Ams Ag Quotes

Jebediah has given up on you, but I never will. I can offer you the security you desire. If you'll but be mine, your heart will forever be sheltered in my care. Yes, we will quarrel incessantly and fight for dominance. And yes, there will be ravishes of passion, but there will also be gentle lulls. That is who we are together. You'll never need fear that your love is not reciprocated. For although you've made me feel things I am not equipped for... I cannot stop feeling them.

I am learning to love the sound of my feet walking away from things not meant for me.

If Strength comes through Suffering, why then I should be the strongest of all women, yet I am the weakest. God help me. Help me.

I am mad, and I embrace it.

Morpheus grunts, low in his chest. “I am not going to wait around and play second fiddle to Jebediah while your mortal side grows to understand and trust me.” “You’re not second best. You and I get to have forever. Forever . Jeb has one life. It’s only fair I spend it with him.” I dance around the truth, as close as I’m willing to get. “ Fair? All this time, he’s been with you during your waking hours. I’ve ever only had you in your dreams. I want you in reality. I’ve waited for what feels like a thousand years already. It is time for our forever to begin.”

Ma’am, your husband was killed in an unfortunate Cadbury Creme Egg incident.

Yes. But I let you leave again, last year after you were crowned. And all those nights I brought you to Wonderland in your dreams, even though it pained me for you to abandon our dreamscapes and return to the mortal realm, I let you go each morning to live your reality there. It may not seem much when compared to your mortal’s gallantry. But for me—self-seeking, arrogant prig that I am—that is the sincerest form of sacrifice. Letting you go. Do you not see that?

This can’t be a coincidence, and there’s no longer any doubt in my mind. I am in a horror story.

Craiceann a shníonn go gléineach thar do ghéaga mar bhainne á dháil as crúiscíní am lóin is tread gabhar ag gabháil thar chnocáin do chuid gruaige cnocáin ar a bhfuil faillte arda is dhá ghleann atá domhain. (Leaba Shíoda)

It may not seem much when compared to your mortal's gallantry. But for me - self-seeking, arrogant prig that i am - that is the sincerest form of sacrifice. Letting you go.

George said. “I am on fire. I do not burn. It’s Saint Agnes’s lament.

“Jebediah has given up on you, but I never will. I can offer you the security you desire. If you’ll but be mine, your heart will forever be sheltered in my care. Yes, we will quarrel incessantly and fight for dominance. And yes, there will be ravishes of passion, but there will also be gentle lulls. That is who we are together. You’ll never need fear that your love is not reciprocated. For although you’ve made me feel things I am not equipped for . . . I cannot stop feeling them.” His chin quavers. “You opened Pandora’s box within me. Set loose the imaginings and emotions of a mortal man. And there is no closing it ever again.” The jewels under his eyes twitch between dark purple and blue. “As much as I abhor being anything akin to human, Alyssa, I wouldn’t dare try to close it. Because that would mean losing you.” The confession is lovely and brutal—laced with honesty that I not only hear in the rasp of his voice, but feel in the quaking of his muscles as he holds my hands over my head.

I understand now," he murmurs. "Why the power seduced you. With just a turn of my hand I can create, kill, maim, and heal." There's a dreamlike quality to his movements and words, as if he's in a trance. Blinking, he drops his arm to his side again. "No one can ever make me, or anyone I care about, a victim again. This place isn't hell. It's heaven. And I... I am a god.

I am mad, and I embrace it. Madness is part of my heritage.

The first email was sent at 2:38 a.m, the second email four hours later.

By the by …” He glances at Jeb’s back and leans closer, murmuring low. “Tumtum juice alters a person’s inhibitions, magnifies their hunger. But it’s not hunger for food. It’s experiences they crave. Had it been me instead of your toy soldier, I would’ve found a means to slake your ravenous hunger without resorting to berries.” His arrogance simmers my blood. “You don’t have the equipment to satisfy anything. Moth. Remember?” He laughs, dark and soft, under his breath. “I am a man in every way that counts. Just like you are a woman, even if some people believe you’re nothing more than a scared little girl in constant need of saving.

“You’re wearing your Seduction Hat. Why am I not surprised?” He offers a pirate’s smile. “Did you notice . . . I’ve a new embellishment?” He makes a show of adjusting an owl’s tail feather in the band. I bite back a giggle. “Vegetarian barn owl, I presume?” “Won’t be bothering me again for some time.” “I can guarantee it’s not the only one out there.” He loops my arm through his. “Good. I’m always up for a worthy chase.”

queenly enterprise indeed. But it all comes down to this one truth: You are a lady of action, and I am a man of same. We excel at risks and trickery, and won’t hesitate to use them if it’s the only way to preserve what we love.

“I would’ve followed you anywhere,” he mumbles, his voice raw with agony. “All I ever wanted was to spend forever with my best friend. With the girl who gave life to my paintings. But I’m not the one who inspired your mosaics, am I? It was always Wonderland. That’s why you chose him.” “Chose him? It was a kiss, that’s all—” “It’s not the kiss. Sometimes words are louder than actions.” “Words . . . ? What words?” “The promise you gave him that you couldn’t give me.”

I belong to no one, yet am used by everyone. To some, I am money, to others I can fly. I make up space, yet don’t take it up. To those who never change, I hold no sway. But to those who do, I carry the weight of desert sands. What am I?” I

Riddle me this: I belong to no one, yet am used by everyone. To some, I am money, to others I can fly. I make up space, yet don’t take it up. To those who never change, I hold no sway. But to those who do, I carry the weight of desert sands. What am I?

Much like our clever and curious heroine, I wasn’t quite myself in the earlier tales.” My gaze fell to the text on the page and Alice’s answer to the Caterpillar’s question of her identity: I’m afraid I can’t explain myself, sir. Because I am not myself, you see? I gulped, the realization hitting me like a slap in the face. “You’re the Caterpillar . . . hatched from a cocoon.” Morpheus

However, one cannot ignore the folklore of the times; the story of the Odyssey and other legends recounting the adventure and dangers of travelling through the Dardanelles and Bosporus, the legends of the Argonauts and Heracles, the nymph of Arethusa, and the goddess of Syracuse.[23] Centuries of overseas ventures undoubtedly produced a pioneering spirit among the Greeks. I am in agreement with A.G. Woodhead’s emphasis on the ‘general spirit of adventure’ that permeated ‘the dawn of classical Hellas’, and his observation that ‘many of the colonies had their origins in purely individual enterprise or extraordinary happenings.’[24] He writes: ‘This personal element, indeed, probably deserves more stress than it has received. It is fashionable to look for great impersonal causes and trends which, singly or in combination, produce a human response, and the economic considerations already discussed fall into that category.

Oh you are too nice.” Translation(?), “I am used to being treated like shit.” If you ever come across this type of woman, it is better to just walk away

at 6:03 a.m., Trump had tweeted: “Ukrainian efforts to sabotage Trump campaign—‘quietly working to boost Clinton.’ So where is the investigation A.G. [attorney general]” It was clearly Russian propaganda, McMaster said.

It is usually an act of vanity to assume that the world is sufficiently interested in one’s personality to spend twelve-and-six on one’s autobiography. Nowadays autobiographers either begin early in life and describe their reactions to daffodils, and Greek statues of boys, and God, and the Oxford Union, and the rugged kindliness of their dear old father, and so on, or else they wait till they are ninety and babble of crinolines, and the Tranby Croft scandal, and what Cardinal Newman thought of Disestablishment. Both of these types are consumed with vanity. They really think that an elegant dislike of calceolarias, or a recollection of John Brown’s repartee to Queen Victoria outside Crathie Church on an autumnal afternoon in 1878, is the sort of thing which the world wants to know. But for myself, I am not concerned with vanity.

growing, like a storm on the horizon, gathering, the echo of thunder distant but present. For whatever reason, it doesn’t affect me. I am certain that there is something out there, waiting for us. We press on, into the darkness, barreling at maximum speed, the three nuclear warheads on our ship armed and ready. I feel like Ahab hunting the white whale. I am a man possessed. When I launched into space aboard the Pax, my life was empty. I didn’t know Emma. My brother was a stranger to me. I had no family, no friends. Only Oscar. Now I have something to lose. Something to live for. Something to fight for. My time in space has changed me. When I left Earth the first time, I was still the rebel scientist the world had cast out. I felt like an outsider, a renegade. Now I have become a leader. I’ve learned to read people, to try to understand them. That was my mistake before. I trudged ahead with my vision of the world, believing the world would follow me. But the truth is, true leadership requires understanding those you lead, making the best choices for them, and most of all, convincing them when they don’t realize what’s best for them. Leadership is about moments like this, when the people you’re charged with protecting have doubts, when the odds are against you. Every morning, the crew gathers on the bridge. Oscar and Emma strap in on each side of me and we sit around the table and everyone gives their departmental updates. The ship is operating at peak efficiency. So is the crew. Except for the elephant in the room. “As you know,” I begin, “we are still on course for Ceres. We have not ordered the other ships in the Spartan fleet to alter course. The fact that the survey drones have found nothing, changes nothing. Our enemy is advanced. Sufficiently advanced to alter our drones and hide itself. With that said, we should discuss the possibility that there is, in fact, nothing out there on Ceres. We need to prepare for that eventuality.” Heinrich surveys the rest of the crew before speaking. “It could be a trap.” He’s always to the point. I like that about him. “Yes,” I reply, “it could be. The entity, or harvester, or whatever is out there, could be manufacturing the solar cells elsewhere—deeper in the solar system, or from another asteroid in the belt. It could be sending the solar cells to Ceres and then toward the sun, making them look as though they were manufactured on Ceres. There could be a massive bomb or attack drones waiting for us at Ceres.” “We could split our fleet,

I sneak out of my room at night, when all is still and silent. And I watch the humans sleeping, study their vulnerabilities, and savor the fact that I will never be helpless like them again. I am mad, and i embrace it.

A parent who spends the time to raise a child gets a unique gift. There’s the pride of that accomplishment. And—if one is paying attention, and your mom and I were—an understanding of that child. A parent sees a child at their most vulnerable moments. We see their dreams. Shortcomings. Quirks. Strengths. All of it. We are there before the world is watching. At least, that was the case before all this online stuff where everyone wants to expose every moment of their life to the world. But forgive me, I am a dinosaur

I am a dream of endless hope and a nightmare of bottomless fear.

I am a dram of endless hope and a nightmare of bottomless fear.

Affresco della notte palombara Fresco of the underwater night Immersa nel recinto di figure Sunk in a knot of figures Strette all’attore, custodia di parole Surrounding the actor, keeper of words; Fame e miniera di nostalgia alle due Hunger and quarry of longing Del pomerrigio, l’ora di mezzo At 2 pm, the middle hour Priva di preghiere, che non presume Without prayer that doesn’t presume Ma si affatica strana dietro l’immensita But labors strangely over the afternnon’s Del pommerigio, molto o popolata immensita Hugeness, crowded hugeness Di guarigione, che si allontana Of healing that drifts off; Insieme al tuo silenzio intento e affacendato And your focused silence bent on A togliermi dal sole, mio sole virtuoso Taking my sun, my virtuous son Per il quale io son quel che sono Thanks to which I am what I am In piena luce, sono el mondo In daylight, I am in the world Assieme agile atra, agli atra quasi uguale. With others, others almost like me.

The supply ship Antares (AG-10) was inbound to Pearl Harbor, heading toward the submarine nets protecting the entrance channel. Between Antares and the barge it was towing, Captain Outerbridge made out the unmistakable silhouette of the conning tower and periscope of an unknown submarine. There was no doubt in his mind that this was an intruder intent on following Antares through the open submarine nets and into the harbor. Outerbridge called for speed and ordered a turn toward the target as the Ward surged to twenty knots. At 6:45 a.m. the destroyer fired two shots from its four-inch guns. The first passed directly over the submarine’s conning tower and missed. The second hit the submarine at the waterline between the conning tower and its hull. As the Ward’s action report later characterized it, “This was a square positive hit.” The target heeled over to starboard and appeared to slow and sink, drifting into a tightly spaced salvo of depth charges set for 100 feet that the Ward dropped as it crossed the submarine’s bow. Outerbridge couldn’t be certain, but a large oil slick on the surface after the depth charges exploded indicated that his quarry had likely sunk. He radioed a voice transmission saying the Ward had “dropped depth charges upon subs,” but two minutes later, fearing that the report might be taken merely as one more in a long line of sketchy contacts, Outerbridge made clear that this had been no illusion: “We have attacked, fired upon, and dropped depth charges on a submarine operating in defensive sea area,” he radioed. Seconds later, just to be certain his information had been received, Outerbridge queried, “Did you get that last message?” The answer was yes, and the report made its way up the chain of command, reaching Admiral Kimmel about forty minutes later. Like others who’d relayed the message, Kimmel was skeptical. “I was not at all certain that this was a real attack,” he later told investigators. It would take sixty years before a Japanese midget submarine was discovered in some twelve hundred feet of water with a hole in its conning tower—evidence that Outerbridge and the Ward had indeed inflicted the first casualties of the day.4

I prayed devoutly that we could have some sort of System of government over here on Italian lines which would preserve the theory of democracy without any of its workings. Heaven knows, I am, and always have been, a friend of the People, and a democrat of democrats, but that has never prevented me from detesting and execrating the People at the same time with all my heart. The People to me have always been a great problem. It contains lots, I am sure, of very nice individuals. I have, in fact, met several charming proletarians in my various contacts at Grantly and during my elections. No one could be nicer for a few minutes. But when they are ail lumped together in a mass, how-ever charming they may have been as individuals, they become abominable. Thus the ordinary British workman is a capital fellow if you get him by himself. A mug of beer will enchant him. And if you get ten British workmen and give them ten mugs of beer, you will enchant them. But if you get a hundred thousand British workmen and start offering them a hundred thousand mugs of beer, you find you are up against a Trades Union, and they all leap to their rickety feet and bawl that you are a dirty capitalist. That is why we Tories, fundamentally, dislike the Trades Unions. Our appeal to the working man is not the appeal of the rascally demagogue on the soap-box or the blasphemous howl of the sergeant to his platoon, but rather the quiet, persuasive, condescending charm of the gentleman to his valet.

I am entrusted with the most dangerous task on a battlefield, that of dispatch runner, delivering messages between the different subunits, sometimes many miles apart.