A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart.
I am alone, and feel the charm of existence in this spot, which was created for the bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my talents.
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
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
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 a thousand times.
And everything that was left
And everything that was left from its origin would be the word "and" and the Little Blind Text should turn around and return to its own, safe country.
But nothing the copy
But nothing the copy said could convince her and so it didn’t take long until a few insidious Copy Writers ambushed her,
made her drunk with Longe and Parole and dragged her into their agency, where they abused her for their projects again and again.
And if she hasn’t been rewritten, then they are still using her.
Far far away, behind the word mountains, far from the countries Vokalia and Consonantia, there live the blind texts.Sam witchky
Separated they live in Bookmarksgrove right at the coast of the Semantics, a large language ocean. A small river named Duden flows by their place and supplies it with the necessary regelialia. 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 Gregor Samsa woke
One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked. "What's happened to me?" he thought. It wasn't a dream. His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between its four familiar walls