vikinginferno
Starter
Doesn't inferno have 2 picks to make? I'm gonna wait, probably until morning. That way this all clears up a little.
Oh really? I never got a PM for a new pick...
Doesn't inferno have 2 picks to make? I'm gonna wait, probably until morning. That way this all clears up a little.
Oh really? I never got a PM for a new pick...
I believe so, check the first page.
... I'm a little confused though, I need clarification. I have all six slots filled, but it appears (due to inferno's and GW3's boards having only 4 selections) as though I should not have made my last pick already. Is this correct?
edit: Appears as so; I will make Ozymandias available for selection, but I will also leave up the post for now.
Arrested Development said:Michael Bluth: You seem more villainous than usual, Mom; are you sober?
Lucille: Michael, it's eight a.m.
Michael Bluth: So, it's not that.
Lucille: I don't know. Maybe it's because I went off my post-partum medication.
Michael Bluth: You were still taking that? You had Buster thirty-two years ago.
Lucille: And that's how long I've been depressed about him.
Lucille: Well, apparently, mood-altering medication leads to street drugs. That's what this very handsome young doctor said on the Today Show.
Michael Bluth: That was Tom Cruise, the actor.
Lucille: They said he was some kind of scientist.
T.S. Eliot said:What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Me said:A growling sky, with purple glare,
Unleashes rage from phantom wings.
Its wrath is charged with lightning’s flare,
Cyclonic strikes, and sizzling stings.
Tornadoes, bane of new-born springs,
Will hibernate through the colder days,
Waiting for the season swings
When flowers bloom beneath sun rays,
Amidst the powdered pollen haze.
Pure beauty dawns in April’s bloom,
But storms display unanswered might.
Congested clouds will cough their gloom
From flaring jaws that snap and bite.
A messenger, the devouring light
Reminds the world how small we are,
As brief eclipses bring the night
Until bested by the brightest star,
The Sun, protecting from afar.
As Nature ends her roaring fit,
Sad eyes survey the aftermath.
The lamp of day has been re-lit
Exposing what befell her path.
The targets of her temper’s wrath
Hold memories that never wane,
For Nature is a psychopath
Whose laughter falls amidst blinding rain,
Within a howling hurricane.