Armor For Sleep Quotes

I've got this." Apollo stepped forward. His fiery armor was so bright it was hard to look at, and his matching Ray-Bans and perfect smile made him look like a male model for battle gear. "God of medicine, at your service." He passed his hand over Annabeth's face and spoke an incantation. Immediately the bruises faded. Her cuts and scars disappeared. Her arm straightened, and she sighed in her sleep. Apollo grinned. "She'll be fine in a few minutes. Just enough time for me to compose a poem about our victory: 'Apollo and his friends save Olympus.' Good, eh?" Thanks, Apollo," I said. "I'll, um, let you handle the poetry.

The main hallway of the Sternwood place was two stories high. Over the entrance doors, which would have let in a troop of Indian elephants, there was a broad stained-glass panel showing a knight in dark armor rescuing a lady who was tied to a tree and didn’t have any clothes on but some very long and convenient hair. The knight had pushed the vizor of his helmet back to be sociable, and he was fiddling with the knots on the ropes that tied the lady to the tree and not getting anywhere. I stood there and thought that if I lived in the house, I would sooner or later have to climb up there and help him. He didn’t seem to be really trying.

First having read the book of myths, and loaded the camera, and checked the edge of the knife-blade, I put on the body-armor of black rubber the absurd flippers the grave and awkward mask. I am having to do this not like Cousteau with his assiduous team aboard the sun-flooded schooner but here alone. There is a ladder. The ladder is always there hanging innocently close to the side of the schooner. We know what it is for, we who have used it. Otherwise it is a piece of maritime floss some sundry equipment. I go down. Rung after rung and still the oxygen immerses me the blue light the clear atoms of our human air. I go down. My flippers cripple me, I crawl like an insect down the ladder and there is no one to tell me when the ocean will begin. First the air is blue and then it is bluer and then green and then black I am blacking out and yet my mask is powerful it pumps my blood with power the sea is another story the sea is not a question of power I have to learn alone to turn my body without force in the deep element. And now: it is easy to forget what I came for among so many who have always lived here swaying their crenellated fans between the reefs and besides you breathe differently down here. I came to explore the wreck. The words are purposes. The words are maps. I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail. I stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flank of something more permanent than fish or weed the thing I came for: the wreck and not the story of the wreck the thing itself and not the myth the drowned face always staring toward the sun the evidence of damage worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty the ribs of the disaster curving their assertion among the tentative haunters. This is the place. And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair streams black, the merman in his armored body. We circle silently about the wreck we dive into the hold. I am she: I am he whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes whose breasts still bear the stress whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies obscurely inside barrels half-wedged and left to rot we are the half-destroyed instruments that once held to a course the water-eaten log the fouled compass We are, I am, you are by cowardice or courage the one who find our way back to this scene carrying a knife, a camera a book of myths in which our names do not appear.

Even in his rusted coat of armor, he was still beautiful. Mysterious. Enchanting. Ethereal. A real sleeping beauty.

Get up”: the illusory barrier of the warm blankets, the thin armor of sleep, the nightly evasion with its very torments drops to pieces around us, and we find ourselves mercilessly awake, exposed to insult, atrociously naked and vulnerable. A

And for Violet’s sake, she couldn’t risk kissing him anymore. Afterall, she had too much pride for that. Kissing him meant defeat, and Violet wasn’t yet ready to surrender her heart to the brutish prince.

This was the story of a prince who watched over his city as it slept. Who went on foot, for fear of trampling one of the fallen, who wove his way between the bodies of his people. Some would say he moved in silence, with only the gentle clang of his golden-armored steps echoing like distant bells through the silent street. Some would say he spoke, that even in the far-off darkness, the sleeping heard him whisper, over and over, "You are not alone.

He might have started out as her knight in shining armor and then, turned into the detestable and brutish heartbreaker; but afterwards, he became her trainer, then her friend... and now... well... she didn’t really know who he was to her anymore...

When we are chronically stressed out [stuck in sympathetic nervous system activation], detrimental somatic changes become ingrained in our bodies. Here are some of the most common examples of body-harming reactions to Cptsd stress: Hypervigilance Shallow and Incomplete Breathing Constant Adrenalization Armoring, i.e., Chronic muscle tightness Wear and tear from rushing and armoring Inability to be fully present, relaxed and grounded in our bodies Sleep problems from being over-activated Digestive disorders from a tightened digestive tract Physiological damage from excessive self-medication with alcohol, food or drugs

If she couldn’t have a happily ever after, then neither could anyone else...

Since the crown robbed them of their happily ever after, then damn it all to hell! Let the kingdom all burn down! Let it all fall into ruin! Let them all pay for what the entire kingdom did to her! To them!

Rise up smiling, and walk with me. Rise up in the armor of thy body and what shall pass shall make thee unafraid. Walk among the yellow hills, for they belong to thee. Walk upon grass and let thy feet descend into soft soil; in the end when all has failed thee the soil shall comfort thee, the soil shall receive thee and in thy dark bed thou shalt find such peace as is thy portion. In thine armor, hear my voice. In thine armor, hear. Whatsoever thou doest, thy friend and thy brother and thy woman shall betray thee. Whatsoever thou dost plant, the weeds and the seasons shall spite thee. Wheresoever thou goest, the heavens shall fall upon thee. Though the nations shall come unto thee in friendship thou art curst. Know that the Gods ignore thee. Know that thou art Life, and that pain shall forever come into thee, though thy years be without end and thy days without sleep, even and forever. And knowing this, in thine armor, thou shalt rise up. Red and full and glowing is thy heart; a steel is forging within thy breast. And what can hurt thee now? In thy granite mansion, what can hurt thee ever? Thou shalt only die. Therefore seek not redemption nor forgiveness for thy sins, for know that thou hast never sinned. Let the Gods come unto thee.

Truly, it was a rather remarkable sight to behold. A fair and young maiden, swinging her heavy steel sword to help rescue her knight in distress. It was epic. It was whimsical. It was honorable. It was heroic. It was oh so utterly... romantic. A sweeping romance fit for an enchanting fairy tale, in which the princess was the hero and not the other way around.

It was an unusual sunset. Having sat behind opaque drapery all day, I had not realized that a storm was pushing in and that much of the sky was the precise shade of old suits of armor one finds in museums. At the same time, patches of brilliance engaged in a territorial dispute with the oncoming onyx of the storm. Light and darkness mingled in strange ways both above and below. Shadows and sunshine washed together, streaking the landscape with an unearthly study of glare and gloom. Bright clouds and black folded into each other in a no-man's land of the sky. The autumn trees took on the appearance of sculptures formed in a dream, their leaden-colored trunks and branches and iron-red leaves all locked in an infinite and unliving moment, unnaturally timeless. The gray lake slowly tossed and tumbled in a dead sleep, nudging unconsciously against its breakwall of numb stone. A scene of contradiction and ambivalence, a tragicomedic haze over all. A land of perfect twilight.

He ruined her and yet, he still loved her. He banished her and yet, he still missed her. He condemned her and yet, he still longed for her. It was twisted, cruel and so incredibly painful. It was love in the sickest and ugliest of forms. Total corruption of the heart. A love so sour and bitter... and yet... she couldn't turn away from it... she couldn't escape from him...

… Bird’s waking dream was harsh, the reverse face of the innocent dream that had ushered him into sleep, a thing armored in burrs that inspired anguish. Sleep for Bird was a funnel which he entered through the wide and easy entrance and had to leave by the narrow exit.

You, are in-deed, the person of my dreams. For, I dreamt you. And, saw you in my sleep. Let it be known. That dreams, do come true, after all - Knight In Shinning Armor

It was almost as if she was in a dream and it was, she, who was actually waking up from a long sleeping spell and certainly, not him...

He breaks more hearts than he sheds tears. Don't be fooled by his uniform nor his crown.

Afterall, what act could be more daring, heroic and romantic, than a man willing to travel hundreds of years into the distant past? All for the sake of a single woman?

Never before, did Maximus calculate that it would be her rescuing him and not the other way around. For her to be the true hero and most certainly, not him.

... even if she hated him, then it also meant that she felt something for him. And feeling something was far better than feeling nothing, at all.

After everything that had transpired between them, he still cared for her. Missed her. Loved her.

Romantic love amongst lovers is a different sort of love. But a love shared amongst sisters, can outlast even the greatest of love affairs... centuries later.

...the person whom you hate the most might actually be the same person, whom you once loved more than life itself.

Afterall, a loving heart is always the key to every obstacle, no matter how impossible or hopeless it seems.

Thus far, they were equals. They both embodied what the kingdom wanted them to be, but not necessarily, what they chose to be.

...his presence was all around her. Like a constant shadow that never failed to disappear, no matter how much light was shined upon it.

An enchanted stone necklace and a pristine knight’s uniform attracted to one another. Linked. Bonded. What could this unique connection mean to the wearers of such magical objects?

After hating Maximus for so long, she no longer knew how to conduct herself around him. Especially, once she started to... well... like him...

She could easily be happy as the queen of none than a good and righteous queen to all.

Afterall, if Vera couldn’t have her happily ever after, then neither could they. It truly was just as simple as that.

...she might have started out as the victim in this story, but overtime, she became the true villainess.

...all villains have an origin story...there’s always a vital turning point, that often sends a character onto the path of darkness.

Sometimes, the person we hate the most can also be the same person whom we once loved most of all.

I believe that we are all the authors to our own destinies.

A heart filled with unconditional and endless love is worth more than all the gold and riches in the entire universe.

...eternity is not measured by one’s years, but by the legacy of one’s children.

Gold, it seemed, might have been the heart and currency of men, but that wasn’t the same case for Vera. For her, it was never about the treasures of conquest but the merits behind it.

If you want to dream, go back to sleep,” he told her.“When you wake up, we’ll still be escaped slaves in the middle of a siege. Crunch is dead. The pig as well, most like. Now find some armor and put it on, and never mind where it pinches. The mummer show is over. Fight or hide or shit yourself, as you like, but whatever you decide to do, you’ll do it clad in steel.

Ultimately, in the end, Maximus recognized that hate was also the sister to love... And if one could hate, then they also maintained the equal capacity to love... and love is what he wanted.

Joffrey called out, “Dog!” Sandor Clegane seemed to take form out of the night, so quickly did he appear. He had exchanged his armor for a red woolen tunic with a leather dog’s head sewn on the front. The light of the torches made his burned face shine a dull red. “Yes, Your Grace?” he said. “Take my betrothed back to the castle, and see that no harm befalls her,” the prince told him brusquely. And without even a word of farewell, Joffrey strode off, leaving her there. Sansa could feel the Hound watching her. “Did you think Joff was going to take you himself?” He laughed. He had a laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit. “Small chance of that.” He pulled her unresisting to her feet. “Come, you’re not the only one needs sleep. I’ve drunk too much, and I may need to kill my brother tomorrow.” He laughed again. He was mocking her, she realized. “No one could withstand him,” she managed at last, proud of herself. It was no lie. Sandor Clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. She had no choice but to stop beside him. “Some septa trained you well. You’re like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren’t you? A pretty little talking -bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite.” “ Take your look.” His fingers held her jaw as hard as an iron trap. His eyes watched hers. Drunken eyes, sullen with anger. She had to look. The right side of his face was gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a grey eye beneath a heavy brow. His nose was large and hooked, his hair thin, dark. He wore it long and brushed it sideways, because no hair grew on the other side of that face. The left side of his face was a ruin. His ear had been burned away; there was nothing left but a hole. His eye was still good, but all around it was a twisted mass of scar, slick black flesh hard as leather, pocked with craters and fissured by deep cracks.

You want us to hunt down and extract information from the officer?” She shook her head. “Something better.” “Pray tell, little ghost.” “Send me in her place.” He stared. Kestrel said, “I’ll pretend to be her.” “Please understand. When I look at you as if you’re crazy, it’s not that I judge you for your insanity.” “I fit in her armor. I’m her size. I’m Valorian.” “You don’t look like her. Just because you’re Valorian doesn’t mean the officer at the relay station won’t notice that you’re a completely different person.” “It’s night. I can report to the officer while keeping my distance.” “I’m going back to sleep. Wake me when you’re sane.

There are people out there who have x-ray vision. They can see through my walls, armor and scrims and filters right down to the real me. And the saddest thing in the world? I haven't forgotten who that person is. She's on there and waiting. Like sleeping beauty locked high in a tower, she's been patient and aware of the coma I've been in all these years. I realise the one hitch in having x-ray glasses is that I'm utterly exposed to him. It's one thing to want someone to keep looking, to swim over moats and dodge flaming arrows to find you. It's quite another when you ask yourself, really ask yourself, if you're finally ready to come out into the open. No matter what.

She’d thought Troy stank: the corpse piles, the fires, the fish guts thoughtfully left out for the gods—gee fucking thanks, guys, just what we want—and the stupid Achaeans stomping around on the beach, refusing to wash, letting the blood cook to black in the sun and rust the joints of their armor. That was nothing compared to the inescapable reek of the modern world. She had been young and too easily impressed then, in the days before Lysol and bleach.

...the cure to everything is love. In all of its forms.Romantic, sisterly... even nieces. A loving heart can cure even the worst of heartbreaks. No matter how painful or devastating they might be. Love is the answer. Love is the cure.

But history always taught children at an early age to seek power and to do whatever means necessary to hold on to it. While the libraries were often filled with endless books dedicated to the strategies on the art of war and the detailed instructions on how to defeat one’s adversaries out on the gruesome battlefields; however, there were seldom any books written discussing on how to cope afterwards. How it felt emotionally to live after the war. Once the battle was fought and won.

But now Cathy had created the restlessness, the indignation, the beginnings of that shameful need to clamber aboard my spavined white steed, knock the rust off the armor, tilt the crooked old lance and shout huzzah. Sleep immediately followed decision.

The queen, a woman in armor, leading her own army, with a son conceived by a sleeping husband, a woman who uses alchemy and possibly the dark arts, a French princess in alliance with our enemies has become an object of utter horror to the people of her country.

He might have been the crown prince to the rest of the guests at this banquet, but Violet wasn’t a part of his world. Of his kingdom. She was supposed to be a stranger to him, and he to her. But somewhere, along the way, he became so much more. He became someone, whom her heart secretly clung to.

Even though the role of a palace mistress was greatly frowned upon by polite society and wasn’t nearly as respectable as that of an honorable role as a wife, Vera was willing to sacrifice it all. Her honor, reputation, dignity... everything, so long as it meant her being together with Elryk. Her one true love.

Really, it was always a failing battle... for all paths led to his eventual demise and doom. A real damned if he did or damned if he didn't. Truly, Maximus was already ruined at sunrise. Before he even bothered to step one foot out of his front door to start his morning, he was already proclaimed as the villain.

If you want to overcome death itself, whose armor is sleep, dream, and dullness, you must climb from one step of awakening to the next. Imagine: the lowest step of this heavenly ladder is called "genius." What name shall we then give to the highest ones? They remain unknown to the multitudes and are considered to be legend

Unlike their previous kisses, this kiss was soft and tender. Sweet and gentle. It was a kiss not born out of passion, but of affection. It was a kiss rooted in something deep and meaningful. If he was showing her his heart, then he was proving it by his latest kiss. It was, without a doubt, the best kiss of her entire life.

Afterall, it’s my sworn duty to protect every single one of her victims; all past, present and future. I take full responsibility for my family’s atonement on her behalf. Especially, as the mother who bore the monster. This is my final act of penance for the unholy sins committed by my daughter. A child born out of my own flesh and blood.

Alas, for the man who never had any real desire or strive to accomplish anything in his past, at long last, he unexpectantly discovered his motivation. She was his happily ever after, and he intended to fight for her... even if he had to battle his way right into her stubborn heart. After a lifetime of searching, he finally realized that she was his purpose.

Mr. Brunner was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. He had thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket, which always smelled like coffee. You wouldn’t think he’d be cool, but he told stories and jokes and let us play games in class. He also had this awesome collection of Roman armor and weapons, so he was the only teacher whose class didn’t put me to sleep.

She might have sat on a golden throne and controlled dominion over the entire Kingdom of the West at her feet, but it came at a great cost. In the end, she was lonely. All so incredibly lonely. And bitter, too. Had she known the end game from the very beginning, then maybe, Vera would have abandoned her lust for power and revenge long ago. In the end, her quest for vengeance cost her dearly.

Most knights today would rather rustle in damasks, brocades, and the other rich fabrics of their clothes than creak in chain mail; no longer do knights sleep in the fields, subject to the rigors of heaven, wearing all their armor from head to foot; no longer does anyone, with his feet still in the stirrups and leaning on his lance, catch forty winks, as they say, as the knights errant used to do.

Love was always dangerous territory; Maximus was well aware of that. Meanwhile, as the rest of his future remained uncertain, the one and only thing he knew with absolute certainty was that if his future didn’t include Violet, then none of this mattered. Not the war. Not the throne. Not the wealth. Not the honor or prestige. When it was all said and done, she was all that he cared about. All he wanted, in the end.

The autumn months are my domain: Mirrored in pools my castles dream Of wars long past and out of mind From towers with ivy garlands twined Weak and with regret the sun Drowns itself in the sluggish green Water that marble fountains weep; Trees open their nests to the wings of sleep. The wind like a phantom seems to roar, Returned to die of love once more At the false meeting of the ways Where a temple rounds its dome in the haze. Sometimes a child is heard to laugh In the house of the priest, far off; His lamp on the ledge of the window gleams Much as the Holy Spirit flames. Then nothing. Only a plane tree sways Its crown of leaves in the dark that graze Slowly and with a sound so alight They barely ripple the silent night. I am the lord of this domain. Through halls of hollow, echoing Armor, I haul the heavy shame Of not being able to be king.

As she turned from him and looked at Trivona, she was assailed by a vague feeling of discomfort, for there was something very pathetic in the sleeping Trivvie. By day she was a rebel, full of the lust of life, battling for power, and yet more power, for freedom and yet more freedom; but, asleep, she was innocent, helpless, vulnerable. Barbara felt it was wrong to see Trivvie thus; it was like a treachery. Trivvie would hate to be seen without her armor on.

In four months Miranda will be back in Toronto, divorced at twenty-seven, working on a commerce degree, spending her alimony on expensive clothing and consultations with stylists because she’s come to understand that clothes are armor; she will call Leon Prevant to ask about employment and a week later she’ll be back at Neptune Logistics, in a more interesting job now, working under Leon in Client Relations, rising rapidly through the company until she comes to a point after four or five years when she travels almost constantly between a dozen countries and lives mostly out of a carry-on suitcase, a time when she lives a life that feels like freedom and sleeps with her downstairs neighbor occasionally but refuses to date anyone, whispers “I repent nothing” into the mirrors of a hundred hotel rooms from London to Singapore and in the morning puts on the clothes that make her invincible, a life where the moments of emptiness and disappointment are minimal, where by her midthirties she feels competent and at last more or less at ease in the world, studying foreign languages in first-class lounges and traveling in comfortable seats across oceans, meeting with clients and living her job, breathing her job, until she isn’t sure where she stops and her job begins, almost always loves her life but is often lonely, draws the stories of Station Eleven in hotel rooms at night.

And do this, knowing the time, that now it is high time to awake out of sleep; for now our salvation is nearer than when we first believed. The night is far spent, the day is at hand. Therefore let us cast off the works of darkness, and let us put on the armor of light. Let us walk properly, as in the day, not in revelry and drunkenness, not in lewdness and lust, not in strife and envy. But put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh, to fulfill its lusts. Romans 13:11–14

Alas, Vera came, she conquered, and she devoured. Only to do it, all over again... repeatedly. One way or another, there were always more villages to burn, or rebels to behead. Lives to crush. Dreams to smash. Properties to confiscate. Enemies to destroy. Sadly, it seemed that Vera had more enemies than she did of actual allies. But she supposed that’s just how the business of running a monarchy was. Tedious, gruesome and deadly. At least, this was the reality of her reign. Her reign of terror.

Lehi’s message, given some six centuries before the coming of the Messiah, seems very applicable to our day and time: “O that ye would awake; awake from a deep sleep, yea, even from the sleep of hell, and shake off the awful chains by which ye are bound. . . . Awake! and arise from the dust, and hear the words of a trembling parent. . . . Arise from the dust, my sons, and be men, and be determined in one mind and in one heart, united in all things, that ye may not come down into captivity. . . . Awake, my sons; put on the armor of righteousness” (2 Nephi 1:13, 14, 21, 23; emphasis...

Why does your voice sound like that? And what is that clicking noise that keeps coming from you?” “B-because I’m c-cold,” I say. “N-normally I s-sleep inside—” “Inside was an option,” he cuts in. “—i-in a bed w-with blankets to k-keep me warm.” Thanatos is silent. Surely he’s aware of this. I hear him stalk towards me. When I think he’s within arm’s reach, he kneels down next to me. “Wh-what are you—?” Before I can finish the thought, the horseman is laying his body out alongside mine. He pulls me against him. His armor hasn’t reappeared yet, and I nearly moan at the heat emanating off of him. “You’re shaking again,” he says, alarmed. “B-because I’m c-cold,” I remind him. I can’t see his frown in the darkness, but I feel it all the same. One of his wings comes around me, blanketing me in. And now fantasies about woolen blankets have been sidelined in favor of this. “Better?” he asks softly, his voice like a caress. This is far more intimate than I bargained for. And I like it. I like it so much. I can feel Thanatos’s delicious heat against my back and the warmth from his wing insulating me everywhere else. If I were a cat, I’d be purring. I melt into the horseman’s embrace, all my earlier declarations about him keeping his distance long forgotten. “Mmm,” I murmur.

asleep. “May I write your story?” “Don’t you dare, amico” was Salvatore’s reply. “Kindly come up with your own storia, young Massimo. If you take mine, I’ll have none left of my own.” Max gave a deep sigh. “Oh, okay,” he muttered drowsily. “Do the two of you at least have a couple of words for me? You know, a favorite word or two? To send me to sleep?” Cuneo smacked his lips. “Like milk soufflé? Pasta kiss?” “I like words that sound like the things they describe,” whispered Perdu. His eyes were closed. “Evening breeze. Night runner. Summer child. Defiance: I see a little girl in pretend armor, fighting off all the things she doesn’t want to be. Well behaved and thin and quiet—no way! Lady Defiance, a lone knight against the dark forces of reason.

Man tends to regard the order he lives in as natural. The houses he passes on his way to work seem more like rocks rising out of the earth than like products of human hands. He considers the work he does in his office or factory as essential to the har­monious functioning of the world. The clothes he wears are exactly what they should be, and he laughs at the idea that he might equally well be wearing a Roman toga or medieval armor. He respects and envies a minister of state or a bank director, and regards the possession of a considerable amount of money the main guarantee of peace and security. He cannot believe that one day a rider may appear on a street he knows well, where cats sleep and chil­dren play, and start catching passers-by with his lasso. He is accustomed to satisfying those of his physio­logical needs which are considered private as dis­creetly as possible, without realizing that such a pattern of behavior is not common to all human so­cieties. In a word, he behaves a little like Charlie Chaplin in The Gold Rush, bustling about in a shack poised precariously on the edge of a cliff. His first stroll along a street littered with glass from bomb-shattered windows shakes his faith in the "naturalness" of his world. The wind scatters papers from hastily evacuated offices, papers labeled "Con­fidential" or "Top Secret" that evoke visions of safes, keys, conferences, couriers, and secretaries. Now the wind blows them through the street for anyone to read; yet no one does, for each man is more urgently concerned with finding a loaf of bread. Strangely enough, the world goes on even though the offices and secret files have lost all meaning. Farther down the street, he stops before a house split in half by a bomb, the privacy of people's homes-the family smells, the warmth of the beehive life, the furniture preserving the memory of loves and hatreds-cut open to public view. The house itself, no longer a rock, but a scaffolding of plaster, concrete, and brick; and on the third floor, a solitary white bath­ tub, rain-rinsed of all recollection of those who once bathed in it. Its formerly influential and respected owners, now destitute, walk the fields in search of stray potatoes. Thus overnight money loses its value and becomes a meaningless mass of printed paper. His walk takes him past a little boy poking a stick into a heap of smoking ruins and whistling a song about the great leader who will preserve the nation against all enemies. The song remains, but the leader of yesterday is already part of an extinct past.

Lottie felt her breath catch in her throat; something was wrong. Her body felt as if it were suddenly moving in slow motion. “Ellie Wolf.” The audience cheered. Lottie tried to join in, but the dizzy sensation was overpowering her. I need to sleep, she thought desperately, but there was something else, something clawing at the back of her mind. “Marzia Hart.” The cheering began to get distant and Lottie helplessly bashed her hands against her ears, trying to will some clarity into her mind. What had Binah said about gifts again? “Thomas Carter.” She looked up at the duellers, but their white armor seemed to be fading in front of her. Everything started turning black and she desperately tried to blink it away. “Lottie, are you okay?” The voice was coming from Binah, but Lottie pushed her aside to get to the stairs. “Riyadh Murphy.” Lottie desperately waded through cheering people. The world

Demi was one of the children who showed plainly the effect of intelligent love and care, for soul and body worked harmoniously together. The natural refinement which nothing but home influence can teach gave him sweet and simple manners: his mother had cherished an innocent and loving heart in him; his father had watched over the physical growth of his boy, and kept the little body straight and strong on wholesome food and exercise and sleep, while Grandpa March cultivated the little mind with the tender wisdom of a modern Pythagoras - not tasking it with long, hard lessons, parrot-learned, but helping it to unfold as naturally and beautifully as sun and dew help roses bloom. He was not a perfect child, by any means, but his faults were of the better sort; and being early taught the secrets of self-control, he was not left at the mercy of appetites and passions, as some poor little mortals are, and then punished for yielding to the temptations against which they have no armor.

Just meat on a stick with the vague sense that somewhere between lavish femininity And state violence lay a mediocre thing called liberty. Still, to be able to sleep at all’s a procedure of waking. Everybody Has to live somewhere being that we are here where most Of us are not welcome. Did you know transcendental Homelessness was a thing. But I dreamed this dream On a physical mattress. On an actual floor in a room with a door That I pay and pay for. If you write you can forge A substance that is other than the woman of substance You are. If you do it to such a point you can find Yourself declining substance altogether. It happens. It is a danger. But there will Always be the idea of a bath or a sleep in a bed or a dream In the head of a woman who is even beautiful visibly Or at least groomed, or somewhat fresh Or like that most domestic of bugs the cockroach Dragging his ponderous suit of armor across the floor Or clean sheets when it’s raining and I love you so much And I think Gimme Shelter, which is a movie I’ve never seen.

This is the Island where Dreams come true.” “That’s the island I’ve been looking for this long time,” said one of the sailors. “I reckon I’d find I was married to Nancy if we landed here.” “And I’d find Tom alive again,” said another. “Fools!” said the man, stamping his foot with rage. “That is the sort of talk that brought me here, and I’d better have been drowned or never born. Do you hear what I say? This is where dreams—dreams, do you understand—come to life, come real. Not daydreams: dreams.” There was about half a minute’s silence and then, with a great clatter of armor, the whole crew were tumbling down the main hatch as quick as they could and flinging themselves on the oars to row as they had never rowed before; and Drinian was swinging round the tiller, and the boatswain was giving out the quickest stroke that had ever been heard at sea. For it had taken everyone just that half-minute to remember certain dreams they had had—dreams that make you afraid of going to sleep again—and to realize what it would mean to land on a country where dreams come true.

With a sudden strike of inspiration, she blurted, “Why don’t you write a novel? I know you have enough life experiences to fill a whole room with books, and with you as the main character.” She placed the coffee cup back into Havok’s hands before reaching down to grab the bottom of her shirt, pulling it over her head, and balling it up in her hands. Standing naked, she brought the shirt to her nose and closed her eyes. “I can be one of your characters,” she purred, her eyes still closed. “A sexually frustrated homemaker whom you rescue from a boring marriage and ravage anytime you wish.” “I couldn’t tell you the difference between a split infinitive and a sentence fragment. Besides, the protagonists in most novels are supposed to be some sort of good-looking and chivalrous knights in shining armor who, at no time, sleeps with another man’s wife, always knows how to work a toilet seat, cooks the perfect eggs, and never burns the toast.” Havok shrugged his shoulders. “I have a habit of burning toast.” With the shirt still against her nose, June opened her eyes. “Somehow, I think that you make it a habit of burning your toast.

Chitta means “mind” and also “heart” or “attitude.” Bodhi means “awake,” “enlightened,” or “completely open.” Sometimes the completely open heart and mind of bodhichitta is called the soft spot, a place as vulnerable and tender as an open wound. It is equated, in part, with our ability to love. Even the cruelest people have this soft spot. Even the most vicious animals love their offspring. As Trungpa Rinpoche put it, “Everybody loves something, even if it’s only tortillas.” Bodhichitta is also equated, in part, with compassion—our ability to feel the pain that we share with others. Without realizing it we continually shield ourselves from this pain because it scares us. We put up protective walls made of opinions, prejudices, and strategies, barriers that are built on a deep fear of being hurt. These walls are further fortified by emotions of all kinds: anger, craving, indifference, jealousy and envy, arrogance and pride. But fortunately for us, the soft spot—our innate ability to love and to care about things—is like a crack in these walls we erect. It’s a natural opening in the barriers we create when we’re afraid. With practice we can learn to find this opening. We can learn to seize that vulnerable moment—love, gratitude, loneliness, embarrassment, inadequacy—to awaken bodhichitta. An analogy for bodhichitta is the rawness of a broken heart. Sometimes this broken heart gives birth to anxiety and panic, sometimes to anger, resentment, and blame. But under the hardness of that armor there is the tenderness of genuine sadness. This is our link with all those who have ever loved. This genuine heart of sadness can teach us great compassion. It can humble us when we’re arrogant and soften us when we are unkind. It awakens us when we prefer to sleep and pierces through our indifference. This continual ache of the heart is a blessing that when accepted fully can be shared with all. The Buddha said that we are never separated from enlightenment. Even at the times we feel most stuck, we are never alienated from the awakened state. This is a revolutionary assertion. Even ordinary people like us with hang-ups and confusion have this mind of enlightenment called bodhichitta. The openness and warmth of bodhichitta is in fact our true nature and condition. Even when our neurosis feels far more basic than our wisdom, even when we’re feeling most confused and hopeless, bodhichitta—like the open sky—is always here, undiminished by the clouds that temporarily cover it.

Fly! Fly! About with your ship and fly! Row, row, row for your lives away from this accursed shore.” “Compose yourself,” said Reepicheep, “and tell us what the danger is. We are not used to flying.” The stranger started horribly at the voice of the Mouse, which he had not noticed before. “Nevertheless you will fly from here,” he gasped. “This is the Island where Dreams come true.” “That’s the island I’ve been looking for this long time,” said one of the sailors. “I reckon I’d find I was married to Nancy if we landed here.” “And I’d find Tom alive again,” said another. “Fools!” said the man, stamping his foot with rage. “That is the sort of talk that brought me here, and I’d better have been drowned or never born. Do you hear what I say? This is where dreams--dreams, do you understand--come to life, come real. Not daydreams: dreams.” There was about half a minute’s silence and then, with a great clatter of armor, the whole crew were tumbling down the main hatch as quick as they could and flinging themselves on the oars to row as they had never rowed before; and Drinian was swinging round the tiller, and the boatswain was giving out the quickest stroke that had ever been heard at sea. For it had taken everyone just that half-minute to remember certain dreams they had had--dreams that make you afraid of going to sleep again--and to realize what it would mean to land on a country where dreams come true. Only Reepicheep remained unmoved. “Your Majesty, your Majesty,” he said, “are you going to tolerate this mutiny, this poltroonery? This is a panic, this is a rout.” “Row, row,” bellowed Caspian. “Pull for all our lives. Is her head right, Drinian? You can say what you like, Reepicheep. There are some things no man can face.” “It is, then, my good fortune not to be a man,” replied Reepicheep with a very stiff bow.

He collapsed half on top of her, too wrung out to move, his lungs working like bellows, his heart thundering, pounding. Gradually, it slowed. Sensation, muted awareness returned, enough to register the gentle stroking of her hand, the soothing touch calming, strangely claiming. He wanted to find his sophisticated armor and put it back on-before he faced her, before she saw... Before he could move, she did; turning her head to his, pushing back the damp hair from the side of his face, she touched her lips to his jaw, then, her lips curving sleepily, touched those swollen lips to the corner of his. "Thank you." The words were a sigh, the softest of feminine exhalations. "That was...thrilling. And...so very fine." He nearly humphed. Fine? The intensity had damned hear killed him, and she labeled the moment "fine?" She fell back, fully relaxed on her back in the bed. After a moment, he turned his head and looked at her. Studied the madonnalike expression that had claimed her face, the bliss that infused her features. He filled his lungs, then managed to summon sufficient strength to disengage and lift from her. Slumping on his back alongside her, he stared up at the ceiling, but there were no hints or clues written there. For the first time in his extensive career, he didn't feel, even now, in control. He felt...exposed. Uncertain. Not his usual polished, urbane, somewhat boredly smug self. Yet he was the one who was supposedly used to this, accustomed to all the nuances. Who knew all the appropriate moves to make, and when to make them. She...he glanced at her again, at her face. Hesitated, then gave into impulse and reached for her. Drawing her to him, he pulled the covers over them, then settled her against them, cradled within his arm, her head pillowed on his chest. She made a humming sound, then her limbs eased against him. He dipped his head, placed a kiss on her forehead. "Sleep." He felt her lips curve, but she didn't reply. Instead she slid her hand up, curling her fingers against the side of his throat, and relaxed into his arms. Inexplicably satisfied now as well as sated, he closed his eyes. And found slumber waiting, dreamless and deep.

8:00am The sun is shining, the cows are mooing, and I am ready for the mines. I hope I find something awesome today. Steve has told me about some pretty crazy things I had no idea existed. According to him, I must find empty tombs in the desert. That’s where the real treasures are. For today, I will stick to regular mining. Who knows, maybe I will come across an abandoned mine shaft; could be my lucky day.   12:30pm I was forced to come home for lunch today because I had too much stuff to carry. I was getting low on my iron ore, gold, and lapis lazuli stocks before this mine trip. It’s amazing how quick lapis goes when you are busy enchanting everything but the kitchen sink. I’d enchant that too if I had one. I wonder what an enchanted kitchen sink would do. Would it do my dishes for me? That would be so cool.   I have plenty of both now. I can make some new armor and enchant it! I love mining.   Steve decided to join me for lunch and we ate a couple of pork chops and some cake. I love cake! We ate until no more food could fill us up. Then, Steve had the guts to brag about how, when he mines, he takes a horse with extra storage so he can stay down there all day long. Well fancy you, Steve.   He also went on to tell me about how well the crops are doing these days. He thinks it’s because he is looking after them half of the time. What he doesn’t know is I throw bone marrow on them when I am working. Makes my job faster and gives me more free time so whatever you need to tell yourself, Steve.   Life may be easier switching every day between mines and farming, but it still doesn’t make me his biggest fan. I just don’t think he needs to fall in a hole, either. At least… Not right now. I would consider us to be frienemies; Friendly enemies. Yes. At times we pretend to get along, but most of the time, we are happiest doing our own thing.   6:00pm Mining this afternoon was super fun… Not! I got attacked by a partially hidden skeleton guy. I couldn’t see him enough to strike back until half of my life hearts were gone. I must not have made the space bright enough. Those guys are nasty. They are hard to kill too. If you don’t have a bow and arrow you might as well surrender. Plus, they kind of smell like death. Yuck.   Note to self: Bring more torches on the next mining day.   On the other hand, I came back with an overshare of Redstone, too much iron for my own good, and oddly, quite a few diamonds. I won’t be sharing the diamonds with anyone. They are far too precious. They will go to some new diamond pickaxes, and maybe some armor. Hmm, I could enchant those too! The iron and Redstone though, I am thinking a trip to the village may be in order. See what those up-tight weirdos are willing to trade me.   For now, it’s bedtime.   6:10pm You can only sleep at night. You can only sleep at night. You can only sleep at night.   6:11pm That stupid rule gets me every time. Why can’t I decide when it’s bed time?   First, I will go eat a cookie, then I will go to sleep. Day Thirty-Three   3:00am I just dreamt that our world was made of cookies.

An analogy for bodhichitta is the rawness of a broken heart. Sometimes this broken heart gives birth to anxiety and panic, sometimes to anger, resentment, and blame. But under the hardness of that armor there is the tenderness of genuine sadness. This is our link with all those who have ever loved. This genuine heart of sadness can teach us great compassion. It can humble us when we’re arrogant and soften us when we are unkind. It awakens us when we prefer to sleep and pierces through our indifference. This continual ache of the heart is a blessing that when accepted fully can be shared with all.

When that happens, magic will also die, because there will be no more gods walking among you or sleeping beneath the loam. Once we are dead, it will all fade away.” A knot pulled tight in Iris’s chest. It almost hurt to draw air, to think of what the woman described. A world in a cage. A world culled of freedom and magic, a memory of what had been. It made her think of her typewriter. The enchantment in small, ordinary things. She thought of the letters she had passed beneath her wardrobe door to Roman. Words that spanned kilometers and distance, grief and joy, pain and love. Words that made her drop her armor after years of clutching it close.

To me, the heart of all successful human interactions is we look at each other and we know we’re about to attempt something that is difficult/ impossible. And we look in each other’s eyes, and we shake hands, and we both vow to die before we quit. And that’s what I thought we did. This is such a simple idea to me. The vows are “til death do us part”—God agrees with me. The vow is not to your partner—the vow is to the weakest part of yourself. How could you not quit if that’s one of the options? The reason you say you’re gonna do it or die is because death is what happens when you don’t do it. Your mind is trying to protect you from hard things, to defend you from pain. The problem is, all of your dreams are on the other side of pain and difficulty. So, a mind that tries to seek pleasure and comfort and the easy way inadvertently poisons its dreams—your mind becomes a barrier to your dreams, an internal enemy. If it was easy, everybody would do it. The reason we make vows is because we know we’re about to do a hell walk. You don’t have to vow to do easy things. No one ever said, “I vow to eat every ounce of this crème brulee—I swear to the wide heavens that I will not leave one speck on my plate! And I vow to skip my run tomorrow morning, and I vow to sleep in!” We wouldn’t need to make vows if it was easy. The reason the vows are so extreme—“in sickness and in health, till death do us part”—is because life is so extreme. Nothing else can keep us there. That’s the point of devotion. I’m not against divorce, and I’m not against surrendering in a battle, but it has to be at the end of the battle—not while you’re putting your armor on, not the first scary moment, not the first casualty. In my experience, most people get divorced too soon, before they’ve extracted the lessons that will keep them from doing the exact same things in their next relationships. I’m still not totally sure what I was thinking. Maybe it was pain; maybe it was delirium. Maybe I wasn’t thinking at all. Maybe I didn’t need to think, because I was clear. I could see the North Star through the fog. On February 19, only five days after I received my divorce papers, I called Jada. I hadn’t seen her, or heard from her, in months. The phone seemed to ring forever. Click. “Hello?” “Whatup, Jada. It’s Will.” “Heyyyy!” she said. Her voice seemed to still echo with the magic of our night at the Baked Potato. “How you doin’?” “I’m good. Better now that I’m talkin’ to you.” In hindsight, I probably could have given her a little more context, or warning. “Hey, are you seeing anybody?” I said. Jada hesitated—partly stunned, partly confused. “Um, no. Why?” “Cool, you’re seeing me now,

You'd sleep better without the clothes." "You get ideas when I'm naked." "Darling Eve, I get ideas when you're wearing riot armor. All I'm after is a bit of sleep, I promise you." She wiggled out of the jeans, the shirt, then gave him a mock scowl when he slid in beside her, drew her against him. "Don't even think about engaging thrusters." "Quiet." He kissed the top of her head, snuggled her in. "Go to sleep.

I write this at the beginnings of my PMDD episode. The fog is rolling in, fears that never preoccupy my mind have taken root, and irrational thoughts are starting to sprout like an invasive species on the land. ​​​​​​​​​ There is a part of me that just wants to hide. Wants to throw in the towel. To just stop all the tasks, the doing, and the management. Let the wild take over. Inside I am the watchman, the guard holding the horde at bay. I feel my anger quickening as social interactions feel like sandpaper on my skin. When I lose myself in the awful, in the shadows, I remember there cannot be shadows without light. And when I turn my inner eye towards the flame, I remember how fleeting all this is. That like all the times before, this will pass, the horde will retreat, and I will be left with a field of wild flowers. At my core I am an artist that transmutes my pain into beauty. I weave my words together into a song that awakens my inner allies and guardians. I make my life beautiful, even if it's simply by using my imagination. To put it simply, I force myself to take in the good. I force myself to see beauty within the swamp. I force myself to search for the inner island of safety, rather than surrender to the bog. Today is hard, but I can do hard things. I am in the swamp, but for today what if I am a Swamp Princess. What if this place, were beautiful to me? What if I adored the crocks and the mud and snakes? What if for today, this sandpaper I am feeling on my skin, was polishing and smoothing the stony armor? What if, just for today, I was the person my inner child wished for when she cried herself to sleep?

Timid, dim witted eyes peer through the dark shadows of the dense forest and blinked, as the rhythm of the steady rain continued to beat down upon them, through the magic of a Grand Master Wizard. The cold mountain air breathed in wet, fresh and crisp, as the two bumblers huddled together in the forest for warmth and in wait. All within the camp seemed tranquil and calm. Suddenly without warning, the sleeping figures began to glow with the glimmering dust the cagy, old Wizard had deposited around the slumbering camp. The glittering and glimmering powder began to spark and flit all around the army camp with the spirited life of fairy fire bees, or perhaps more to the point, tiny, tormenting furies. Edgerton/Assassins of Dreamsongs 172 For that is what they quickly became, "tiny, tormenting furies"! Men awoke from the night, shrieking and screaming, as if they had been burned . . . for indeed they had! Where the sparkling dust touched, blankets caught on fire and clothes were engulfed in tiny, tormenting flames. The horizon was lit up, as all of the figures in the camp danced around in torment, against the blackness of the night. Men darted about the camp in panic and agony, screaming in supreme surprise and torment. Confused beyond belief, they ran into each other and became entangled in ridiculous heaps of flesh, cloth and hot armor. The whole army became piles of human clumps of torment, writhing on the ground. Panic ruled the night and even the small forest creatures stopped their nightly routines, to stare at the odd sight of the ridiculous creatures; arms and legs flailing about. Two rather comical figures strolled casually into the panic ridden encampment, whistling badly a stale, romantic tune. The two bumblers walked in slow, trembling saunters while whistling and laughing hysterically in fear. They both were as casual, as obvious trembling can allow one to be, when they approached the giant, blond Nobleman chained to the tree. The fairy fire bees bypassed the two bumblers with their tormenting magic. With stuttering steps and downcast eyes, they made their way to the tree and the man who would be King. Garish roared uncontrollably with laughter, at the sight of the writhing army and the two bumblers here for his rescue. Edgerton/Assassins of Dreamsongs 173 "We've c-c-come to s-s-save you my Lord." Godfrey stammered out the words trembling, nearly swallowing his tongue. Both stiffened in absolute fear, as they watched the turmoil the Wizard had caused around them, expecting discovery at any moment! Garish finally found his breath. "Well, let's get on with it! The furies can't last forever, although I wish they would!" "Oh right!" Godfrey fumbled around in his clothes for the magic key Arkin had given him. "The magic key, it must be around here somewhere. Did the Old Man give the key to you Humphrey?" "No, I thought you had it!" Humphrey scowled, already seeing his head in the guillotine. "Well, someone's got to have it!" Garish roared. A brawny guard in agonizing pain turned and caught sight of the fumbling escape. Screaming a battle cry, the burly guard stalked forward, to challenge them. Garish brought the chains up around the brute's neck and crushed him against the tree, the sparkling furies making him shriek for mercy. "Ah . . .here it is!" Godfrey exclaimed finding the magic key in his tunic. The key glowed with a golden power all its’ own, as he fished it from his pocket. His fingers trembled beyond that which he could remember, as he fitted the key into the lock. The chains quickly melted to the ground, to his delight and he laughed, as they all turned to flee. Edgerton/Assassins of Dreamsongs 174 Their escape was immediately hampered by a confrontation with a huge Knight, as he rose from the ground, to challenge them. Garish buried both fists into the giant's stomach, in hammering blows and then bore his powerfully bulk up over his head.

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. The conversation moved swiftly to the latest edition of “Have I Got News for You.” “Oh, Mummy, it was hilarious,” laughed William. “They had a photo of Mrs. Parker Bowles and a horse’s head and asked what the difference was. The answer was that there isn’t any!” Diana absolutely exploded with laughter. We talked about which was the hottest photo to get. “Charles and Camilla is still the really big one,” I said, “followed by you and a new man, and now, of course, William with his first girlfriend.” He groaned. So did Diana. Our “big ones” are the most intimate parts of their personal lives. It was a weird moment. I am the enemy, really, but we were getting on well and sort of developing a better understanding of each other as we went along. Lunch was turning out to be basically a series of front-page exclusive stories--none of which I was allowed to publish, although I did joke that “I would save it for my book”--a statement that caused Diana to fix me with a stare, and demand to know if I was carrying a tape recorder. “No,” I replied, truthfully. “Are you?” We both laughed, neither quite knowing what the answer really was. The lunch was one of the most exhilarating, fascinating, and exasperating two hours of my life. I was allowed to ask Diana literally anything I liked, which surprised me, given William’s presence. But he was clearly in the loop on most of her bizarre world and, in particular, the various men who came into it from time to time. The News of the World had, during my editorship, broken the Will Carling, Oliver Hoare, and James Hewitt scoops, so I had a special interest in those. So, unsurprisingly, did Diana. She was still raging about Julia Carling: “She’s milking it for all she’s worth, that woman. Honestly. I haven’t seen Will since June ’95. He’s not the man in black you lot keep going on about. I’m not saying who that is, and you will never guess, but it’s not Will.” William interjected: “I keep a photo of Julia Carling on my dartboard at Eton.” That was torture. That was three fantastic scoops in thirty seconds. Diana urged me to tell William the story of what we did to Hewitt in the Mirror after he spilled the beans in the ghastly Anna Pasternak book. I dutifully recounted how we hired a white horse, dressed a Mirror reporter in full armor, and charged Hewitt’s home to confront him on allegations of treason with regard to his sleeping with the wife of a future king--an offense still punishable by death. Diana exploded again. “It was hysterical. I have never laughed so much.” She clearly had no time for Hewitt, despite her “I adored him” TV confessional.

In the evening, she took a sleeping pill. As the months passed, she became much kinder to me than she had been, but her new solicitude had an impersonal quality, as if she were tending a homeless man on the street rather than her husband. She stopped sleeping in Matt's bed and returned to ours, but I rarely joined her, choosing instead to sleep in my chair. One night in February, I woke up to find Erica covering me with a blanket. Rather than opening my eyes, I pretended that I was still asleep. When she put her lips to my head, I imagined pulling her toward me and kissing her neck and shoulders, but I didn't do it. At the time, I was like a man encased in a heavy suit of armor, and inside that corporeal fortress I lived with a single-minded wish: I will not be comforted. As perverse as it was, this desire felt like a lifeline, the only shred of truth left to me. I feel quite sure that Erica knew what I felt, and in March she announced a change.

That night it was difficult to sleep because an armored car was patrolling on our roof and checking the documents of the cats which always prowl there. I was told that only one cat had his papers on him but he too was arrested. After all, an ordinary car carrying authentic personal documents is enough to arouse justified suspicion.

Never slumbering and never sleeping, he is always going about as a lion seeking whom he may devour. An unseen enemy, he is always near us, about our path and about our bed, and spying out all our ways. A murderer and a liar from the beginning, he labors night and day to cast us down to hell. Sometimes by leading into superstition, sometimes by suggesting infidelity, sometimes by one kind of tactics and sometimes by another, he is always carrying on a campaign against our souls. "Satan has desired to have you, that he may sift you as wheat." This mighty adversary must be daily resisted if we wish to be saved. But "this kind goes not out" but by watching and praying and fighting and putting on the whole armor of God. The strong man armed will never be kept out of our hearts without a daily battle (Job 1:7; 1 Pet. 5:8; John 8:44; Luke 22:31; Eph. 6:11).

She wore the armor for the rest of the day. She clanked happily through the halls. She clanked cheerfully up and down the stairs. Relieving herself proved something if an inconvenience, but this, too, she mastered after some strategic unbuckling in the powder room. When night fell, she was tempted to see what sleeping in the armor would feel like, until Silas gave her a disapproving look and she submitted to its removal immediately.

Dave didn’t know how, but somehow he had fallen back to sleep, and when he woke the sunlight was streaming through the windows. “Right,” mumbled Carl, sliding out from his bed and climbing up into his diamond golem armor, which had been sat in the corner of the room, “let’s go and check this island out.” “Just a few more minutes, Mummy,” Captain Nitwit muttered. “I don’t want to get up yet.” “Um, your mummy isn’t here,” said Carl. Captain Nitwit opened his eyes and looked about the room with a confused expression.

Jackie Kennedy came into the ballroom in an exquisite gown of ivory satin embroidered with pearls. “I’m so sorry to hear you aren’t feelingwell,” she said, hurrying to Rosemary’s side. Rosemary explained about the mouse-bite, minimizing it so Jackie wouldn’t worry. “You’d better have your legs tied down,” Jackie said, “in case of convulsions.” “Yes, I suppose so,” Rosemary said. “There’s always a chance it was rabid.” She watched with interest as white-smocked interns tied her legs, and her arms too, to the four bedposts. “If the music bothers you,” Jackie said, “let me know and I’ll have it stopped.” “Oh, no,” Rosemary said. “Please don’t change the program on my account. It doesn’t bother me at all, really it doesn’t.” Jackie smiled warmly at her. “Try to sleep,” she said. “We’ll be waiting up on deck.” She withdrew, her satin gown whispering. Rosemary slept a while, and then Guy came in and began making love to her. He stroked her with both hands—a long, relishing stroke that began at her bound wrists, slid down over her arms, breasts, and loins, and became a voluptuous tickling between her legs. He repeated the exciting stroke again and again, his hands hot and sharp-nailed, and then, when she was ready-ready-more-than-ready, he slipped a hand in under her buttocks, raised them, lodged his hardness against her, and pushed it powerfully in.Bigger he was than always; painfully, wonderfully big. He lay forward upon her, his other arm sliding under her back to hold her, his broad chest crushing her breasts. (He was wearing, because it was to be a costume party, a suit of coarse leathery armor.) Brutally, rhythmically, he drove his new hugeness. She opened her eyes and looked into yellow furnace-eyes, smelled sulphur and tannis root, felt wet breath on her mouth, heard lust-grunts and the breathing of onlookers. This is no dream, she thought. This is real, this is happening. Protest woke in her eyes and throat, but something covered her face, smothering her in a sweet stench. The hugeness kept driving in her, the leathery body banging itself against her again and again and again. The Pope came in with a suitcase in his hand and a coat over his arm. “Jackie tells me you’ve been bitten by a mouse,” he said. “Yes,” Rosemary said. “That’s why I didn’t come see you.” She spoke sadly, so he wouldn’t suspect she had just had an orgasm. “That’s all right,” he said. “We wouldn’t want you to jeopardize your health.” “Am I forgiven, Father?” she asked. “Absolutely,” he said. He held out his hand for her to kiss the ring. Its stone was a silver filigree ball less than an inch in diameter; inside it, very tiny, Anna Maria Alberghetti sat waiting. Rosemary kissed it and the Pope hurried out to catch his plane.

The greater one is in me that the one who is in the world, and nothing shall by any means harm me. I command you demons to not come anywhere near my dwelling place in the night while I am sleeping or at any other time.

As she turned from him and looked at Trivona, she was assailed by a vague feeling of discomfort, for there was something very pathetic in the sleeping Trivvie. By day she was a rebel, full of the lust of life, battling for power, and yet more power, for freedom and yet more freedom; but, asleep, she was innocent, helpless, vulnerable. Barbara felt it was wrong to see Trivvie thus; it was like a treachery. Trivvie would hate to be seen without her armor on. “Sweet, aren’t they?” Mrs. Marvell whispered. “Sweet,” agreed Barbara, thinking of the elephant pit.

in little things like management of tongue and temper as well as in great things like the government of kingdoms – the Christian’s warfare must unceasingly go on. The enemy we fight keeps no holidays, never slumbers, and never sleeps. As long as we have breath in our bodies we must keep our armor on and remember that we are on an enemy’s ground. “Even on the brink of Jordan,” said a dying saint, “I find Satan nibbling at my heels.” We must fight until we die.

And then you ended up in Chechnya, I understand" Sergei continued. "And what, exactly, did you do there?" Jack inquired. "Exactly? We would surround the villages, call out the village elders and give them our ultimatum: if you don't give up your arms, we'll raze your village to the ground. At night, all men, including boys, would go away in to the mountains on the request of the village elders. By the time we rolled in, there were no more weapons or rebels. Only the elderly, women and children. And nobody could leave." "Why not?" "Because we blocked off the main road, that's why," Fedor said as if he was losing patience with Jack. "On approaching any house, I'd fire inside. If anyone jumped out, woman or child, I mowed them down. The guys behind me would torch the bodies with the flamethrowers to get rid of the evidence. We moved through the village, house by house, firing, throwing grenades into the basements, burning. At one train station we hung ten high school kids, and then six more students that were hiding inside a school. On the outskirts we found about a hundred and thirty people, women, children, old men, anyone who didn't run away. We locked them in a grain elevator, chained the door and then torched it. What we left behind were not ruins, just flat ground." "Are you saying that the Russian soldiers killed everyone in some village and nobody has heard of it?" Jack asked him incredulously. It was inconceivable that such a barbaric event could take place in today's world without CNN and BBC dissecting it under a microscope. "Not everyone was killed. Some of the villagers, the ones who survived, were transported to a filtration camp." "What's a filtration camp?" "You really don't' know anything, do you? Or are you pretending?" "Try me," Jack said. "There is this filtration camp in Osinovka. Each room houses twenty to twenty five prisoners, who sleep on the concrete floor. The guards line them up against the wall and practice karate kicks in the head or in the groin. One of our guys liked to put electricity to the bodies, to see them fry. It takes a long time to get used to that smell. If a prisoner tried to untie their hands, the sergeant would cut them off at the wrists. If a prisoner tried to take off the black blindfold, the sergeant would put out his eyes with his thumbs. He was a piece of work from Archangelsk, our sergeant. During one helicopter ride, he dropped three prisoners because he was bored." "But how is it possible that the world news did not report any of this?" Jack persisted in knowing. Fedor raised his eyebrows in a manner that made Jack feel foolish for asking such a question. "Simple. For the next forty-eight hours we didn't allow anyone to enter Samashki, not even the Red Cross. That gave us plenty of time. Our armored vehicles flattened their bones so that the relatives could not identify them later. Exactly what news are you talking about? Are you from this world or not?" Fedor's wolf-like stare made Jack very nervous.

But the succubus I had tried to exorcise by marrying a woman of peace still held title to my soul. I saw the room distort and the faces of the people around me turn into Grecian masks, and I heard a sound in my ears like the steel tracks of armored vehicles wending their way across an unforgiving land. I heard people screaming and I did not know if their voices were from my sleep or if my own deeds had transformed me into an object of horror and pity in the eyes of my fellow man.

Has the Second Coming come and I missed it? If so, I need to find a priest quickly.” Adara looked up from her food to find Corryn watching her from a short distance away. As always, Corryn was dressed as a bony man in a white tunic and brown leather breeches. “Nay. Why do you ask?” Corryn shrugged as she drew near to take a seat across the table from her. “You look as if it came and passed you by.” She pulled a piece of bread from the loaf on a wooden trencher near Adara’s elbow. “So what has happened to cause you to look so miserable?” Sighing, Adara set down her knife. “I was merely trying to understand why it is that my husband runs from me as if I’m a leper.” Corryn swallowed the bread she was chewing and gave her an arch stare. “Are you?” “Nothing’s fallen from me yet.” Corryn laughed as she reached to share Adara’s wine cup. “Men are ever woman’s bane. ’Tis a pity they look so delectable in armor, otherwise I would say good riddance and be gladly done with them.” Her outspokenness was startling to Adara, who would never speak of such things…Of course, she might think it, but she would never say such. Then again, Corryn spent a great deal of time in male company. “Does Ioan know you think in this manner?” “Ioan?” Corryn asked with a laugh. “He still thinks I’m ten-and-three in age. Would you believe he told the men that the reason they can’t ever let me see them naked is that I was once a prisoner in the Holy Land and that the Saracens…” She paused as if trying to think of a way to phrase her thoughts. “Well, please don’t be offended, but that my male member was cut off for spite and that if I saw any of theirs, it would either devastate me or cause me to go insane and kill them while they sleep. More like, Ioan would kill them while they slept, but he would blame me for it nonetheless.” “Are you serious?” “Aye. The man is most mad. He claims ’tis also the reason my voice is so high and unchanged.” She rolled her eyes as if even the merest thought of Ioan were too much to bear. “But let us return to your problem with Christian. I think you should tie him down until he learns not to flee from you anymore. From what I hear of our men, a lot of them like that.

He bolted into the house where the old man slept on the porch. Chickens scattered. Oskar, Nia, and the children hurried after Podo into the shadowy old building. The old man stirred and muttered a few garbled words but kept sleeping. Once inside, Janner could see nothing. He could hear Podo’s familiar tap-clunk and his raspy gripe: “Been so long I can scarce remember how to find the…” Janner heard the rattle and clomp outside of armored Fangs on the march. It didn’t sound like a large unit, but it was enough to make him tremble. “Papa, they’ve stopped,” Nia whispered.

Ash nodded. A moment later, sleep overtook him and he began to dream. He stood in the gamescape of Immortal Defenders, Vale in armor at his side.

body-harming reactions to Cptsd stress: Hypervigilance Shallow and Incomplete Breathing Constant Adrenalization Armoring, i.e., Chronic muscle tightness Wear and tear from rushing and armoring Inability to be fully present, relaxed and grounded in our bodies Sleep problems from being over-activated Digestive disorders from a tightened digestive tract Physiological damage from excessive self-medication with alcohol, food or drugs