09-24-2019, 01:15 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Monsieur+La+Doulaise' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .lilian_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #a58474; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 1px #38253b; border-radius: 0px 0px 300px 300px; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .lilian_container p { margin: 0; } .lilian_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; border-radius: 0px 0px 300px 300px; } .lilian_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 580px; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: -40px; background: #e4d9ce; border: solid 1px #38253b; border-top: none; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #38253b; } .lilian_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #000; padding: 30px 50px; } .lilian_name { color: #a58474; font: 70px 'Monsieur La Doulaise', cursive; line-height: 0.8; padding-bottom: 10px; } .lilian_quote { font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; background: #a58474; color: #e4d9ce; padding: 20px; letter-spacing: 1px; border-bottom: solid 1px #38253b; }</style> <center> <div class="lilian_container"> <div class="lilian_text"> <p class="lilian_quote">I never cared for anyone so much. I was born with a bomb inside my gut.</p> <p class="lilian_message">
She has never known magic.
So, she steps into the sand dizzy.
She thinks this is a strange place to go when you die as she peers up at the massive sculpture that appears to be staring back at her. She wonders – quite abstractly – how he got here and then thinks that there must be no rhyme or reason to being dead.
The ground trembles beneath her feet as the sphinx awakens and a tendril of fear shoots sharply through her as she stares up at it. A riddle, it says, perturbed. And she listens closely. She thinks of her travels with her father, how he’d stopped once at a peculiar plant and nudged it with his nose. ‘It’s corn,’ he’d said and she’d looked at him with a puzzled expression when he’d smiled and added, ‘they call these ears.’
Her heart gives a start when she finds her voice enough to say. “<b>Corn,</b>” the volume of it buoyed only by the joy of the memory of her father. “<b>An ear of corn.</b>”
</p> <p class="lilian_name">lilian</p> </div> <img class="lilian_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/WtLf5jM5/lilian.png"> </div> </center>
She has never known magic.
So, she steps into the sand dizzy.
She thinks this is a strange place to go when you die as she peers up at the massive sculpture that appears to be staring back at her. She wonders – quite abstractly – how he got here and then thinks that there must be no rhyme or reason to being dead.
The ground trembles beneath her feet as the sphinx awakens and a tendril of fear shoots sharply through her as she stares up at it. A riddle, it says, perturbed. And she listens closely. She thinks of her travels with her father, how he’d stopped once at a peculiar plant and nudged it with his nose. ‘It’s corn,’ he’d said and she’d looked at him with a puzzled expression when he’d smiled and added, ‘they call these ears.’
Her heart gives a start when she finds her voice enough to say. “<b>Corn,</b>” the volume of it buoyed only by the joy of the memory of her father. “<b>An ear of corn.</b>”
</p> <p class="lilian_name">lilian</p> </div> <img class="lilian_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/WtLf5jM5/lilian.png"> </div> </center>