Wall Art Of Books 소설 & 이야기

The ceiling was filed with books logically scattered and the other books were neatly organized in golden shelves and some were also kept inside glass jars with descriptions written on its body. There are also portraits if different famous writers and poets on every wall with little papers pasted under them. "I wonder if someone have already read all the books here." Angela murmured, still astounded by the interior of the museum . "Maybe the one who built it is a total book nerd. He already read millions of books but he isn't brave enough to throw away even one book from his collection so he just decided to build a museum where he can put his books at" I kidded.

She wouldn't mind checking everything out, or whatever called her attention. There was another shelf after the award shelf. A bookshelf. It didn't contain so many books, although he had something that hooked her attention. Book of art. Clinton had a black hardcover drawing book he called Book Of Art. He used it to draw his imagination. Anthony had one too, meaning he also had an eye for art.

Too good. I’m not sure how I missed all of this last night, but if I’m being honest, the explanation probably involves the most dangerous mouth I’ve ever trusted with my dick. Or his ass. One of the two. The ugly yellow-and-blue floral wallpaper is still here, which surprises me. I doubt Alessia would approve. But the art Jesus. The art changes everything. The hallway is lined with photographs. Large. Moody. Men and women suspended underwater, naked or nearly so, wrapped in flesh-toned silk that coils around them like secrets. Each piece feels intimate. Personal. Like something you’re not meant to look at for too long.

Curiosity was eating at her. With an effort, she made herself focus on the other titles. He had books on negotiating, battle tactics, history, agriculture…boring. Didn’t the man read any fiction? There was a book on stained glass that looked mildly interesting, but she kept scanning the shelves, hoping for something more enticing. Her search was rewarded. There, right in the middle of his shelves at eye level, was an entire shelf of books devoted to lovemaking. Wiley’s eyes boggled as she read the titles: An Illustrated Guide to the Sensual Arts. A Woman’s Climax. Emotional Need and the Sensual Virgin. There were dozens of titles.

I scrunched my nose with the familiar scent of the painted paved archaic walls where the big old portraits were hanged and displayed grandly and the greek Doric columns which exhibit minimalistic beauty in simplicity. Bibliosmia... The wooden smell coming from the old books mixed with the faint aroma of coffee that surrounds this marvelous room entices me every time and bewitches me to be indulged and unravel the implicit bareness of each wonderfully crafted book up until its tiniest details. I returned the book I brought to its rightful own place and picked a new one to read on the same shelf. I traced my fingers to the dusty old letters engraved on the hardbound cover. Mythology...

Corrian says as we pass a reading nook with oversized bean bag chairs and a shelf full of books no toddler would read. I catch one title, ‘Teeth Are Not for Biting (But Sometimes They Are)’. I raise an eyebrow. “Special how?” He doesn’t answer. We pass a hallway lined with artwork. Crayon drawings, finger paints, but some of them are odd. Red scribbles in circular patterns, shapes that look more like symbols than animals. One has a giant black figure drawn with scratchy lines and tiny words underneath it. I lean closer. ‘The Bad Ones Are Coming.’

I shake my head and move on. Walking to the wall where I saw the picture moving, I feel around. At first, it seems like an ordinary wall. But then, I realize there’s a slight separation between panels. This doesn’t seem right. Looking at the bookshelves close by, I begin to tip books up, looking for the strangest ones first, the most worn ones, the biggest ones. I pull on a book that says, “How to Win at War,” and I hear the creaking noise again. The wall opens up. It’s a secret passage.

Astrid went to the very corner of the library where the books that belong to the mystery section were located, she was fond of reading mystery genre books as well as horror. She already has many collections at home but she wants to explore more. "Nice," her eyes were fixed on a book when she read its title. "Arts of Death, photography and reasons." Her attention was immediately hooked by it so she hurried and picked it up and brought it to the selected table. Many things were bothering her mind while opening the book. The feeling of enthusiasm-her eyes sparked upon seeing the pictures from the book, trying to focus her eyes to the left page wherein a dead bird being pinned in a transparent w

The walls are adorned with delicate artwork, carefully chosen to evoke a feeling of serenity and inspiration. My favorite armchair rests near the window, bathed in sunlight that filters through billowing curtains. A small bookshelf stands nearby, filled with novels and poetry collections that have always been my solace during difficult times. In one corner of the room, a small writing desk sits beside a tall bookcase filled with journals and notebooks. Here, I plan to pour my heart onto paper, weaving tales and stories that have been brewing within me for far too long.

Look closer. Her gaze settled on a particularly weathered book tucked away near the corner. Its cover was simple, but a faint embossed design caught the light - a pair of intertwined wolves beneath a crescent moon. The image sent a shiver down her spine, and her fingers tingled as she pulled it from the shelf. She opened it carefully, the pages crackling with age. The script was ornate, the kind that took a moment to decipher, but the accompanying illustrations made her breath catch. Drawings of wolves with hollowed eyes and jagged teeth, their forms twisted and monstrous, filled the margins.