The Big Oxmox advised her not to do so, because there were thousands of bad Commas, wild Question Marks and devious Semikoli, but the Little Blind Text didn’t listen. She packed her seven versalia, put her initial into the belt and made herself on the way. When she reached the first hills of the Italic Mountains, she had a last view back on the skyline of her hometown Bookmarksgrove, the headline of Alphabet Village and the subline of her own road, the Line Lane. Pityful a rethoric question ran over her cheek, then she continued her way. On her way she met a copy. The copy warned the Little Blind Text, that where it came from it would have been rewritten[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][vc_column][ultimate_spacer height=”50″][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row full_width=”stretch_row” parallax=”content-moving” parallax_image=”7578″ css=”.vc_custom_1497501840193{padding-top: 200px !important;padding-bottom: 200px !important;}” el_class=”gradient-parallax”][vc_column el_class=”dt-sc-dark-bg”][vc_custom_heading text=”Vokalia and Consonantia” font_container=”tag:h6|text_align:center” use_theme_fonts=”yes” css=”.vc_custom_1497501696434{margin-bottom: 0px !important;}”][vc_custom_heading source=”post_title” font_container=”tag:h2|text_align:center” use_theme_fonts=”yes”][vc_column_text css=”.vc_custom_1497502166694{margin-bottom: 0px !important;}”]
On her way she met a copy. The copy warned the Little Blind Text, that where it came from it would have been rewritten a thousand
times and everything that was left from its originOn her way she met a copy. The copy warned the Little Blind Text.
I should be incapable of drawing a single stroke at the present moment; and yet I feel that I never was a greater artist than now. When, while the lovely valley teems with vapour around me, and the meridian sun strikes the upper surface of the impenetrable foliage of my trees, and but a few stray gleams steal into the inner sanctuary, I throw myself down among the tall grass by the trickling stream; and, as I lie close to the earth, a thousand unknown plants are noticed by me: when I hear the buzz of the little world among the stalks, and grow familiar with the countless indescribable forms of the insects and flies, then I feel the presence of the Almighty, who formed us in his own image, and the breath of that universal love which bears and sustains us, as it floats around us in an eternity of blis[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][vc_column][ultimate_spacer height=”50″][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row full_width=”stretch_row” parallax=”content-moving” parallax_image=”7578″ css=”.vc_custom_1497501840193{padding-top: 200px !important;padding-bottom: 200px !important;}” el_class=”gradient-parallax”][vc_column el_class=”dt-sc-dark-bg”][vc_custom_heading text=”I SINK UNDER THE WEIGHT OF THE
SPLENDOUR” font_container=”tag:h2|text_align:center” use_theme_fonts=”yes”][vc_column_text css=”.vc_custom_1497502127858{margin-bottom: 0px !important;}”]
Would I could describe these conceptions, could impress upon paper all that is living so full and warm within me, that it might be the
mirror of my soul, as my soul is the mirror of the infinite God! O my friend — but it is too much for my strength.