Vitaly Komar and Alexander Melamid - 1529 Words

Vitaly Komar and Alexander Melamid: Vitaly Komar and Alex Melamid, born in Moscow in the 1940s, studied together in the Moscow Art School from 1958-1960 (DAF 1). They began their collaborative work in 1965, and in 1967, they established the SOTS Art movement (the Soviet version of Western Pop Art). Through their SOTS Art movement they worked along with other Soviet nonconformist artists to create work that challenged the rigid official style of Socialist Realism (DAF 1). They held their first international exhibition at Ronald Feldman Fine Arts, New York, in 1976 and from that time, they are holding many public commissions and exhibitions at the international level (DAF 1). In 1978, Komar Melamid shifted to America and in 1981, they†¦show more content†¦This seems to slyly indicate the heroism of Stalin that was lauded in Soviet history for bringing peace after the Bolshevik Revolution and for creating the Soviet empire. This painting thus brings together the Soviet empire, ancient Rome and France. While St alin represents the Soviet Union, the muses symbolize ancient Rome and France is represented by the neoclassical style and the allusions to Napoleon (Hillings 49). The painting makes the viewer reflect on the contradictory nature of such periods of imperial glory and how they always decline and fail. By depicting Stalin in an artificial manner like a frozen sculpture on a pedestal, Komar and Melamid expose the artificial nature of his public persona that was institutionalized and canonized through various media (Hillings 49). Komar and Melamid’s painting titled â€Å"Lenin Lived, Lenin Lives, Lenin Will Live! (1982)† shows the embalmed body of Vladimir Lenin lying at the top of the podium in the Lenin Mausoleum in Moscow and a kneeling female figure in mourning in the lower right corner. The painting bears resemblances to the Soviet and French Revolutionary and Christian models (Hillings 49). Lenin’s corpse and the other-worldly female figure show an artificial disconnect that resembles how various Soviet regimes used

Analysis Of The Meal And Everyday Use - 2351 Words

One’s appearance is the first thing people judge when they come into contact. Some people immediately wonder about his or her status, weather that person comes from wealth, what their job is, are they married, do they have children, are the not wealthy. In the poem, short story, and drama being analyzed, the appearances of the characters and families are not what one may think. In fact, they are the complete opposite, one may say even deceiving. â€Å"Their minds shift and ready, like dunes† (Berger) is an interesting phrase used in Suzanne Berger’s â€Å"The Meal† to describe the state of the children. Berger’s â€Å"The Meal† along with Alice Walker’s â€Å"Everyday Use† and Wendy Wasserstein’s Workout use carefully selected words, tone and imagery to portray a pertinent theme of deception in appearances. Suzanne Berger, Alice Walker, and Wendy Wasserstein all have some sort of family relationship and the woman of t he family seems to bear the troubles and struggle. Throughout their literary works these problems help built the story. Alalysis, Oates-Indruchova Libora notes that women in today’s society are not as relevant as their counter parts. They do as much, if not more but do not receive the credit. Suzanne Berger’s â€Å"The Meal† uses a variety of wording to exhibit the amount of deception depicted in the perfect family being described in her poem. A stanza from Berger’s poem reads â€Å"Their minds shift and ready, like dunes† (Berger), meaning that the children have been participating inShow MoreRelatedRhetorical Analysis Of Homemade Is The New Organic By Rachel Jones For The Atlantic916 Words   |  4 PagesRhetorical Analysis Nowadays, many people start living a healthy lifestyle. People realize an importance of caring about what is in their food and benefits of home cooked meals over processed food. Home Cooking is not just healthier, but also it has tons of benefits. 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A Game of Thrones Chapter Three Free Essays

Daenerys Her brother held the gown up for her inspection. â€Å"This is beauty. Touch it. We will write a custom essay sample on A Game of Thrones Chapter Three or any similar topic only for you Order Now Go on. Caress the fabric.† Dany touched it. The cloth was so smooth that it seemed to run through her fingers like water. She could not remember ever wearing anything so soft. It frightened her. She pulled her hand away. â€Å"Is it really mine?† â€Å"A gift from the Magister Illyrio,† Viserys said, smiling. Her brother was in a high mood tonight. â€Å"The color will bring out the violet in your eyes. And you shall have gold as well, and jewels of all sorts. Illyrio has promised. Tonight you must look like a princess.† A princess, Dany thought. She had forgotten what that was like. Perhaps she had never really known. â€Å"Why does he give us so much?† she asked. â€Å"What does he want from us?† For nigh on half a year, they had lived in the magister’s house, eating his food, pampered by his servants. Dany was thirteen, old enough to know that such gifts seldom come without their price, here in the free city of Pentos. â€Å"Illyrio is no fool,† Viserys said. He was a gaunt young man with nervous hands and a feverish look in his pale lilac eyes. â€Å"The magister knows that I will not forget my friends when I come into my throne.† Dany said nothing. Magister Illyrio was a dealer in spices, gemstones, dragonbone, and other, less savory things. He had friends in all of the Nine Free Cities, it was said, and even beyond, in Vaes Dothrak and the fabled lands beside the JadeSea. It was also said that he’d never had a friend he wouldn’t cheerfully sell for the right price. Dany listened to the talk in the streets, and she heard these things, but she knew better than to question her brother when he wove his webs of dream. His anger was a terrible thing when roused. Viserys called it â€Å"waking the dragon.† Her brother hung the gown beside the door. â€Å"Illyrio will send the slaves to bathe you. Be sure you wash off the stink of the stables. Khal Drogo has a thousand horses, tonight he looks for a different sort of mount.† He studied her critically. â€Å"You still slouch. Straighten yourself† He pushed back her shoulders with his hands. â€Å"Let them see that you have a woman’s shape now.† His fingers brushed lightly over her budding breasts and tightened on a nipple. â€Å"You will not fail me tonight. If you do, it will go hard for you. You don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?† His fingers twisted her, the pinch cruelly hard through the rough fabric of her tunic. â€Å"Do you?† he repeated. â€Å"No,† Dany said meekly. Her brother smiled. â€Å"Good.† He touched her hair, almost with affection. â€Å"When they write the history of my reign, sweet sister, they will say that it began tonight.† When he was gone, Dany went to her window and looked out wistfully on the waters of the bay. The square brick towers of Pentos were black silhouettes outlined against the setting sun. Dany could hear the singing of the red priests as they lit their night fires and the shouts of ragged children playing games beyond the walls of the estate. For a moment she wished she could be out there with them, barefoot and breathless and dressed in tatters, with no past and no future and no feast to attend at Khal Drogo’s manse. Somewhere beyond the sunset, across the narrow sea, lay a land of green hills and flowered plains and great rushing rivers, where towers of dark stone rose amidst magnificent blue-grey mountains, and armored knights rode to battle beneath the banners of their lords. The Dothraki called that land Rhaesh Andahli, the land of the Andals. In the Free Cities, they talked of Westeros and the SunsetKingdoms. Her brother had a simpler name. â€Å"Our land,† he called it. The words were like a prayer with him. If he said them enough, the gods were sure to hear. â€Å"Ours by blood right, taken from us by treachery, but ours still, ours forever. You do not steal from the dragon, oh, no. The dragon remembers.† And perhaps the dragon did remember, but Dany could not. She had never seen this land her brother said was theirs, this realm beyond the narrow sea. These places he talked of, Casterly Rock and the Eyrie, Highgarden and the Vale of Arryn, Dorne and the Isle of Faces, they were just words to her. Viserys had been a boy of eight when they fled King’s Landing to escape the advancing armies of the Usurper, but Daenerys had been only a quickening in their mother’s womb. Yet sometimes Dany would picture the way it had been, so often had her brother told her the stories. The midnight flight to Dragonstone, moonlight shimmering on the ship’s black sails. Her brother Rhaegar battling the Usurper in the bloody waters of the Trident and dying for the woman he loved. The sack of King’s Landing by the ones Viserys called the Usurper’s dogs, the lords Lannister and Stark. Princess Elia of Dorne pleading for mercy as Rhaegar’s heir was ripped from her breast and murdered before her eyes. The polished skulls of the last dragons staring down sightlessly from the walls of the throne room while the Kingslayer opened Father’s throat with a golden sword. She had been born on Dragonstone nine moons after their flight, while a raging summer storm threatened to rip the island fastness apart. They said that storm was terrible. The Targaryen fleet was smashed while it lay at anchor, and huge stone blocks were ripped from the parapets and sent hurtling into the wild waters of the narrow sea. Her mother had died birthing her, and for that her brother Viserys had never forgiven her. She did not remember Dragonstone either. They had run again, just before the Usurper’s brother set sail with his new-built fleet. By then only Dragonstone itself, the ancient seat of their House, had remained of the Seven Kingdoms that had once been theirs. It would not remain for long. The garrison had been prepared to sell them to the Usurper, but one night Ser Willem Darry and four loyal men had broken into the nursery and stolen them both, along with her wet nurse, and set sail under cover of darkness for the safety of the Braavosian coast. She remembered Ser Willem dimly, a great grey bear of a man, half-blind, roaring and bellowing orders from his sickbed. The servants had lived in terror of him, but he had always been kind to Dany. He called her â€Å"Little Princess† and sometimes â€Å"My Lady,† and his hands were soft as old leather. He never left his bed, though, and the smell of sickness clung to him day and night, a hot, moist, sickly sweet odor. That was when they lived in Braavos, in the big house with the red door. Dany had her own room there, with a lemon tree outside her window. After Ser Willem had died, the servants had stolen what little money they had left, and soon after they had been put out of the big house. Dany had cried when the red door closed behind them forever. They had wandered since then, from Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and on to Qohor and Volantis and Lys, never staying long in any one place. Her brother would not allow it. The Usurper’s hired knives were close behind them, he insisted, though Dany had never seen one. At first the magisters and archons and merchant princes were pleased to welcome the last Targaryens to their homes and tables, but as the years passed and the Usurper continued to sit upon the Iron Throne, doors closed and their lives grew meaner. Years past they had been forced to sell their last few treasures, and now even the coin they had gotten from Mother’s crown had gone. In the alleys and wine sinks of Pentos, they called her brother â€Å"the beggar king.† Dany did not want to know what they called her. â€Å"We will have it all back someday, sweet sister,† he would promise her. Sometimes his hands shook when he talked about it. â€Å"The jewels and the silks, Dragonstone and King’s Landing, the Iron Throne and the SevenKingdoms, all they have taken from us, we will have it back.† Viserys lived for that day. All that Daenerys wanted back was the big house with the red door, the lemon tree outside her window, the childhood she had never known. There came a soft knock on her door. â€Å"Come,† Dany said, turning away from the window. Illyrio’s servants entered, bowed, and set about their business. They were slaves, a gift from one of the magister’s many Dothraki friends. There was no slavery in the free city of Pentos. Nonetheless, they were slaves. The old woman, small and grey as a mouse, never said a word, but the girl made up for it. She was Illyrio’s favorite, a fair-haired, blue-eyed wench of sixteen who chattered constantly as she worked. They filled her bath with hot water brought up from the kitchen and scented it with fragrant oils. The girl pulled the rough cotton tunic over Dany’s head and helped her into the tub. The water was scalding hot, but Daenerys did not flinch or cry out. She liked the heat. It made her feel clean. Besides, her brother had often told her that it was never too hot for a Targaryen. â€Å"Ours is the house of the dragon,† he would say. â€Å"The fire is in our blood.† The old woman washed her long, silver-pale hair and gently combed out the snags, all in silence. The girl scrubbed her back and her feet and told her how lucky she was. â€Å"Drogo is so rich that even his slaves wear golden collars. A hundred thousand men ride in his khalasar, and his palace in Vaes Dothrak has two hundred rooms and doors of solid silver.† There was more like that, so much more, what a handsome man the khal was, so tall and fierce, fearless in battle, the best rider ever to mount a horse, a demon archer. Daenerys said nothing. She had always assumed that she would wed Viserys when she came of age. For centuries the Targaryens had married brother to sister, since Aegon the Conqueror had taken his sisters to bride. The line must be kept pure, Viserys had told her a thousand times; theirs was the kingsblood, the golden blood of old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Dragons did not mate with the beasts of the field, and Targaryens did not mingle their blood with that of lesser men. Yet now Viserys schemed to sell her to a stranger, a barbarian. When she was clean, the slaves helped her from the water and toweled her dry. The girl brushed her hair until it shone like molten silver, while the old woman anointed her with the spiceflower perfume of the Dothraki plains, a dab on each wrist, behind her ears, on the tips of her breasts, and one last one, cool on her lips, down there between her legs. They dressed her in the wisps that Magister Illyrio had sent up, and then the gown, a deep plum silk to bring out the violet in her eyes. The girl slid the gilded sandals onto her feet, while the old woman fixed the tiara in her hair, and slid golden bracelets crusted with amethysts around her wrists. Last of all came the collar, a heavy golden torc emblazoned with ancient Valyrian glyphs. â€Å"Now you look all a princess,† the girl said breathlessly when they were done. Dany glanced at her image in the silvered looking glass that Illyrio had so thoughtfully provided. A princess, she thought, but she remembered what the girl had said, how Khal Drogo was so rich even his slaves wore golden collars. She felt a sudden chill, and gooseflesh pimpled her bare arms. Her brother was waiting in the cool of the entry hall, seated on the edge of the pool, his hand trailing in the water. He rose when she appeared and looked her over critically. â€Å"Stand there,† he told her. â€Å"Turn around. Yes. Good. You look . . . â€Å" â€Å"Regal,† Magister Illyrio said, stepping through an archway. He moved with surprising delicacy for such a massive man. Beneath loose garments of flame-colored silk, rolls of fat jiggled as he walked. Gemstones glittered on every finger, and his man had oiled his forked yellow beard until it shone like real gold. â€Å"May the Lord of Light shower you with blessings on this most fortunate day, Princess Daenerys,† the magister said as he took her hand. He bowed his head, showing a thin glimpse of crooked yellow teeth through the gold of his beard. â€Å"She is a vision, Your Grace, a vision,† he told her brother. â€Å"Drogo will be enraptured.† â€Å"She’s too skinny,† Viserys said. His hair, the same silver-blond as hers, had been pulled back tightly behind his head and fastened with a dragonbone brooch. It was a severe look that emphasized the hard, gaunt lines of his face. He rested his hand on the hilt of the sword that Illyrio had lent him, and said, â€Å"Are you sure that Khal Drogo likes his women this young?† â€Å"She has had her blood. She is old enough for the khal,† Illyrio told him, not for the first time. â€Å"Look at her. That silver-gold hair, those purple eyes . . . she is the blood of old Valyria, no doubt, no doubt . . . and highborn, daughter of the old king, sister to the new, she cannot fail to entrance our Drogo.† When he released her hand, Daenerys found herself trembling. â€Å"I suppose,† her brother said doubtfully. â€Å"The savages have queer tastes. Boys, horses, sheep . . . â€Å" â€Å"Best not suggest this to Khal Drogo,† Illyrio said. Anger flashed in her brother’s lilac eyes. â€Å"Do you take me for a fool?† The magister bowed slightly. â€Å"I take you for a king. Kings lack the caution of common men. My apologies if I have given offense.† He turned away and clapped his hands for his bearers. The streets of Pentos were pitch-dark when they set out in Illyrio’s elaborately carved palanquin. Two servants went ahead to light their way, carrying ornate oil lanterns with panes of pale blue glass, while a dozen strong men hoisted the poles to their shoulders. It was warm and close inside behind the curtains. Dany could smell the stench of Illyrio’s pallid flesh through his heavy perfumes. Her brother, sprawled out on his pillows beside her, never noticed. His mind was away across the narrow sea. â€Å"We won’t need his whole khalasar,† Viserys said. His fingers toyed with the hilt of his borrowed blade, though Dany knew he had never used a sword in earnest. â€Å"Ten thousand, that would be enough, I could sweep the Seven Kingdoms with ten thousand Dothraki screamers. The realm will rise for its rightful king. Tyrell, Redwyne, Darry, Greyjoy, they have no more love for the Usurper than I do. The Dornishmen burn to avenge Elia and her children. And the smallfolk will be with us. They cry out for their king.† He looked at Illyrio anxiously. â€Å"They do, don’t they?† â€Å"They are your people, and they love you well,† Magister Illyrio said amiably. â€Å"In holdfasts all across the realm, men lift secret toasts to your health while women sew dragon banners and hide them against the day of your return from across the water.† He gave a massive shrug. â€Å"Or so my agents tell me.† Dany had no agents, no way of knowing what anyone was doing or thinking across the narrow sea, but she mistrusted Illyrio’s sweet words as she mistrusted everything about Illyrio. Her brother was nodding eagerly, however. â€Å"I shall kill the Usurper myself,† he promised, who had never killed anyone, â€Å"as he killed my brother Rhaegar. And Lannister too, the Kingslayer, for what he did to my father.† â€Å"That would be most fitting,† Magister Illyrio said. Dany saw the smallest hint of a smile playing around his full lips, but her brother did not notice. Nodding, he pushed back a curtain and stared off into the night, and Dany knew he was fighting the Battle of the Trident once again. The nine-towered manse of Khal Drogo sat beside the waters of the bay, its high brick walls overgrown with pale ivy. It had been given to the khal by the magisters of Pentos, Illyrio told them. The Free Cities were always generous with the horselords. â€Å"It is not that we fear these barbarians,† Illyrio would explain with a smile. â€Å"The Lord of Light would hold our city walls against a million Dothraki, or so the red priests promise . . . yet why take chances, when their friendship comes so cheap?† Their palanquin was stopped at the gate, the curtains pulled roughly back by one of the house guards. He had the copper skin and dark almond eyes of a Dothraki, but his face was hairless and he wore the spiked bronze cap of the Unsullied. He looked them over coldly. Magister Illyrio growled something to him in the rough Dothraki tongue; the guardsman replied in the same voice and waved them through the gates. Dany noticed that her brother’s hand was clenched tightly around the hilt of his borrowed sword. He looked almost as frightened as she felt. â€Å"Insolent eunuch,† Viserys muttered as the palanquin lurched up toward the manse. Magister Illyrio’s words were honey. â€Å"Many important men will be at the feast tonight. Such men have enemies. The khal must protect his guests, yourself chief among them, Your Grace. No doubt the Usurper would pay well for your head.† â€Å"Oh, yes,† Viserys said darkly. â€Å"He has tried, Illyrio, I promise you that. His hired knives follow us everywhere. I am the last dragon, and he will not sleep easy while I live.† The palanquin slowed and stopped. The curtains were thrown back, and a slave offered a hand to help Daenerys out. His collar, she noted, was ordinary bronze. Her brother followed, one hand still clenched hard around his sword hilt. It took two strong men to get Magister Illyrio back on his feet. Inside the manse, the air was heavy with the scent of spices, pinchfire and sweet lemon and cinnamon. They were escorted across the entry hall, where a mosaic of colored glass depicted the Doom of Valyria. Oil burned in black iron lanterns all along the walls. Beneath an arch of twining stone leaves, a eunuch sang their coming. â€Å"Viserys of the House Targaryen, the Third of his Name,† he called in a high, sweet voice, â€Å"King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the SevenKingdoms and Protector of the Realm. His sister, Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone. His honorable host, Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of the Free City of Pentos.† They stepped past the eunuch into a pillared courtyard overgrown in pale ivy. Moonlight painted the leaves in shades of bone and silver as the guests drifted among them. Many were Dothraki horselords, big men with red-brown skin, their drooping mustachios bound in metal rings, their black hair oiled and braided and hung with bells. Yet among them moved bravos and sellswords from Pentos and Myr and Tyrosh, a red priest even fatter than Illyrio, hairy men from the Port of Ibben, and lords from the Summer Isles with skin as black as ebony. Daenerys looked at them all in wonder . . . and realized, with a sudden start of fear, that she was the only woman there. Illyrio whispered to them. â€Å"Those three are Drogo’s bloodriders, there,† he said. â€Å"By the pillar is Khal Moro, with his son Rhogoro. The man with the green beard is brother to the Archon of Tyrosh, and the man behind him is Ser Jorah Mormont.† The last name caught Daenerys. â€Å"A knight?† â€Å"No less.† Illyrio smiled through his beard. â€Å"Anointed with the seven oils by the High Septon himself.† â€Å"What is he doing here?† she blurted. â€Å"The Usurper wanted his head,† Illyrio told them. â€Å"Some trifling affront. He sold some poachers to a Tyroshi slaver instead of giving them to the Night’s Watch. Absurd law. A man should be able to do as he likes with his own chattel.† â€Å"I shall wish to speak with Ser Jorah before the night is done,† her brother said. Dany found herself looking at the knight curiously. He was an older man, past forty and balding, but still strong and fit. Instead of silks and cottons, he wore wool and leather. His tunic was a dark green, embroidered with the likeness of a black bear standing on two legs. She was still looking at this strange man from the homeland she had never known when Magister Illyrio placed a moist hand on her bare shoulder. â€Å"Over there, sweet princess,† he whispered, â€Å"there is the khal himself.† Dany wanted to run and hide, but her brother was looking at her, and if she displeased him she knew she would wake the dragon. Anxiously, she turned and looked at the man Viserys hoped would ask to wed her before the night was done. The slave girl had not been far wrong, she thought. Khal Drogo was a head taller than the tallest man in the room, yet somehow light on his feet, as graceful as the panther in Illyrio’s menagerie. He was younger than she’d thought, no more than thirty. His skin was the color of polished copper, his thick mustachios bound with gold and bronze rings. â€Å"I must go and make my submissions,† Magister Illyrio said. â€Å"Wait here. I shall bring him to you.† Her brother took her by the arm as Illyrio waddled over to the khal, his fingers squeezing so hard that they hurt. â€Å"Do you see his braid, sweet sister?† Drogo’s braid was black as midnight and heavy with scented oil, hung with tiny bells that rang softly as he moved. It swung well past his belt, below even his buttocks, the end of it brushing against the back of his thighs. â€Å"You see how long it is?† Viserys said. â€Å"When Dothraki are defeated in combat, they cut off their braids in disgrace, so the world will know their shame. Khal Drogo has never lost a fight. He is Aegon the Dragonlord come again, and you will be his queen.† Dany looked at Khal Drogo. His face was hard and cruel, his eyes as cold and dark as onyx. Her brother hurt her sometimes, when she woke the dragon, but he did not frighten her the way this man frightened her. â€Å"I don’t want to be his queen,† she heard herself say in a small, thin voice. â€Å"Please, please, Viserys, I don’t want to, I want to go home.† â€Å"Home?† He kept his voice low, but she could hear the fury in his tone. â€Å"How are we to go home, sweet sister? They took our home from us!† He drew her into the shadows, out of sight, his fingers digging into her skin. â€Å"How are we to go home?† he repeated, meaning King’s Landing, and Dragonstone, and all the realm they had lost. Dany had only meant their rooms in Illyrio’s estate, no true home surely, though all they had, but her brother did not want to hear that. There was no home there for him. Even the big house with the red door had not been home for him. His fingers dug hard into her arm, demanding an answer. â€Å"I don’t know . . . â€Å"she said at last, her voice breaking. Tears welled in her eyes. â€Å"I do,† he said sharply. â€Å"We go home with an army, sweet sister. With Khal Drogo’s army, that is how we go home. And if you must wed him and bed him for that, you will.† He smiled at her. â€Å"I’d let his whole khalasar fuck you if need be, sweet sister, all forty thousand men, and their horses too if that was what it took to get my army. Be grateful it is only Drogo. In time you may even learn to like him. Now dry your eyes. Illyrio is bringing him over, and he will not see you crying.† Dany turned and saw that it was true. Magister Illyrio, all smiles and bows, was escorting Khal Drogo over to where they stood. She brushed away unfallen tears with the back of her hand. â€Å"Smile,† Viserys whispered nervously, his hand failing to the hilt of his sword. â€Å"And stand up straight. Let him see that you have breasts. Gods know, you have little enough as is.† Daenerys smiled, and stood up straight. How to cite A Game of Thrones Chapter Three, Essay examples

The Dream Essay Example For Students

The Dream Essay I was at this fair-like surrounding with rides, food stands and a lot of people, especially, children running around. I remember that I was there with Boris, Helen and two more people that I think, are a year older than me like Helen and Boris are. At first I wasn’t sure where I was but I knew that we had just finish eating and we were walking outside of the place where we just ate at to go and get in line somewhere. Standing in line, bored and impatient, I checked on my phone for a little entertainment. I was scrolling down on my instagram and then I saw a post from a good friend of mine, Jeffrey. The post was a picture of him standing at a fair. Right when I saw that post, literally 10 seconds later, I saw Jeffrey passing by and that’s how I knew exactly where I was. Six flags. So, I got out of the line to try and find Jeffrey but as I kept walking around, he seemed to be gone and I was just lost, surrounded by people I don’t know. As I walked inside the crowd, I saw an open space and Evan, a significant acquaintance of mine, was there. Then it got me thinking, â€Å"Is she here with Jeffrey? † â€Å"Are they together? † Evan is a seventeen-year-old girl that I knew from facebook. At first we just ignored the fact that we’re friends on facebook, then it turned in to us liking each other’s pictures, to commenting on pictures and finally got to start our first conversation. She then posted her snapchat account and I figured since she knew who I was and we’ve talked to each other, that it would be okay if I added her on snapchat and so I did. Adding her on snapchat was a great idea. She was excited about me adding her and we had a great conversation. We talked about hanging out for the first time but we had to wait until we were at the same place at the same time because she is half way across the world. So I figured talking to her would be an awesome idea. I went to the open space where she was standing but then she disappeared. Just like Jeffrey did when I started looking for him. I looked for her as well but she was gone. Boris showed up calling me and Helen and the two people who were apparently with me the whole time. Boris said, â€Å"Hey guys. Come back there –the place we ate at-, guess who came. † So we came back, and I saw my old friends from my middle school, which Boris has no possible way of knowing, but he knew them. I first saw four of my old friends sitting together at a table, Kyle, Lorena, Rica and another one. I turned my head and I saw, walking down the stairs to the table, Ava, Victorienne and my ex-girlfriend, Jennylyn. I was happy to see her and she was as well. Everyone teased us for how the moment turned out to be, like two ex-lovers in a movie, seeing each other after being separated for a very long time. Then we looked at each other, greeted, and we hugged, tightly for a while, let go, then another quick hug. I was happy. I realized how much I missed her. So now I am at the high school I graduated in. Still having no idea what I was doing there. I was right outside the gym where there is a stairs where students usually sit down and chat while drinking pop from the vending machine or while watching some other students play volley ball right across them. I am not entirely sure what I was doing there but I know there were many students there with me. As I was standing there, I saw a familiar face with short straight hair. I had to take a second look. It was Rica, a close friend of mine in my middle school. I was surprised that she was there. I did not think there would be any reason for her to be there since her school was in a far place. .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2 , .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2 .postImageUrl , .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2 .centered-text-area { min-height: 80px; position: relative; } .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2 , .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2:hover , .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2:visited , .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2:active { border:0!important; } .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2 .clearfix:after { content: ""; display: table; clear: both; } .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2 { display: block; transition: background-color 250ms; webkit-transition: background-color 250ms; width: 100%; opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #95A5A6; } .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2:active , .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2:hover { opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #2C3E50; } .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2 .centered-text-area { width: 100%; position: relative ; } .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2 .ctaText { border-bottom: 0 solid #fff; color: #2980B9; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline; } .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2 .postTitle { color: #FFFFFF; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600; margin: 0; padding: 0; width: 100%; } .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2 .ctaButton { background-color: #7F8C8D!important; color: #2980B9; border: none; border-radius: 3px; box-shadow: none; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 26px; moz-border-radius: 3px; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-shadow: none; width: 80px; min-height: 80px; background: url(https://artscolumbia.org/wp-content/plugins/intelly-related-posts/assets/images/simple-arrow.png)no-repeat; position: absolute; right: 0; top: 0; } .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2:hover .ctaButton { background-color: #34495E!important; } .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2 .centered-text { display: table; height: 80px; padding-left : 18px; top: 0; } .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2 .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2-content { display: table-cell; margin: 0; padding: 0; padding-right: 108px; position: relative; vertical-align: middle; width: 100%; } .ufc33bc98c71b20e7a8ed57ef7b23bdc2:after { content: ""; display: block; clear: both; } READ: Social Issues In the Philippines EssaySo I thought I would go up to her and catch up with things. As I was about to walk to her, another person tapped my shoulder and said â€Å"Hey! † It was my ex-girlfriend, Jennylyn, again. I was then even more surprised. Then I thought maybe she and Rica came here to visit. As I look at her, I thought, â€Å"Wow, she looks better now. She lost weight. † At the same time, she said, â€Å"Look, I got slimmer. † I smiled and said yes she did. Though I knew it was her standing right next to me, she looked a bit different to me. It was as if she improved herself, a lot. To be honest, I did not know what else to say afte r that. I was stunned. I want her back.