тιмє уσυ ωιℓℓ єνєя вє αвℓє тσ ~♥~ ~♥~ тнє ѕку ιѕη'т αℓωαуѕ вℓυє. тнє ѕυη ∂σєѕη'т αℓωαуѕ ѕнιηє. ѕσ ιт'ѕ σкαу тσ ƒαℓℓ αραят ѕσмєтιмєѕ ~♥~ ~♥~ мσѕт σƒ тнє ιмρσятαηт тнιηgѕ ιη тнє ωσяℓ∂ нανє вєєη α¢¢σмρℓιѕнє∂ ву ρєσρℓє ωнσ нανє кєρт ση тяуιηg ωнєη тнєяє ѕєємє∂ тσ вє ησ нσρє αт αℓℓ ~♥~ ~♥~ тєαяѕ ƒяσм тнє нєαят, тєαяѕ ƒяσм тнє ѕσυℓ, тєαяѕ ƒяσм єνєяуωнєяє, тнєу тαкє ¢σηтяσℓ ~♥~ ~♥~ ωнєη ι ∂σ ѕσмєтнιηg gяєαт, ησ σηє єνєя ѕєємѕ тσ яємємвєя, вυт ωнєη ι ∂σ ѕσмєтнιηg ωяσηg, ησ σηє ¢αη єνєя ѕєєм тσ ƒσяgєт ~♥~ girl misunderstood 51 followers 82 following

Apr 25, 2013, 1:45 AM Lol honestly if you were still here I would be lookin towards dating you. You're so sweet and a really good friend and super beautiful. But you're so fat FAR!! I meant far lol

January 2, 2013 Messages I think we should see other people ... Roses are red Violets are blue U really thought I would cry over u? I said I loved you You thought that was true well guess what player You just got played to smartphOWNED.com

___MMM___ ||| (0-0) (o o) -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-oOO--(_)--OOo-=-=-ooO--\ /--Ooo-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= | | | | | | | V | | | | | CHANSON DES ESCARGOTS | SONG OF THE SNAILS QUI VONT A L'ENTERREMENT | THAT WENT TO THE FUNERALS Original french poetry by | Translated for Asar's lilones Jacques Prevert | By Chevalier :)) A l'enterrement d'une feuille morte | At the burying of a dead leaf Deux ecargots s'en vont | Two snails are going Ils ont la coquille noire | Their shells are black Du crepe autour des cornes | Mourning crepe is around their horns Ils s'en vont dans le soir | They walk in the evening Un tres beau soir d'automne | In a very beautiful Fall evening Helas quand ils arrivent | Alas when they arrive C'est deja le printemps | It's already Spring Les feuilles qui etaient mortes | The dead leaves Sont toutes ressucitees | Are all restored to life Et les deux escargots | And the two snails Sont tres desappoites | Are much disapointed Mais voila le soileil | But suddenly comes the sun Le soleil qui leur dit | the sun that says to them: Prenez prenez la peine | Take, take the time La peine de vous asseoir | The time to sit Prenez un verre de biere | Take a glass of beer Si le coeur vous en dit | If you feel like it, Prenez si ca vous plait | Take if you want L'autocar pour Paris | The bus for Paris Il partira ce soir | It will leave tonight Vous verrez du pays | You will see the country Mais ne prenez pas le deuil | But don't be in mourning C'est moi qui vous le dit | I tell you: Ca noircit le blanc de l'oeil | It blackens the white of the eyes Et puis ca enlaidit | And also, it makes one ugly Les histoires de cercueils | Stories about coffins C'est triste et pas joli | Are sad and not cute Reprenez vous couleurs | Take your colors back Les couleurs de la vie | The colors of life! Alors toutes les betes | And then all the animals Les arbres et les plantes | The trees and the plants Se mettent a chanter | Start to sing A chanter a tue-tete | To sing at the top of their voice La vrai chanson vivante | The real living song La chanson de l'ete | The song of summer Et tout le monde de boire | And everyone drinks Tout le monde de trinquer | And everyone clinks glasses C'est un tres joli soir | Its a very beautiful evening Un joli soir d'ete | A beautiful summer evening Et les deux escargots | And the two snails S'en retournent chez eux | Return home Ils s'en vont tres emus | They return very touched Ils s'en vont tres heureux | They return very happy Comme ils ont beaucoup bu | And since they drank a lot Ils titubent un petit peu | They stagger a little bit Mais la haut dans le ciel | But high in the sky La lune veille sur eux. | The moon watches over them Jacques Prevert | | ___ | // __`\ o o ~ | ll ( .) l_) ) ` | __\\ \__/ / | . . .. .._/_/________/^^ =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-oOOo-(_)-oOOo-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Love SMS I ωιℓℓ ∂ιє вυт му ℓσνє ηєνєя … Iт ωιℓℓ αℓωαуѕ тσωαя∂ѕ тσ уσυ … Oηє яєQυєѕт ηєνєя ¢яу ƒσя мє ωнєη ι. ωιℓℓ ∂ιє … Oηє ωιѕн ∂ση’т ƒσяGєт мє αƒтєя му ∂єαтн … Oηє ƒα¢т ι ¢αη’т ѕтσρ мιѕѕιηG уσυ υηтιℓ м αℓινє !!! July 18, 2014 by Love Doctor

→ α ƒяιєη∂ gινєѕ нσρє ωнєη ℓιƒє ιѕ ℓσω, α ƒяιєη∂ ιѕ α ρℓα¢є ωнєη уσυ нανє ησωнєяє тσ gσ, α ƒяιєη∂ ιѕ нσηєѕт, α ƒяιєη∂ ιѕ тяυє. α ƒяιєη∂ ιѕ ρяє¢ισυѕ α ƒяιєη∂ ιѕ υ.

Losing Carrie Carrie’s parents were deep in mourning They had lost their daughter, without warning Her mom moaned and wailed in deep sorrow Her dad would call the funeral home tomorrow Her mom looked down and in her head She wondered, if Carrie could, what she would have said If she could speak to them now, reach into their hearts Tell them how they would cope, where could they start? Her father looked down also and in his head His mind was racing with a sense of dread See, if Carrie could talk what she really would have said Is, ‘Mom, please help me, he knows I’m not dead.’

SUNDAY, JULY 12, 2009 YAADEIN... Holle se chupke se aati hain yaadein.. Ateet me hume kheench le jaati hain yaadein.. Koshish to ke the bhoolne ke aapko.. Par har koshish ko nakaam kar jaate hain yaadein.. Tez hawa ka jhonka bankar aati hain yaadein.. Is shaant zindagi me hulchul le aati hain yaadein.. Fir dheere se humara haath thaam kar.. Khwabon ke duniya me le jaati hain yaadein.. Kya maksad hai inka, kyu aati hain yaadein.. Beete hue baatein, dohraate hain yaadein.. Ab peeche reh gaya hai sab.. Aur chal pade hain hum.. Ab to yaadein he yaadein hain..yaadein he yaadein.. Bas yaad aati hain baatein.....yaad aati hain yaadein...... POSTED BY SAUMYA SHRIVASTAVA AT 3:02 AM

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The Whisper Men : Do you hear the Whisper Men The Whisper Men are near If you hear the Whisper Men Then turn away your ear Do not hear the Whisper Men Whatever else you do For once you've heard the Whisper Men They'll stop... and look at you If you hear the Whisper Men And you are in their sight The presence of the Whisper Men Will mean for you 'Good night' Don't ignore the Whisper Men They're not just in your head Be fearful of the Whisper Men Ignore them.. and you're dead

────(♥)(♥)(♥)────(♥)(♥)(♥) ɪƒ ƴσυ'ʀє αʟσηє, ──(♥)██████(♥)(♥)█████(♥) ɪ'ʟʟ ɓє ƴσυʀ ѕɧα∂σѡ. ─(♥)████████(♥)████████(♥) ɪƒ ƴσυ ѡαηт тσ cʀƴ, ─(♥)██████████████████(♥) ɪ'ʟʟ ɓє ƴσυʀ ѕɧσυʟ∂єʀ. ──(♥)████████████████(♥) ɪƒ ƴσυ ѡαηт α ɧυɢ, ────(♥)█████████████(♥) ɪ'ʟʟ ɓє ƴσυʀ ρɪʟʟσѡ. ──────(♥)█████████(♥) ɪƒ ƴσυ ηєє∂ тσ ɓє ɧαρρƴ, ────────(♥)█████(♥) ɪ'ʟʟ ɓє ƴσυʀ ѕɱɪʟє. ─────────(♥)██(♥) ɓυт αηƴтɪɱє ƴσυ ηєє∂ α ƒʀɪєη∂, ───────────(♥) ɪ'ʟʟ ʝυѕт ɓє ɱє.

🍁🎃🍂˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚🍁🕯🌇🐻₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ.🕰🍪🪶⋆.ೃ࿔*:･☕︎

Hidden by the Rustling Corn The shortcut through the Corn field tempts you as you’re walking home the clouds above keep the moon concealed As you enter the swaying corn, alone. - The corn grows tall and thick, my friend, the path you chose is muddy it grows in rows without scope or end and in the dark, you hurry - You don’t see the standing forms As you pass them on your way they stand still amongst the swaying corn which hides their pallor, and decay - hundreds gather in this field tonight though you see none at all yet still you look around in fright but the corn grows too thick, too tall - You tell yourself as you continue through “Its merely the rustling of the leaves,” But they see you, and they hear you, And they might not let you leave.

In a letter to John Hamilton Reynolds (1818), Keats wrote: “ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔤𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 ℑ 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔦𝔭 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔇𝔞𝔪𝔬𝔰𝔢𝔩 ℜ𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔣𝔢 – ℑ’𝔩𝔩 𝔠𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔤𝔯𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯-𝔣𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔪𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔰𝔢-𝔯𝔬𝔠𝔨 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔬𝔲𝔰-𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔬𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔲𝔡𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲.” 1819 Keats wrote to his brother, George: “𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔦𝔣𝔱𝔥 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔢 𝔭𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔢𝔰 𝔪𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢 – 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔥 𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔓𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔬 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔉𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔰𝔠𝔞 – ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔡𝔞𝔶𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔞 𝔩𝔬𝔴 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔦𝔡𝔰𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪 ℑ 𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔟𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔯𝔢𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔣 ℌ𝔢𝔩𝔩. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔡𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔣𝔲𝔩 𝔢𝔫𝔧𝔬𝔶𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰 ℑ 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢 – ℑ 𝔣𝔩𝔬𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔱𝔪𝔬𝔰𝔭𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔰 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔠𝔯𝔦𝔟𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔞 𝔟𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔱𝔦𝔣𝔲𝔩 𝔣𝔦𝔤𝔲𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔴𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔭𝔰 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔧𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔱 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔪’𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔞𝔫 𝔞𝔤𝔢 – 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔪𝔦𝔡𝔰𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔠𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔪…” In his last known letter, Keats wrote to his former housemate, Charles Armitage Brown. Dated the 30th of November, 1820, Keats wrote from Rome, where he had gone to convalesce from tuberculosis. His friend and his fiancée awaited him in England, not knowing that he was never to return. “𝔗𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔡𝔦𝔣𝔣𝔦𝔠𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔴𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔞 𝔩𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯. 𝔐𝔶 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔥 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔲𝔢𝔰 𝔰𝔬 𝔟𝔞𝔡, 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℑ 𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔩 𝔦𝔱 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔟𝔬𝔬𝔨 – 𝔶𝔢𝔱 ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔪𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔟𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫 ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔔𝔲𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔢. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔫 ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔞𝔣𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔣 𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔈𝔫𝔤𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔡. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔞𝔫 𝔥𝔞𝔟𝔦𝔱𝔲𝔞𝔩 𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔶 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔩 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔱, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞 𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔱𝔥𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔢𝔵𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢.” On Friday the 23rd of February, 1821, John Keats passed away in Rome