#18oo's

[bebemoon]

look for the name: HEIDI

lacemade "the cancan" corset dress

antique wax flower and crystal bridal tiara, c. 18oo's | american duchess "tango" edwardian lace-up booties in gold

cotton and silk ribbon evening mitts, c. 183o's

oriza l. legrand "déjà le printemps" eau de parfum

victorian revival gold-tone bracelet w/ white rhonestone focal, c. early 194o's

#heidi #look my excuse for this is that my grandad's ex wife had all kinds of dolls while i was growing up #and one was named heidi and wore something like this with all these tatty fingerlet curls #she was pretty #anyway #request #outfit #hope you like ! #name #lacemade #dress #lace #vintage #retro #antique #american duchess #footwear #gold #18oo's #edwardian #victorian #bracelet #jewellry #oriza l. legrand #edp #perfume #mitts #queue

[hello-paralyzed-world]

my dog has to have her spleen removed and the clinic told me that the prices had increased this year because of the rise in the energy costs.

#they really take us for morons #18OO € for 1h30 of surgery #I don't know how they are not ashamed to take advantage of people

[unearthlyboy]

･ .✦ tread carefully…

.             *    .            •    .       .             ✦ . • * .

. ✦       ･           .                *      .     •

•    .             .               ✦ it is watching

✦                 ✦. *

. ✦       ･           .                *      .     •

— userbox credit : @stranger-from-beyond

[ under construction ]

— “Greetings. This blog is a blog dedicated towards my godhood. (Otherkinity, therian types etc). I recommend to read more about my “DNI” as well as my “About Me + Intro” to get to know me a little, and also to know what this blog is. I hope you enjoy your stay here — but do know, that my eyes are always watching.”

. ✦       ･           .                *      .     •

⊹ ࿔⠀៸⠀﹆ ABOUT ME + INTRO

ONYX (Azrael) :: 18OO | O6 | North America… he/it/xe + neos . . . autistic — 🪽🐾☁️🗡️🌑

Godkin ﾉ ⟡ black dragon ⊹₊ .　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ black wolf 🐾 Tiger …. 🐅

Kithtypes :: snow leopard ‧₊˚ ʚ ⊹ ࿔⠀៸⠀﹆

Symbolism :: animals that are melanistic, black snakes, ravens/crows,

— other kin+therian/alterhuman (I don’t really pay attention to specific labels)

MY TAGS ｡ﾟ༉‧ ✦ —————— 🪽

- Regular posts (edits, etc) : Azrael soars ｡ﾟ༉‧ ✦

- trends, etc : Onyx awakens ｡ﾟ༉‧ ✦

- other (archive) : Black star ｡ﾟ༉‧ ✦

— DNI ::

— BYF :: I am autistic, and that means that I need tone tags while communicating (when necessary). I experience spin jealousy, and also social anxiety.

#Onyx awakens ｡ﾟ༉‧ ✦ #Azrael soars ｡ﾟ༉‧ ✦ #Black star ｡ﾟ༉‧ ✦

[harmcityherald]

I put my archive link up. don't lose your minds. maybe its easier to get to my prehistoric tumblr. I have been here quite a few years. I collected a plethora of content over that time. maybe its easier for you, dear readers. anyways lets see how it plays out. oh and updates to me? well 3 radiation treatments in. no bad effects. I went down today and did the treatment then came home and worked in the yard from front facade to back garden. no problem. pain management helps me in such a humongous, unparalleled way. I have more tomato!

Now it is time for some Herbal Pain Management then I'll water the garden down one more time. Seems I've found some good history shows to put on in the background as I try to fight my way through this Thoreau book. I have to remember that he's writing at such a time with some of his pretensions. by chapter4 you should be ready to build his fully envisioned hermit shack. he literally gives us a practical blueprint including a product price list. Too bad its the 18oos pov.

His view of nature is unparalleled but his view of those people in lower classes then him is grim and tedious to read. He reeks of Victorian colonialism oozing from almost every word written. So far that's my impression of Thoreau, which surprises me considering his other noteable work is something about civil disobedience AND the man was an abolitionist. perhaps I am reading too much into his views of the townsfolk he encounters, of which, at the time, were easily maligned.

but I digress.

my emily is very sick again. So my focus has been on her and will remain so until this episode passes as I am hopeful it will. I went to radiation alone today. I convinced her it would be better that way. daughter n law n granddaughter could have drove me but I felt better them here in case emily needed 911. lets hope it don't go that far this time but its usually the outcome. watching her ramp up until she can't breath at all. when shes down im there to carry her through the best I can and when cancer tightens its grip on me its always emily there to lift my hand, and walk with me through hell.

She's beating herself up over not attending a family gathering centered around her sister's death. First of all I told her she was too sick to go. She is barely making it around here and I am basically on a 911 watch. Secondly I don't think the stress level would have been good for either one of us. The family seem to brush us aside as it was anyway and maybe that's as good as you can hope for. I find that I think I'm finally as close as I can come to being surrounded by people who actually do care about me and would actually put me out if I was on fire. Having my two favorite grandchildren on hand is a blessing and I know that you're supposed to love every child the same but you know I'm on Tumblr I can tell you I've got two favorite grandchildren it's a sin of mine and maybe I'll pay for it in whatever Purgatory I end up. It very very much hurt Emily that her sister did not want her to know that she had cancer especially when we're dealing with cancer and home already as it is anyway. Her depression over this has made her not want to go to that family gathering to begin with anyway. But I'm here and she has me and I will wait on her hand and foot and make her coffee at will and just like she does for me I will offer my hand to lift her up and walk through whatever hell we have to walk through. That's all you can expect from love really. And real love is so lucky to have. Although I will not now subject you, dear readers, to my dissertations and Limitless verbosity on the nature of real love. We leave that for later chapters as I am absolutely certain to run across the slippery rocks again.

If, dear reader, you follow along with me, which I solemnly apologize for, you know my voyages across the slippery rocks are varied and dare I use the word verbose again? other times it is a reflection of the fractured emotional vessel that is my mind.

again, I digress.

play with the archive. I once posted a cop car flying off a cliff to an actual cop, so thats always fun to revisit innit? its my ups and downs. and I never promised I wasn't mentally, if not ill then remarkably bruised and dysfunctional. so saying all that, see it now from the beginning and how one man becomes problematic to a nation

one thing you are sure to see is a man honest with himself and his true nature. I examine my life. my words. my beliefs. and lay it all here for you, dear readers, to one day discover. through it I learned, but I will never shirk from telling truth of my broken past and my road through evil to get to this place of peace where the woman lying in the next room is more important to me and worriedly prominent in my every thought and emotion.

if I die it was all worth it.

but I'm not going to die. I have too many words left to torture you with, my dear lovely readers.

[yescacmurugappanuniverse]

3 D CULTURE UN 18OO https://www.instagram.com/p/Chw757uoSBZ/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[beautifulcentury]

<strong>Charlotte Bronson, 1/6th-Plate Daguerreotype, Circa 1850 <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/60861613@N00/">by Lisby</a></strong>

Charlotte Bronson was the daughter of Ira Hull Bronson (1793-1857) and Elizabeth Dodge (1799-1867). She was born in Connecticut on 14 September, 1832. Her mother, who was born in Colchester, Connecticut, to David Dodge and Mary Mixter, was descended from Tristram Dodge, who, in April 1661, left Massachusetts to settle on Block Island, Rhode Island. Ira's parents were David Bronson (1762 – 1836) and Hannah Hull (1765 – 1836), who had married on 13 November 1782, in Plymouth (now Waterbury), Connecticut .

Ira and Elizabeth married 17 July, 1820, in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, and had eight children: Cordelia (1821-1893), Jeannette (1823-1878), Harriet (1827-1909), Ruby (1825-1862), Marilla (1830-1909), Ira Daniel (b. 1835), Genevieve (1837-1865), and Charlotte.

This image, taken in about 1850, shows Charlotte in perfect health at approximately the age of 18. A short time later, that would drastically change and by Halloween 1856, Charlotte would be dead. This poor-quality ambrotype, www.flickr.com/photos/60861613@N00/5752258582/in/photostream, shows Charlotte a mere six years later, in the final months of her life. She is suffering from Tuberculosis, a plague that killed hundreds of thousands annually.

Charlotte is buried in Jordanville Cemetery with her father, who died a year later, also of TB.

This pair of images is a very rare glimpse of the ravages of TB in Victorian times. It was during this same short stretch of years that Charlotte Bronte so famously lost her three siblings to TB within the space of eight months. ""The wreck of talent, the ruin of promise..." and "gone like dreams" were two of the phrases Charlotte Bronte used to describe the loss of Branwell, Emily, and Anne to this horrible illness. In the ambrotype, Charlotte Bronson is only 24 years old, yet she looks thirty years older. Her clothing is falling from her skeletal frame and her eyes clearly show that death is not far. The ambrotype is doubtless a final image for her family--a last chance to preserve the substance before the soul flees.

Although they are not the same Charlotte, it was this kind of slow, Tubercular death that almost certainly resulted in the creation of this mourning brooch with it's heart-rending inscription: www.flickr.com/photos/60861613@N00/4983896470/in/set-7215...

(front): www.flickr.com/photos/60861613@N00/4983893228/in/set-7215...

#daguerreotype #vintage #victorian #18oos #19th century #charlotte bronson #TB #tuberculosis #portrait #woman #early photography #ambrotype #1800s #nineteenth century #19th #century #Ann #Longmore-Etheridge #Collection #photography #fashion #1850s

[whenisitenoughtrees]

a slow voice on a wave of phase

Logan has a voice like a galaxy, shot through with silver and streaked with stars, and today, Roman has realized that he is in love.

Roman has seen colors in sounds for as long as he can remember, and Logan's voice paints the night sky across his vision. It's no wonder that he falls in love with him, though it is surprising that he took this long to realize it.

(Wherein Roman pines, Remus' input is surprisingly helpful, and Logan has a lot more feelings than anyone is giving him credit for.)

Content Warnings: Remus-typical inappropriateness, mild Roman-typical insecurity

Word Count: 5,629

Pairings: Logince, platonic Creativitwins, brief mention of Dukeceit

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

The idea comes to him suddenly, and by ‘suddenly,’ he means ‘with the force of a giant shark crashing through the wall of his bedroom at ninety miles per hour,’ because that is how Remus makes his entrance: half-naked, dripping wet, and straddling the back of a two-and-a-half ton great white.

“Tada!” Remus crows, sliding onto the floor. “You bet I couldn’t do it!” The shark, presumably irritated either by the lack of water dooming it to slow asphyxiation or by the loud, annoying man yelling in its face, flops around on the floor helplessly. Roman watches it through half-lidded eyes, and briefly considers getting up to deal with it before it starts knocking things over.

“But the proof’s in the pudding!” his brother continues, slapping the shark with a wink. Who the wink is directed at, Roman has no idea. Hopefully not the shark, though he wouldn’t put it past him. “Or in the big-ass shark! It only ate me three times before I got to ride it!” At this, he makes a disgusting motion with his hips, calling attention to the fact that his swimming trunks really do not cover enough, and Roman wonders just what, exactly, he did to deserve this treatment.

“What are you doing in my room?” he demands. Or at least, he means to demand; it comes out sounding more like an exhausted sigh, and he supposes that he shouldn’t have expected anything different. Lying in bed in pajamas is not a position from which one can demand much of anything, even if that one happens to be a prince with an incredible amount of creative power at his fingertips.

Not that he’s feeling much creative power at the moment.

Remus finally seems to register his tone and position. He stalks forward, his nose wrinkling, and Roman is greeted with a close-up view of his brother’s bare chest, which is just about par the course. It could be worse, he supposes. At least he’s shirtless and not pantsless. Mostly.

“What crawled up your ass and died there?” Remus asks. “Ooh, was it a spider, like, the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout, except the waterspout’s your--”

“Oh my god,” he says, and finally works up the willpower to sit up and shove his brother away. “Can you stop?”

“Can’t stop won’t stop!” Remus trills gleefully, but Roman ignores him in favor of standing to inspect the shark in the middle of his bedroom floor. It is, he has to admit, a bit impressive, and all those teeth are equal parts cool and terrifying. He would likely be more impressed if it wasn’t expiring on his carpet, or if there wasn’t a shark-sized hole in his wall leading to parts unknown. He frowns, focusing and waving a hand, and both the shark and the damage disappear. Unfortunately, the water all over the floor does not.

“Wow,” Remus says. “You are no fun.”

“If you think I’m leaving an open path to your side of the Imagination in my room, you’re…” Remus grins at him, propping his head up in his hands and waggling his eyebrows expectantly. “... nevermind.”

“I never do mind,” Remus agrees, and takes the initiative to flop down onto his bed, thus getting water all over his bedsheets, because he’s an inconsiderate jerk. “So, what’s got you all down in the dumps? Usually, I crash a shark through your wall and you get all pissy about it, but you’re being boring. What gives?”

Roman glares, and seriously considers trying to remove him too. There was a time when he would have been able to do so easily, a time when he knew for a fact that he belonged in the light and Remus belonged in the dark, with all of the other things that ooze and crawl. But things aren’t so black and white these days, and now that Thomas has begun to tentatively ask for Remus’ input every now and again, it’s harder than ever to make him leave when he gets it in his head that he wants to be somewhere. He is, in that way, a bit like a pimple, or a particularly persistent mold. Neither of which he can actually call him to his face, because he’ll just take it as a compliment, but the fact remains that once he grows on, it is incredibly difficult to scrape him off.

“What gives is that I want you out of my room,” he tries, crossing his arms, but Remus makes a tsking sound.

“Oh, sure,” he says. “That’s why you were lying there all sad and shit? You looked like someone that decided that their idea of fun is to lie down in the middle of the street and see what happens.” He pauses. “Actually, do you think Thomas would--”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

He pouts. “Boo,” he says. “You never let me do anything. But I mean, really Ro Ro, it can’t be a creative block. I’ve seen you in one of those, and you get all whiny and sick and then you start acting like you’re a poet in the 18oos and you’ve got consumption.” He lays a hand across his brow. “Oh me oh my, if only I could write one last poem before I cough my whole lungs out of my body. Ooh, could you imagine what that would look like? Your lungs, just sliding out of your mouth like big grey sacks?”

“First of all, no, gross,” Roman says. “Also, I didn’t know poets dying of consumption sounded like congested Southern belles.”

Remus waves a hand. “Eh, not the point,” he says. “And maybe the poets didn’t, but you sure do.”

“Hey--”

“But my point,” he continues, “is that it can’t be that, ‘cause Thomas has got a backlog of weeks’ worth of ideas to peruse if he actually wants to do something, which means that’s not your issue.” He rolls over on his side, so as better to make eye contact. “So what is your deal?”

Roman opens his mouth and promptly closes it again. Honestly, if this were about anything else, he might consider telling him. As annoying as he is, he feels closer to Remus now than he has in years, perhaps to the point where he could feel comfortable sharing something personal. Sure, Remus will probably laugh or make fun, or twist it into something weird or a horrible innuendo, but at least it would be out there, in the open, and someone else would know of it. At least there would be proof of its existence outside of his own mind. 

But this? Can he share this?

Because the deal isn’t a messed up audition or a troublesome idea. It isn’t even one of his usual personal issues, like the self-doubt that creeps into his mind in the small hours of the morning, the whispered thought that none of his ideas are worthy of use, that he himself is failing in his purpose, a mere facsimile of the prince that he is supposed to be.

No. For once, it’s not that, and he refuses to fall down that rabbit hole.

The deal is that Logan has a voice like a galaxy, shot through with silver and streaked with stars, and today, Roman has realized that he is in love.

-----

It took a while for either of them to notice that none of the others experience the world the way they do. They never thought to question it; Roman saw colors in sound, and Remus heard music in images, and that was just the way it was. It wasn’t until they were a bit older that they figured out that the weird looks they garnered when they brought it up, when Roman mentioned a teacher with a corn-yellow drawl or when Remus talked about a picture in 3/4 time, weren’t just disapproval directed at the way the Creativities saw the world, but instead a genuine lack of understanding.

They stopped talking about it, eventually. Or rather, Roman stopped talking about it, and Remus accepted that nobody would pay attention to his eccentricities as long as he presented them in a certain way.

So really, it’s not that Roman is hiding it. It’s just never come up.

Remus’ voice is like an oil spill, black and thick and oozing, but with flashes of lime green running through it, the color of slime and radioactive waste. Patton’s is pink, yellow, and blue all swirled together, like a field of flowers, or every flavor of cotton candy all at once. Virgil’s voice is more difficult to pin down; once, he thought it was a black, swirling smoke, but as the years have passed, Roman has realized that the smoke is not black, but dark purple, only showing its true color when light is shined through it. Janus’ is similarly difficult to interpret, but lately, he has likened it to a still, quiet forest, all dark green and brown, secrets lurking just under the surface.

But Logan’s has always been his favorite. Because Logan’s voice sounds like space itself, a backdrop of black peppered with millions of shining, twinkling lights, mixed with bright galaxies and spinning nebulae, vast and beautiful and incomprehensible. At his calmest, it is a void, the light of the stars distant and cold, but when he gets excited, when he begins to ramble about a topic, the stars increase in number and illuminate his whole face, swirling in his eyes and hair, and Roman could listen to him for days.

He’s always known that he has a bit of a crush. But he’s always thought that a crush was all it was, and if it was a bit longer-lasting than crushes are meant to be, well, it’s not as if there are a lot of other options. The mindscape proper only has seven inhabitants, and it would feel wrong to try to date someone from the Imagination, considering that he controls the place. So, he’s been content to linger on his feelings for Logan, never pushing for anything more than he would be willing to give, because another thing that he’s always known is that never in a million years would his feelings be returned.

Logan, as he has said himself so many times, does not do feelings. And even though Roman knows very well that Logan is not nearly as unfeeling as he would like to pretend to be, that does not mean that he would be comfortable with, or even open to the idea of a relationship. And even if he were, he would not choose to be with him, would not choose the embodiment of dreams and fantasies, everything that logic attempts to deny. So it’s a hopeless crush, a one-sided romance for the ages, the type of story that Roman would be captivated with if he weren’t at the center of it, if thinking about it didn’t make his chest tight and his eyes sting.

But this morning--

Oh, gods of Olympus, this morning--

He has no idea what prompted the epiphany. By all rights, this morning was like any other morning: Patton at the pancake griddle, Virgil slumped and half-awake at the table, Logan sipping at his coffee. Roman made his usual stunning and gorgeous entrance, ready to tackle the day’s challenges like a true knight would, and traded his usual morning barbs with Virgil. But before he could even sit down, Logan looked up at him, smiled slightly, and said, “Good morning, Roman,” a galaxy glittering around him, and Roman took a brief moment to think about how much he loves him.

And then stopped up short. Because, what? Love? No?

Except, yes.

These feelings have been bursting in his chest for so long, fireworks setting off whenever Logan speaks, whenever Logan so much as looks his way. And he thought they were a crush, no more than that, if not ignorable then at least possible to work around. But that’s not right, has never been right, and in this instant, years’ worth of suppositions came crashing down around his ears.

So, his mind racing, the silence stretching too long, he did the only thing he could think to do.

“I, uh, forgot a thing,” he stammered, and beat a hasty retreat back to his room, ignoring the way Patton called after him. Upon closing the door behind him, he changed back into his pajamas and collapsed back on his bed, his mind whirling, intent on not facing anybody else until he has to.

Because he loves Logan. Is in love with Logan. Has been in love with Logan for years and years now, has been pining away without even understanding that that was what he was doing.

Frankly, he’s not sure he can think of a worse position to be in.

-----

Which brings him here: his floor wet, his arms crossed, and Remus staring expectantly at him, waiting for an explanation. And Remus isn’t one to back down easily, which leaves Roman in a predicament.

He could try lying. But he’s not sure he could lie well enough about this, and frankly, he doesn’t want to risk Janus getting himself involved. But the only other option is the truth, and he’s not sure he wants Remus to know the truth, not sure he trusts Remus not to hold it over his head, to mock him or to stick his fingers in an open wound that he himself has only just discovered.

Because Remus would definitely do that. Both literally and figuratively.

“Bro,” Remus says, looking amused, “whatever it is, I’m almost positive it’s not that deep. You know what is deep?”

“What?” Roman replies, hoping beyond hope for a change of topic.

“My butt!” Remus says, and then cackles.

Roman buries his face in his hands, and Remus’ laughter stretches on and on and on, filling the room with slick oil, painting the walls with slime and noxious fumes, and green squiggles worm their way onto the backs of his eyelids, and he absolutely cannot do this right now.

“I’m in love with Logan,” he mumbles into his hands, and the laughter cuts off abruptly.

“You’re what?” Remus asks, and Roman looks up from his hands. Remus has sat up in his bed, and is staring at him with a peculiarly intent expression.

“I’m in love with Logan,” he repeats, firmer this time. He holds Remus’ gaze, daring him to say something, so of course, Remus does, erupting into laughter once again.

“You can’t be serious,” he says in between giggles. “Really? Logan? He’s such a stick in the mud. A stick in the mud with a stick up his butt. It’s like a flag, except, instead of a flag it’s Logan, because the stick is both in the mud and up his butt.” He pauses, and Roman’s face must be doing something, because Remus sobers just a bit, raising an eyebrow. “Huh. You’re actually serious.”

He groans, plopping down in the middle of the floor, ignoring the way the dampness of the carpet seeps into his pants. “I don’t know what to do,” he moans, more to air his grievance than to accomplish anything else. It’s not as if he’s expecting Remus to have any useful suggestions for him.

But Remus shifts on the bed so he can face him completely. “Okay, you’re gonna have to explain this one to me, because I don’t get it,” he says. “Whenever I look at Logan, I get robot noises and video game music on full blast.” He breaks off, humming a few bars, and Roman has to admit that it’s not an unpleasant tune, though not one he would think to associate with Logan. “Plus,” Remus continues, “he’s so boring. Sure, he’s fun to wind up, but he’s all about the rules and being logical and no, Thomas can’t do that, he’ll get acid burns, so why don’t we watch a documentary instead?” He says the last in an almost perfect imitation of Logan’s voice, his face darkening. Oddly, when Remus does it, Roman doesn’t connect the sound with space at all, hearing only the same oily splatters that his brother’s voice usually consists of. “I don’t want to watch documentaries. I want to do shit.”

Roman shakes his head. “You don’t hear what his voice actually sounds like,” he insists. “It’s… gods above, he talks, and it’s like he brings all the stars down to earth. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in my life.” He scrubs a hand across his face. “And sometimes he smiles and says something smart, and I’m just, wow, I would die for you. Do you know how pretty his smile is? And he’s so frickin’ smart.”

Remus’ expression has frozen halfway between awe and disgust. “You’ve got it bad,” he says, and Roman groans.

“You think I don’t know that?” he says. “I just don’t know what to do about it!” He sighs. “Theoretically, I know all about romance and wooing. I’m the romance guy! But when I think about wooing Logan, my stomach gets all twisted up in knots. Like a sad pretzel. I mean, grand gestures and gifts are the way to go, right? But what even could I give him that he would like? He hates things that are ‘frivolous and unrealistic,’ but that’s my whole thing!”

Remus cocks his head. “Bones,” he says sagely.

He blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Give him some bones,” Remus says, nodding, like this makes perfect sense. “Like, two, maybe three bones. Boys like bones.”

“... Where am I getting these bones?”

Remus’ face brightens. “I’ve got a few extra!” he proclaims. “Wanna see?”

“I-- no,” he says. “Stop. I’m not giving him bones. Why do you--” No, best not to question. “Nevermind. Is that how you got Janus to date you?”

Remus grins. “Nah,” he says. “I mean, maybe that helped. I think what really did it was that I wrote him our song.”

“You wrote him a song?”

“No, stupid, our song,” he says. “Like, how I look at him and I hear a song. And then I’ve got a song, too. So I figured out a way to mash them together. And then I gave it to him.” He sighs, almost dreamily, if Remus has a dreamy setting. Roman would like to never hear that again, thank you, because frankly, he doesn’t much want to hear about whatever weird relationship his brother has with Deceit, and he sort of regrets bringing it up in the first place. “He really, really liked it. Said it was the best thing he’d ever heard.” Remus pauses, an odd light entering his eyes. “He said something about it being from the heart. I tried giving him my actual heart, but then he said that wasn’t what he meant.”

“From the heart,” he mutters, considering. So, something heartfelt, personal. Remus literally gave Deceit something that showed how he perceived him, everything that he felt. But how can he do the same and make sure that it’s something Logan likes? Logan likes science, likes math and numbers, likes facts, and Roman doesn’t know anything about any of those things. All he knows is how Logan makes him feel and the way his voice shines like starlight in his mind’s eye, and he’s not sure how to translate that into something Logan would appreciate, or even understand.

And then it comes: the idea.

“Holy shit,” he says, spine straightening, the burst of inspiration setting his mind to whirring. For an instant, he sees it dancing before him, an image of perfection, within his reach if only he can replicate exactly what he envisions. “Remus, you’re a genius!”

Remus gawks. “I am?” he asks, and his face brightens. “I already knew that, but fuck yeah!”

Roman laughs, bright and free, clambering to his feet. “Okay, okay, I know what I’m doing,” he says. “So I need you to get out, but god, thank you so much.”

Remus hops off the bed without protest. “Anytime, bro bro,” he says, sauntering toward the door. “Remember to put in a good word with Tommy-boy for me. And if you end up fucking, put a sock on the door.”

“You’re gross,” Roman says, pushing him out. The words carry no bite, and the last thing he sees before closing the door in his face is Remus grinning at him, an expression of pure delight.

-----

In the end, it takes him a week. A week holed up in his room, only occasionally emerging to grab food, and he knows he’s making everyone else worry, but he can’t stop himself, doesn’t dare stop until what he sees in his mind has been set to paper, exactly how he wants it. It has been so long since an idea has gripped him like this, since he has been so inspired to create, since he has been so sure in his ability to make something beautiful, and he feels as though he could subsist on his exhilaration alone.

When it is done, he steps back, admires his handiwork, and proceeds to sleep for twenty-two hours straight.

On the eighth day, he steps out into the hallway, canvas tucked securely under his arm, and makes his way down the hall to Logan’s room.

He takes a deep breath before knocking, hoping to steady his nerves. He hasn’t had much time, these past few days, to worry about whether or not Logan would like it, but now, he’s wondering if this was a mistake, if this is something that would be better kept to himself. He can wave off the others’ concern by pretending he was working on hypothetical ideas, or that a quest in the Imagination ran over-long. He doesn’t actually have to give this to Logan at all, doesn’t have to bare himself like this, doesn’t have to risk his scorn and judgement.

But what else is love, in the end, if not a risk worth taking?

He knocks, and moments later, hears footsteps from inside. He barely has time to check that there is a smile on his face before Logan opens the door, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“Roman,” he greets, and though nothing outwardly changes, Roman’s brain insists that a shooting star streaks across his vision. “We haven’t seen much of you these past few days.”

“Ah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “right, sorry. I just got caught up in the creative process, you know how it is.”

“I do not,” Logan says. “Nevertheless, I am glad to see you well.” He pauses. “I was… somewhat concerned after your hasty exit the last time I saw you. I wanted to ensure that I did not do something to offend you.”

Oh, shit. He’s been so busy that he hadn’t bothered to think about how that moment might have been interpreted. And there is an odd note in Logan’s tone that implies that this is actually something that’s been troubling him, and Roman feels like kicking himself for letting him worry about it.

“No, no, not at all!” he says, gesturing with his free hand. “I just got struck with inspiration in that very moment, so of course, I needed to retreat before the idea was lost.” He winces internally as the words leave his mouth. It is a lie, but only just; it certainly wasn’t inspiration that he was struck with. That came later.

“I see,” Logan says, and Roman hopes that he isn’t imagining the way his shoulders relax, if only slightly. “That is good to hear. In that case, was there something you needed from me?”

“I--” He breaks off, swallowing hard. This is the moment of truth, the last second in which he could turn back. He is, essentially, offering up all of his emotions on a silver platter, even if Logan likely won’t recognize that fact. Still, rejection at this point would hurt worse than any failed audition, worse than any mistake he has ever made, and he has made so many.

But he has spent so long on this. He wants it to be seen by its object.

“This is for you,” he blurts out, and shoves the canvas out in front of him like a shield. Logan takes it, startled, and Roman watches as his eyes flicker across the painting, widening ever so slightly. 

After a week’s worth of work, he knows exactly what Logan is seeing. A painting of blacks and dark blues and purples, pinpricks of whites and yellows and reds, a display of the cosmos swirling on a backdrop of the void. Everything that Roman sees when Logan speaks is here: the inky darkness of his calm, the supernova of his anger, the stars that glitter and twirl in his excitement. It is like no view of space that mankind has ever seen, because this universe is Logan, completely and utterly, is comprised of the galaxies that drip from his tongue when he speaks.

This is how Roman sees him. This is how Roman loves him.

The silence stretches on for a long time, so long that Roman is tempted to declare the whole thing a bust, to laugh and play it off like it’s no big deal, like his heart won’t be completely and utterly crushed if Logan hates it.

“You painted this?” Logan finally asks. His voice sounds choked, a star collapsing in on itself. Roman shuffles his feet.

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “I just thought, um, you like space? So I, uh. Do you like it?”

He tries not to sound needy, tries not to sound like his happiness is contingent on the answer he receives. He’s not sure how much he succeeds.

“It’s… adequate,” Logan replies, and Roman could dance, could sing his relief to any and all who would listen, because he knows Logan well enough to know what that means. And if that’s the best he’ll get, he’ll take it and go and be glad, because Logan likes it, and that is more than enough for him. He feels like he’s on top of the world, like he’s floating in space himself, orbiting the moon and staring into the sun and being blinded and loving every minute of it.

“Actually,” Logan says, and for a second, Roman’s heart drops into his shoes, before he continues with, “it’s… it’s far more than adequate. I don’t know much about art, but I know a piece of expert craftsmanship when I see one.” He looks up at Roman, his eyes shining. “You made this for me?”

There is an emotion in his voice that Roman cannot name, but it is speckled with so many stars, more than he thinks he’s ever seen at once. More stars than void, at least, shining and shimmering with light.

And Roman wasn’t planning to do this. Was planning to take this slowly, was planning to give Logan his offering and leave, using his reaction as a gauge for the next step, if he dared to take a next step at all, if he came away with the conclusion that Logan would not hate him for attempting a romance. But the way Logan is staring at him, wide-eyed and open, as if he has been gifted something incredibly precious, makes him want Logan to understand just how much this means, just how much it says. Just how much of his heart and soul he is putting on the line.

Dear sweet Beyonce, he’s actually going to do it, isn’t he?

“I did,” he says. “Um, okay, I’ve never actually explained this to anyone, so bear with me.” Logan tilts his head, confused, but is otherwise silent. “Uh, have you ever heard of the thing where people’s senses get crossed? Like, say, you associate a color with a particular number or letter?”

Logan’s eyebrows furrow. “Are you referring to synesthesia?” he asks.

He can’t stop his smile. Logan’s heard of it. Maybe that will make this easier. “Yeah, that,” he says. “So, uh, Remus and I have that. He hears music when he looks at things, and I, uh. Well. I’ve sort of got the opposite.”

Logan stares at him. “You’re telling me,” he says, “that all these years, you’ve both perceived the world in an entirely different way from the rest of us, and you’ve never said a word about it?”

He winces. “I suppose?” he says. “Are you angry?” 

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Logan is angry. He didn’t intend for Logan to be angry. He’s going to be angry if Logan is angry, angry with himself for spoiling this moment, for daring to reach for more than he could have. He should have left it alone, should have taken Logan’s enjoyment of the painting for what it was and not pushed for anything more. God, his heart feels as though it’s trying to claw its way out of his throat.

But Logan shakes his head. “No, just… surprised,” he says. “When you say you have the opposite of what Remus does, do you mean that you see images when you listen to music?”

“Sort of?” he says. “Not really images, more just arrangements of colors, if that makes sense. And I don’t actually see it with my eyes, just in my head, even though it feels like I’m seeing it with my eyes, sometimes. Even though I know I��m not really.” He pauses for a breath. He doesn’t think he’s explaining himself very well, but Logan is sill listening, so he has no choice but to push on. “And, um, not just music. Any sound, really.”

Logan nods, seeming to take it in stride. “I think I understand,” he says. “It truly is fascinating how so many of us exhibit traits and quirks that Thomas himself does not.” A measure of excitement bleeds into his voice, flaring up like the sun, and Roman resists the urge to blurt out something incredibly sappy and highly inappropriate for the moment. “So, this painting--” He glances back down at the painting, still gripped in both hands, and then abruptly stops talking.

“It’s, uh, it’s you,” Roman says, attempting to fill up the sudden quiet. “It’s your voice. I mean, it’s what I see when I hear your voice.”

“It’s… me?”

“Yes,” he says. 

“You… you see this when I talk?”

“Uh huh,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Logan’s head is lowered, his voice too soft to read well, and Roman’s nerves begin to return in full force. “Was this weird? I’m sorry if this was weird. I just, your voice is so gorgeous, and I really wanted to paint it, and I’m probably making this worse, aren’t I? If you don’t like it anymore you don’t have to keep it.”

At last, Logan raises his head. His face is burning bright red, and Roman really, really hopes it’s not in fury, hopes that he hasn’t just ruined everything. Slowly, Logan sets the painting down to rest against the wall and steps forward. Roman, for his part, is rooted in place, tracking every movement, every breath.

“Roman,” Logan says. “Don’t be idiotic.”

And then, he backs Roman against the wall and kisses him.

He doesn’t kiss like Roman would have expected. There is nothing cold about it, nothing clinical; instead, he is hard and demanding, insistent and passionate, and as soon as Roman’s brain reboots, he returns it just as eagerly, deepening it, placing his hands on the sides of Logan’s face to hold him there, hold him where he can taste him, because he has fantasized about this moment but never, ever thought that this dream could come true. And when Logan pulls back, he doesn’t go far, his face lingering bare inches from his own. His breaths puff across his skin, and behind his glasses, his pupils are dilated.

“So I take it you like it,” Roman says. His voice is hoarse.

“I do,” Logan says. His face is flushed, twisted in what is probably embarrassment, but he doesn’t look away. “And lately, I have found myself rather liking you, too. I, ah, didn’t think you returned the sentiment.”

Roman blinks, and then, throws back his head and laughs. “Are you serious?” he asks. “We could have been doing this already?” He tugs Logan’s face closer to his, resting their foreheads together. Logan turns an even more brilliant shade of scarlet. “Just in case I didn’t make it clear,” he says, “I really, really like you, Logan.” He strokes a thumb across his cheek. “My galaxy,” he breathes. “My starlight.”

Logan makes a noise deep in the back of his throat. “Yes,” he says, and it’s almost a squeak. “That is satisfactory.”

And with that, with starlight gleaming behind his eyes and his heart tapping out double-time, Roman laughs, and pulls Logan back in.

-----

A few nights later, he finds a collection of questionably-shaped bones sitting on his dresser. He is less than enthusiastic, but Logan seems interested, so he kisses his boyfriend-- his boyfriend!-- on the top of his head and leaves him to his scientific study. Of bones. Because Logan is a weird nerd, but that’s alright, because he loves him both in spite of it and because of it. 

He just. Loves Logan. All of him. So much. And Logan likes him back, and now they’re together, and really, nothing could be better than this.

He briefly considers the merits of getting Remus a gift basket, but ultimately decides against it. They’ve never needed that sort of thing between them, and if the next time Remus intrudes on his space, he doesn’t protest as much as he usually would? Well, they both understand, and that’s more than enough.

Writing Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina 

#sanders sides #ts sides #logince #creativitwins #ts roman #roman sanders #ts remus #remus sanders #ts logan #logan sanders #sympathetic remus #long post #my fic #*blows kiss to my collection of disney movies* #this one's for you roman #happy birthday to the best gay disney prince

[jeff-rees-jones]

View  of the River Thames from Richmond Hill, London, famously painted by Turner in the 18oo’s..

#jeff rees jones #artists on tumblr #angel bright

[deeocan]

15/O5 16/O5

Giornata da bollino rosso 🔴

Inizio la mia giornata come tutti i sabati. Con l’ansia, la rabbia e l’angoscia di dover andare al lavoro,tra l’altro prima del solito,per la mancanza di una persona essenziale in quel posto. Stress a parte faccio la mia solita colazione e alle 9 arrivo sul posto di lavoro. Il tempo non era dei migliori, infatti non è stata una giornata con molta gente. Dopo un ora dal mio arrivo avevo già i coglioni girati dalla noia, in più è arrivata la mia collega di banco. Una donna con il doppio della mia età, che spoiler, NON TOLLERO. Parla per un cazzo, non sta mai zitta, è lenta le ha tutte. Ho provato varie volte a smussare il mio odio nei suoi confronti ma con scarsi risultati a quanto vedo. Comunque fatto sta che ero al limite dello scoglionaggio, in più venerdì sera ho preso una bella lavata, causa pioggia improvvisa. Eh ieri avevo un mal di testa allucinante mi sentivo in una bolla. Non ci ho più visto tra star male e incazzatura e mi sono fatta mandare a casa (che anche qui dovrei aprire un altro capitolo ma vabbè) sono arrivata a casa alle 15.10 e da lì ascesa. Non vi dico cos’ho mangiato perché mi vergogno come una schifosa. La ciliegina sulla torta è stato il sushi come cena e mi fermo qua.

Ho fatto schifo, schifo,schifo avrò assunto per eccesso credo intorno alle 18OO/1900 Kcal forse 2OOO?! Non lo so

Non voglio andare più la a lavorare, ci sto male, sono stressata, lo associo ad un posto negativo che mi porta solo rabbia. Settimana scorsa sono arrivata a casa in una valle di lacrime ODIO QUEL POSTO. e non ci voglio andare nemmeno oggi,mi sento male

Non voglio avere altre crisi, o svegliarmi nel cuore della notte con un peso sul petto che non mi permette di respirare. Sono stanca ma nessuno mi aiuta

Vi chiedo scusa per aver ceduto ieri comunque... sono pessima

#my diary #personal diary #grasso #perdere peso #giornata no

[wonderiingthoughts]

@justan-ordinary-gurl​ @ohamira-blog​ @cautionidontbite​ @xpressiion​ @allyourliittlethings​ @queenie-beanie​ @j-e-s-s-i-k-a-h-s-o-n-g-z--blog1​ @yearadalej​ @lifeisabattlefield4u​ @hiyaimhannah​ @keeepdreaming-beautiful​ @sherona123-blog​ @cali-made-jersey-livin​ @afilmstudent-blog​ @kellyloveconor-blog​ @sitrinaa---annesa-blog​ @xoxochicalove​ @bbg20-blog​ @myboyfriendisacunt-blog​ @f3-3lings​ @larissapsailaxo​ @xojn​ @iicanbeyourlady-blog​ @melanielunax3​ @wecontrolthesunlight-blog-blog​ @princessasonia​ @reminisceit​ @balkaran13​ @trueclarity​ @insinceresmiles-blog-blog​ @gisslopez​ @mak3-1t-nasty-blog-blog​ @nikkinicolettr​ @xoswaggie-blog​ @sammieej​ @recklesskings​ @shanaz-yadam-blog-blog​ @18oo-h0tlinebling​ @r-u-b-y-s-o-h-o​ @breesbiography-blog​ @myynameisblues​ @stucknthe90s-blog​ @night-m4res-blog​ @i-just-reblog-blog​ @t-f-t-blog​ @dvri0n​ @teaminky​ @lacdenise-blog​ @chrisloveee-blog​ @weareteambreezy-blog​ @rncstr-blog​ @sweeterdensugar​ @smiletolifee​

[mermaidmafia-official]

EVENTS. {btr}

@vampirkaninchen @blubbingbeautifully @interluxetumbra & @ayzrules

o8 february; intro

WITH renovations complete, the Coven elects to hold a house warming for all of their underworld friends...as well as the local *historical society- who’ve annoyingly invited themselves and haven’t the first clue as to what they’re willingly walking into. Ysabelle is asking that everyone put on a nice, wholesome front for them and pretend at an upstanding mortal family with two mothers...as well as a bevvy of strange relations, in order to remain a welcome presence in Halacre. And, of course, she asks that all members of the historical society leave Bilitis House in good health- which means positively no feeding on them. Transgressors will be dealt with. 

Enjoy all the blood blossom bonbons and Rosenblut (animal blood with rose infusion) you can stand before the party inevitably- whether Ysabelle likes it or not- putrefies into gore and blood sport. 

At least try to wipe the mortals’ memories...   

*The Halacre Historical Society is really just twelve elder mortals with an enthusiasm for Halacre's macabre history- which, in large part, was centered around Bilitis House. Evidently, the house was the site of a plague hospital in the late 18oo's and hundreds died on the grounds.

16 february; mortui vivos docent

[A COLLAR OF SPIKES] has organised an underworld street race three towns over in Bay Haven, and the attendance should be in the hundreds despite the snowy weather (-Vampires don’t feel the cold anyway). The bay is completely frozen over- and [ACoS] apparently feels that the track needs something slightly more unforgivable than tight turns on slippery asphalt, so a portion of the motorbike race goes straight across the ice. Mortals are apparently allowed to participate, so the crowd might be witnessing some legitimately lethal racing this time round. 

**Race occurs by night, of course. 

#btr: events #fanfan's writing #hope everyone enjoys these !!

[bazedjunkiii]

expect a well eclectic vinyl mix for a mainly arab, mediterranean and north african audience!

transmission time: 17oo - 18oo GMT+1

tune in via

www.radioflouka.com

#radio #webradio #online radio #dj #dj life #radio fluka #baze.djunkiii #electronic music #vinyl #vinyl mix #vinyl community #webflyer #radioshow #guest mix #ebm #electronica #wave #postpunk #nowave #acid #ambient #vinyl only

[msgates]

MICROSOFT WORD (+18OO .613 .939O) Customer Service Phone Number Click here for articles August 29, 2020 at 10:18PM

#microsoft #English

[blogsidakblog]

ਇਹ ਬੰਦੇ ਤੁਰਨ ਜਾ ਕੋਈ ਮਸ਼ੀਨਾਂ ! ਸ਼੍ਰੀ ਅੰਮ੍ਰਿਤਸਰ ਸਾਹਿਬ ਤੋਂ ਸਾਹਮਣੇ ਆਈ ਇਸ ਖਬਰ ਨੇ ਤੁਹਾਨੂੰ ਪਾ ਦੇਣਾ ਸੋਚਾਂ ਚ..ਕਿਵੇਂ ਸੜਕਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਬਣਾ ਲਿਆ ਇਹਨਾਂ ਲੋਕਾਂ ਨੇ ਰੇਲਵੇ ਟ੍ਰੈਕ..ਤੇ ਆਪ ਬਣੇ ਗੱਡੀ ਘਰ ਜਾਣ ਲੇਈ ਸ਼ੁਰੂ ਕੀਤਾ ਸਫ਼ਰ.ਨਾ ਸਰੀਰ ਨੂੰ ਭੁਖ ਰੋਟੀ ਦੀ..ਨਾ ਲਗਦੀ ਪਿਆਸ ਗਰਮੀ ਚ..1800  ਕਿਲੋਮੀਟਰ ਦੂਰ ਹੈ ਘਰ..ਪਰ ਫਿਰ ਵੀ ਨਿਕਲ ਪਏ ਕਿਦ੍ਹਾ ਵੇਖੋ

Eh Bande Turde Ja Koi Machine ! 18oo Km Door Ghar..Te Jo Krde Vekho

 ਇਹ ਬੰਦੇ ਨੇ ਜਾ ਕੋਈ ਮਸ਼ੀਨ ! 1800 km ਦੂਰ ਘਰ..ਤੇ ਜੋ ਇਹ ਕਰਦੇ ਵੇਖੋ

 Please Share & Subscribe

 https://youtu.be/rtTQzDcFjNk

#Migrant Labour paidal march #Live Video Labour Going to UP #Prime news Overseas

[marcellusbitsandpieces]

Bits and Pieces   Our Halloween   10/27/19

Much of our Halloween customs date back almost 1500 years ago. It began, as many of us know, to mark the end of harvest. This ancient Celtic (Ireland, Scotland, Wales, etc.) festival was called Samhain and pronounced “sow-in.”

But how did this festival get to be called Halloween?  In the 8th century Pope Gregory III created a religious holiday on November 1 which he declared All Saints Day. It was to praise and honor the saints and martyrs. Saints, at that time, were also referred to as “hallows” (holy). As such the night (eve) before this holy day was declared All Hallows Eve and moved from May 13th to October 31st .

Ancient people were extremely superstitious. They believed that on this day spirits of the dead would come back to “possess” a living body for the upcoming year. To appease these spirits, offerings of fruits or nuts… or they dressed in costume to disguise themselves… objects to frighten the spirits away became the custom.

This is my great nephew, Roman, in last year’s costume – this wouldn’t scare a thing, but certainly would melt the hearts and souls of even the meanest demon.

In the Celtic countries, people would carve turnips with demon faces – to scare away or frighten spirits. When the Irish and Scottish immigrants arrived in America in the 1840s (famine), they found turnips to be scarce. So, they used pumpkins.

Thus, we have All Hallows Eve, now Halloween, with carved pumpkins – thank you, Irish and Scottish immigrants.

The festivities of the end of harvest began to override the heavy concept of connecting to the dead, and fortune telling games emerged. Example: the bobbing for apples. The apples in the barrel would represent a woman’s suitors. The apple she bit into would be the guy that would possibly become her husband. Kind of an early matchmaking scheme.

Original costumes were representative of saints. But (again) thanks to our prank-loving Irish and Scottish ancestors, costumes became scary garb to spook neighbors and be local hooligans playing pranks.

                                              Trick or Treat

                                           My Little Pretties

 All this fun really didn’t exist in America until the mid-18oos. The first to establish colonies were primarily Puritans who weren’t into celebrations or pagan holidays. In fact, the best they got at the end of harvest was to sing and dance…maybe tell ghost stories.

Where would our fun holidays be without our fun-loving immigrants?

[art124spring2019]

Week 14 - Student’s Choice

Ghost Signs and Augmented Reality 

In an earlier journal post, I included a photo of an old advertising sign painted on a building in Watertown, WI.  I have since learned that these paintings are widely known as Ghost Signs and I’m not the only one who pays attention to them.  The Watertown Chamber of Commerce created a walking tour that features both its Ghost Signs and its contemporary murals.  The Brochure’s author W.F. Janke III explains that it was very common practice to advertise on the sides of buildings in the late 18oos and early 1900s up until about the 1940s when the existence of highways made advertising on roadside billboards an attractive new option.  Where the painted signs were largely permanent, billboards could be changed and updated frequently, and they gradually became the dominant technology (Janke III, n.d.).   

The goal of advertising has always been to capture and monetize consumer attention in the forms of product awareness, purchasing and brand loyalty.  Whatever is novel, whatever is anachronistic, whatever is shocking will meet the purpose.  As adoption of the automobile grew in the early 20th century, so did the opportunity to attract the attention of a passing motorist who might require food, fuel or lodging.  Motels and restaurants clamored for the exposure and billboards have occluded the landscape ever since (Mixedmediaoutdoor.com, 2017).  But advertising is design and design is a discipline of cycles.  A movement of expressionism like Art Nouveau is inevitable followed by a movement of structurer and restraint ala the Bauhaus tradition.  So, in the modern billboard, we should see both the specter of the past and the harbinger of the future.  Nineteenth century building advertisements featured text and graphics, tag lines and slogans.  These transitioned without much change to the emerging billboard technology.  Now the billboard has come into the digital age sometimes featuring computer-generated images or even custom images triggered by sensors that “observe” passersby and tailor their displays (Landmark Dividend, n,d,).

But what of the humble ghost signs?  If they did not still occupy prime consumer eyeball space, I wouldn’t have seen them in the first place.  I pass them shopping and commuting daily and weekly.  An observant advertiser might buy or lease the space and erect a traditional billboard, but I predict the better solution lies in Augmented Reality technology. With Augmented Reality, a user need only look through a smart device at a given target to see an alternative universe. It could be a static message; it could be a video.  The possibilities are beyond remarkable as the Polish “Augmented Reality Campaign” staged in 2015 for VISA has shown (Lemon&Orange, 2015).  

An obvious limitation right now is the need to view through a phone or smart device, which is not especially compatible with movement o motoring, in particular, but I believe the future will see a revival of Google Glass or one of the many products inspired by its doomed futuristic vision.  In time I see the growing wearables market encompassing these new optical devices (Kleinman, 2018).  This should lead to an explosion in Augmented Reality experiences from historical site tours to heads-up advertising.

Coming soon to buildings (and silos) near you!

 Resources:

Eskilson, S. J. (2012). Graphic design : a new history. New Haven: Yale University Press.

 Janke III, W. (n.d.). Walking & Driving Tours | Discover Historic Watertown, WI. [online] Watertownchamber.com. Available at: https://www.watertownchamber.com/uploads/TourMuralsBrochure_MuralsBrochure.pdf [Accessed 23 Apr. 2019].

 Kleinman, J. (2018). Augmented Reality Glasses: What you can buy now (or soon). [online] Augmented Reality Glasses: What you can buy now (or soon). Available at: https://www.tomsguide.com/us/best-ar-glasses,review-2804.html [Accessed 23 Apr. 2019].

Landmark Dividend. (n.d.). How Digital Billboards are Changing the Face of Outdoor Advertising. [online] Available at: https://www.landmarkdividend.com/how-digital-billboards-are-changing-the-face-of-outdoor-advertising/ [Accessed 23 Apr. 2019].

 Lemon&Orange (2015). Visa Augmented Reality Campaign. [video] Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HqMVZm0klW0 [Accessed 23 Apr. 2019].

Mixedmediaoutdoor.com. (2017). The History of Billboard Advertising | Mixed Media Billboards. [online] Available at: https://www.mixedmediaoutdoor.com/the-history-of-billboard-advertising [Accessed 23 Apr. 2019].

 More information on Augmented Reality Advertising at:

https://rubygarage.org/blog/augmented-reality-in-advertising

#ghost signs #Augmented Reality #billboards