Thin white layer of cloud in an otherwise perfectly blue sky here at the illustrious, renowned University of Oxford

>thin white layer of cloud in an otherwise perfectly blue sky here at the illustrious, renowned University of Oxford
>tfw Friday night my now officially declared privately educated (£~36,000 a year), elite, eyes-on-the-prize girlfriend and I decided to go for a long bike ride together around Oxford
>tfw I sat on my bicycle with my legs outstretched yelling in a faux-concerned manner as it sped down a street of cobbled stone, bouncing my riding seat immensely almost causing me to blurt out "Ballyhoo!" to the throngs of students, humble (poor) locals and irrelevant tourists
>tfw my now officially declared high value, upper class girlfriend laughed and followed behind me dressed in a black beret, black find leather boots and her thick red expensive coat, smiling and blushing due to the cold air
>tfw we ended up on the town's rural outskirts and decided to get off and push the bicycles side-by-side as dusk approached
>tfw some cheeky chappies (a phrase I use often now in a sincere manner indicative of my now upper class status) were letting off fireworks in the distance
>tfw my officially declared girlfriend (Elite) and I sat on an isolated metal bench together and watched the mutlicoloured explosions from across the water, clutching each other tightly and whispering to one another before laughing and wondering aloud why we were
>tfw we raced back to my dormitory and politely, humorously (brashly on my part, shyly and sweetly on hers) declined the many invitations to various Halloween-themed parties
>we finally ended up laughing and holding one another close as we reached my dormitory armed with three bottles of wine and covered in silly string fired at us by someone living on the ancient, aesthetically pleasing quad
>tfw we didn't even watch a movie or listen to music, just laid in my ancient dormitory room previously occupied by Great Minds and listened to the silence occasionally interrupted by a frightful bang of celebratory fireworks, whispering to one another all the while about our lives, our fears, our hopes and indeed, dear reader, our dreams

It was another fine end to the week here at the University of Oxford, one quite befitting a member of my country's academic Elite. I hesitate to mention the multitudinous joys I experienced over the two days since (but I will), so rapturous was that night in which true love, unsullied by cheap working class desires and the impulses of lesser races, entered my heart, my mind and perhaps even my Soul as I gazed quite mysteriously into the eyes of my cherished one, my darling.

Are there any good romance novels set during Halloween that you might take the time to recommend Veeky Forums?

(let that topic be the justification for this literature-related thread)

>sped down a street of cobbled stone
Which street was that, exactly?
>the town's rural outskirts
Yeah Barton's a fucking delight mate.
> across the water
Are you talking about the tree-shaded canals and rivers or did you cycle up the A40 towards Wolvercote?
Please answer, I'm just trying to get a better mental image of your journey.

>Oxfordanon is back
Praise be!

It was Merton Street, if my memory, that much beleaguered instrument burdened by so many novel sense of impressions of late, serves me as I hope it should. And rest assured, my eager acquaintance, your desire to live vicariously through me will be thoroughly sated. Though I know not the name of the area through which we strolled, I have here an image from google maps himself of the seat where my love and I sat most contently as dusk approached, several very riversome water foul floating by causing the distant fireworks to reflect most serenely upon their gently tide.I hope your imagination is well furnished by such a description, though of course it would require tens of thousands of words to adequately articulate my emotions and the beauty I experienced that night.

I have to give it to you op. You are baiting these idiots masterfully.

Ah yes, that very steep backstreet which is full of crowds of an evening. Nice place to sit though.

>tfw my officially declared girlfriend (male) and I sat on an isolated metal bench together and watched the mutlicoloured explosions from across the water, clutching each other tightly and whispering to one another before laughing and wondering aloud why we were
Sounds comfy

>>tfw I sat on my bicycle with my legs outstretched yelling in a faux-concerned manner as it sped down a street of cobbled stone, bouncing my riding seat immensely almost causing me to blurt out "Ballyhoo!" to the throngs of students, humble (poor) locals and irrelevant tourists
>"Ballyhoo!"
ded

A fisherman I am not, good man. Although I realize that such a life as the one I am currently living is difficult for a member of the lower orders to imagine.

This one was a bit derivative.

While the road was not steep, the strong gale urging me onward, in addition to the rapid peddling caused by my excited state, resulted in my travelling at a most enviable speed, causing the many people gathered to celebrate Halloween to sigh and gasp as I sped through them, legs spread wide, heels pointing as though constrained by riding spurs my own dear officially declared upper class girlfriend struggling to keep up as I bounced most Steve McQueen-like down the ancient street. Onward, onward, rode my poor bottom!

This legitimately makes me feel a bit depressed.

>tfw you go to Oxford to be among the intellectual elite but you end up living a John Green novel

>entered my heart, my mind and perhaps even my Soul

Is Oxbro a neoplatonist?

>trying to disprove Oxfordanon
I bet you tell kids santa isn't real too

Ah, youth!
Were this a novel, well, never mind..
>t. Hansel und Gretl. Qua Halloween get-up of course. 'The Rule of Opposites'.
I really do fear for these characters, user. Well done.

I'm just having fun with him, he's used to it.

Tell me about the soap shop, Oxfordanon

My reference to the Soul should be considered in an entirely Christian context. Indeed though I may be an atheist due to my refusal to allow reality to be painted a more congenial hue by religious doctrine, attending the University of Oxford really has made me realize why so many profound thinkers here at the university were so religious, and still are in many cases. Life is so aesthetically immense here that everywhere you turn provided a glimpse, if only for the briefest moment, and if only to the more enlightened minds, of the noumenal realm to which this university is undoubtedly affiliated. My officially declared privately educated (~£36,000 fees per year) girlfriend is most angelic herself, chaste, pure, refined, like some representative of a higher realm which I am becoming increasingly tempted to worship.

It's okay I support your shitposting. Just remember to save all your writing so you don't get your story mixed up.

Does your girlfriend have any friends she can introduce me to?

Some aspects of Platonism are compatible with Christianity, and many Christian theologians have made use of Platonic terms and arguments. Plato talks about Beauty as an aspect of the transcendent One, together with Goodness and Truth. Contemplation of the beauty of the sensible world should not terminate there in the sensible world, but should be a medium through which the transcendent and eternal beauty of the, as you say, noumenal realm is contemplated. No woman can substitute for the worship of the One, God, as they can only be a finite reflection of the infinite Goodness and Beauty.

>tfw you realise Oxbro is Londonanon several years in the past, before he crashed out of love and out of his studies when his soon-to-be privately educated (£~36,000 a year) fiancée's parents put a halt to the wedding

Kek'd. I love Veeky Forums sometimes.

Despite her Elite, privately education (£36,000 fees per year excluding trivial - to the upper class - costs of a few thousand more for tutoring, music lessons etc) my now officially declared girlfriend is considerably shy and self-effacing, an introvert at heart (an "old soul", if you would) and thus only has a relatively small group of friends, all of them upper class also. That being said, the friendships she has formed and retained are valuable to her indeed, and her female friends, two of whom I have met (one of whom lives in my very ancient quad) would, I am afraid, only date fellow privately educated Elite individuals such as themselves. Should you fit the bill, then of course you too are attending the University of Oxford yourself, or have previously done so. But if for whatever reason you have not attended this fine institution, I would suggest that you "stick to your own" and marry whatever orc-like bog slut you drunkenly "pick up" at the seedy, tacky bars you likely frequent.

I've missed you shitpost-Pessoa.

In the Book of Disquiet, Pessoa talks about how the aristocratic approach to busy modern life is utter indifference to and distance from public life. He even talks about not knowing the name of the current head of state or prime minister.

I have written out your comment on page seventy-six of my Profound Thoughts notebook, attributing it 'Anonymous' to differentiate it from the seventy-five-and-a-half previous pages of my own quotations, so that anyone who may happen to read through it upon my death, or while writing my biography, may not be mistaken in thinking I myself was the source of such a well-articulated passage. Thank you. I must also point out, very humorously, that my own relationship with my now officially declared Elite, genetically profound, refined girlfriend is also platonic (notice the lower case 'p') due to her being as of yet unpenetrated by a penis.

I agree 100% with this. Political writers, or writers who go on to campaign for causes etc, are utter scum. Writers should be obscure, faceless observers occupying a position of
voluntary failure as per Houellebecq.

Good. Sex is for bonding and conceiving children, and as such should only be consummated after marriage vows have been taken.

My very opinion exactly, and had I not already articulated your sentiment in a far more witty, profound and erudite way in my Profound Thoughts notebook (page twenty-one, Thought number 127) I would be tempted to write this one down also. I fear that individuals such as ourselves, restraining ourselves from the base allure of inter-penetrative practices, are a dying breed indeed. May we play our instruments until the water claims us.

How do you pronounce the word "scone"?

childhood is being mad at Oxbro's superiority
adolescence is taking it as an elaborate joke
maturity is realising that it makes no difference whether it's a joke or real

10/10, please don't ever feel that you wasted your time writing that.

>tfw Saturday arrived as Saturdays are wont to do here at the universally acclaimed, national treasure that is the University of Oxford
>tfw I awoke to find my then-hopefully-soon-to-be aristocrat girlfriend lying on her side, her beautiful face supported a crooked elbow, a smile much wondrous upon her lips
>"Good morning, darling," she whispered, resting her other hand on my chest (I was wearing a 100% cotton white tshirt) and circling her palms most tenderly atop my racing heart
>"Hello," I said, the way Harry Potter first speaks to Ginny at The Burrow, still surprised that such a divine representative of the feminine ideal would condescend to love one such as I
>tfw she asked if I had slept well and I answered to the affirmative and asked if she had too
>tfw she stretched the arm which had been supporting her head so that our eyes were level on the pillow and uttered, nay mouthed, the words "never better"
>tfw just then light broke above the roof of the opposite side of the quad, lending a gentle pure white light to my ancient dormitory and the white sheets of my warm, soft bed
>tfw we lay like that for almost half an hour, simply holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes, my fingers carefully (in an effort not to crush and otherwise inflict any brutal working class force, of which I am assuredly capable) caressing her delicate, soft, warm, tender fingers, twisting her rings (one a family heirloom, one a childhood gift most cherished) and occasionally raising her hand so that I may kiss the small soft indents of her knuckles

And that was only the morning of Saturday, a day most eventful indeed here at the University of Oxford, a place where romance can be said to find its true home among those most capable of cherishing it and expressing it most ardently.

Could you please describe her fragrance in some chaste details?

What is the colour of the homeless man's dog outside the Tesco on St Giles?

Sir, if you are one of Trump's Russian spies currently frequenting this website for whatever politically sinister reasons, I must warn you that I am not one of your "contacts" here at Oxford, and thus your obscure questions and bizarre coded messages are entirely lost on me. Also, why would any student (at the University of Oxford) in their right minds pay attention to the homeless, let alone the physical details of their scroungy mutt?

>Trump's Russian spies
Shouldn't we ask at Cambridge?

i'm starting to think op is an american troll based on his use of english.

I like the idea that oxford user is London froganon, who is actually storymaker trappist monk user

Her fragrance is a veritable moving feast, and surprises me constantly with new scents, new pockets of aromas, novel sensory experiences which elate my inexperienced nostrils. Her hair, when freshly washed, smelled of ripe strawberries crushed to a pulp and spread most jamlike onto a small bundle of soft hay, but then when dried and thoroughly aired by the Oxford wind, its fragrance is such that I am ashamed to admit my inability to even begin to tell you just how lovely, how subjectively invaluable it seems to me. I often kiss her scalp before resting my face against it, feeling the warm of her brown hair and inhaling a natural fragrance whose intoxicating qualities are not of the erotic sphere but rather of the ancient, indeed timeless sphere of pure love between the sexes, containing both the animal attraction of two compatible creatures and also the pure, divine, soul-bonding yearning for a fellow divine Being. When she rises from bed to expel waste in the nearby toilet, I simply have to be within a few inches of the depression which previously accommodated her light form to smell the utterly potent scent of feminine delight, so much like flowers and so much like the kinds of fruit we are advised to eat for the good of our physical health. I am of course overlooking the numerous, surely infinite minor scents which are emitted from her body, from the creamy smell of her interdigital folds to the coinlike effluence of her groin region (which I have neither seen nor directly touched, may I remind my more degenerate readers). The coral whiff of her toes when dry, the sweaty pungence of those same toes when damp after a brisk walk. To avoid causing distress to those of you who are forced to settle for lives of hollow onanism or, perhaps worse, the second-rate "love" of some dull, "working" class ladette, I will stop there and hope only that my brief description communicates something of the grandness of her overall sensory potential.