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Calligraphy Trilogy

A series that gets progressively easier to understand. Each book's content and style of calligraphy gets increasingly easier to understand or recognizable as you read. Each page is a print or illustration followed by a justified paragraph. Subscribe to receive a digital copy of the first book when it releases. Expected release of Book 1 is July 2023.

Book 1

Blended stream of consciousness of two individuals in cypher.

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Book 2

Three Oscar Wilde poems written using a Cyrillic inspired alphabet, in English.

Holy Week At Genoa I wandered through Scoglietto's far retreat, The oranges on each o'erhanging spray. Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day; Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay: And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay Laughed i' the sun, and life seemed very sweet. Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear, 'Jesus the son of Mary has been slain, O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.' Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain, The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear. La Fuite De La Lune O outer senses there is peace, A dreamy peace on either hand, Deep silence in the shadowy land, Deep silence where the shadows cease. Save for a cry that echoes shrill From some lone bird disconsolate; A corncrake calling to its mate; The answer from the misty hill. And suddenly the moon withdraws Her sickle from the lightening skies, And to her sombre cavern flies, Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze. La Mer A white mist drifts across the shrouds, A wild moon in this wintry sky Gleams like an angry lion's eye Out of a mane of tawny clouds. The muffled steersman at the wheel Is but a shadow in the gloom;-- And in the throbbing engine-room Leap the long rods of polished steel. The shattered storm has left its trace Upon this huge and heaving dome, For the thin threads of yellow foam Float on the waves like ravelled lace. Le Jardin The lily's withered chalice falls Around its rod of dusty gold, And from the beech-trees on the wold The last wood-pigeon coos and calls. The gaudy leonine sunflower Hangs black and barren on its stalk, And down the windy garden walk The dead leaves scatter, - hour by hour. Pale privet-petals white as milk Are blown into a snowy mass: The roses lie upon the grass Like little shreds of crimson silk.

Book 3

A famous epic, written in plain English.


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