With both his hands he labors at the knots;
His holy fillets the blue venom blots;
His roaring fills the flitting air around.
Thus, when an ox receives a glancing wound,
He breaks his bands, the fatal altar flies,
And with loud bellowings breaks the yielding skies. — Aeneid
Drawn in 2005 and coloured in 2010 with photoshop and natural β-carotene.
Lobo! Lobo! burning bright
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
Luna oportet crescere
me autem minui
A beautiful young wife
is persuading an artist to
postpone an unfinished work.
You are ill. May be
you should go home?
Give a hug to our little son,
have a sip of hot vermouth. Sleep.
He is abous to concede —
he had no sleep in nearly
93 hours. Neither of them knows,
that the picture is complete.