Thirty-Three of the World’s Strangest Buildings

http://www.offbeatearth.com/33-of-the-worlds-strangest-buildings/

My Girl!

My Girl!

Sebastian, the Newfoundland and love of my life…Person of my dreams!
Who possesses Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.-Lord Byron

Sebastian, the Newfoundland and love of my life…Person of my dreams!

Who possesses Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.

-Lord Byron

…Continuation of Olvera Street

…Continuation of Olvera Street

Photograph of a man I found interesting in Olvera Street.

Photograph of a man I found interesting in Olvera Street.

Eleanor.

Eleanor.

August O’ Wind

August O’ Wind

My sad, pathetic, pitiful attempt in creating a composite image.

My sad, pathetic, pitiful attempt in creating a composite image.

"To Autumn"
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease,For Summer has o’erbrimmed their clammy cells.Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind,Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers;And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keepSteady thy laden head across a brook;Or by a cider-press, with patient look,Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mournAmong the river sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble softThe redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
-John Keats

"To Autumn"

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind,
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

-John Keats