Aurora Burning Quotes

Love is a drop in the ocean of what I feel for her. Love is a single sun in a heaven full of stars.

But they have not seen their sun die. Their people burn. Their world end. And they do not know, yet, that there are some breaks that cannot be fixed.

Auri starts snorting when she giggles too hard. I learn that Kal has a deep, booming laugh you can feel in your chest. I learn that Scarlett cannot be bluffed, no matter how hard you try.

You will not lose me. I am yours forever. When the fire of the last sun fails, my love for you will still burn.

all of this is unfolding as it was supposed to. The only way out is through.

There is nothing as painful, or as simple, as doing what is right.’ 

Like she is the piece that has been missing all my life.

Know that we believe in you. And you must believe in each other. We the Legion. We the light. Burning bright against the night

In an instant. Those who truly know us see the whole, never just a part.

I try to congure, to raise my own spirits, from wherever they are. I need to remember what they look like. I try to hold them still behind my eyes, their faces, like pictures in an album. But they won't stay still for me, they move, there's a smile and it's gone, their features curl and bend as if the paper's burning, blackness eats them. A glimpse, a pale shimmer on the air; a glow, aurora, dance of electrons, then a face again, faces. But they fade, though I stretch out my arms towards them, they slip away from me, ghosts at daybreak. Back to wherever they are. Stay with me, I want to say. But they won't. It's my fault. I am forgetting too much.

There's something about Twitch. He's just...raw. Everything about him is raw. And gritty. And unbound. He's a raging fire. And I'm a fragile moth fluttering into the flame. Sooner or later, I'm going to get burned. I know this. Will I even survive the heat?

Did you think of that? Who burns his viol will not dance, I know. To cymbals, Romney.

Swoon.

I love you,” he says gently, running his fingers along my hairline. “Never going to stop loving you, baby.” “Ev,” I breathe, feeling tears burn my throat. “I’ll wait for you to find it again. I’d wait forever for you.

To be a leader, you have to set the example. To be a leader, you have to be the kind of person you’d want to follow you.

We the legion We the light Burning bright against the sky.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Burning gas is what you are, Up above the world so high, You’ll burn gas until you die, Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Burning gas is what you are.

Our past makes us what we are.” “No,” I tell him, remembering the weight lifting from my shoulders as I let go of my mom and dad. “No, it doesn’t. We choose who we are. Every day. Every minute. The past is gone. Tomorrow is worth a million yesterdays, don’t you see?

 ‘There is nothing as painful, or as simple, as doing what is right.’ 

But there is no comparing loss, be’shmai. I did not mean to do so. I only meant to say that I understand what you feel. And if I could take your pain away, I would.

I don’t like to lose control. That’s why I don’t drink. I don’t do drugs. I don’t even swear.

There’s nothing as painful, or as simple, as doing what’s right,

All five of us in the back are crushed up against one wall as Zila stomps the accelerator, takes a corner like she’s tired of living,

He arched a brow. “Miss Lahey, are you flirting with me?” “Well, hot stuff, if you have to ask, I’m not doing it right.” His laughter rumbled low, slithering heat underneath my skin. I pulled him to me, backing him against the table, risking a literal firestorm as his lips laid upon mine with a burning promise of— “That’s how babies are made!” I reeled back and knocked over a chair. “Aunt M!” “Sex kills!” “M, seriously.” Mom walked into the kitchen and rolled her eyes. My aunt patted her belly. “It killed my waistline.” Then she cackled. Who was the banshee now? “Ayden and Rory sitting in a tree,” Selena sing-songed, “making b-a-b-b-y-n-g.” “Mom!” “Selena,” Mom admonished. “That’s not the right spelling.

I say solidarity is knowing the future is long and wide, with room for everyone on earth to enter. I say it's taking the long view of the job. Helping you onto the wall, so you can reach down and pull me up. Lifting you into the tree, so you can shake down peaches for two. That solidarity is a two-way street, fires burning at both ends, and the only well in the middle.

I try to conjure, to raise my own spirits, from wherever they are. I need to remember what they look like. I try to hold them still behind my eyes, their faces, like pictures in an album. But they won't stay still for me, they move, there's a smile and it's gone, their features curl and bend as if the paper's burning, blackness eats them. A glimpse, a pale shimmer on the air; a glow, aurora, dance of electrons, then a face again, faces. But they fade, though I stretch out my arms towards them, they slip away from me, ghosts at daybreak. Back to wherever they are.

He was terrified he was making the wrong choice. He relied on his instincts in his work but now he didn’t dare trust them. The wound of betrayal still burned raw in his chest and another cut might be the killing blow. But it was the end of the world and there may be no more second chances.

I try to conjure, to raise my own spirits, from wherever they are. I need to remember what they look like. I try to hold them still behind my eyes, their faces, like pictures in an album. But they won't stay still for me, they move, there's a smile and it's gone, their features curl and bend as if the paper's burning, blackness eats them. A glimpse, a pale shimmer on the air; a glow, aurora, dance of electrons, then a face again, faces. But they fade, though I stretch out my arms towards them, they slip away from me, ghosts at daybreak. Back to wherever they are. Stay with me, I want to say. But they won't. It's my fault. I am forgetting too much. ***

It was no amalgam of colors comparable to anything in mortal existence. It was as if all natural colors had been mutated into a painfully lush iridescence by some prism fantastically corrupted in its form; it was a rainbow staining the sky after a poison deluge; it was an aurora painting the darkness with a blaze of insanity, a blaze that did not burn vigorously but shimmered with an insect-jeweled frailness.

Something to consider: going as fast as we are, if we flew right into the outer layers of the sun, we might emerge again from the sun before there was time for us to heat and burn up. That would create a very considerable deceleration. Indeed, as a calculation quickly shows, too much deceleration. We would perhaps survive; our humans, not. So the more complicated solution of gravitational drag must be studied. Would however have been interesting to fly right through a star and out the other side!

From around the corner's edge a grotesque light was trickling out, the first intimations of an ominous sunrise over a dark horizon. I dimly recognized this colored light, though not from my waking memory. It grew more intense, now pouring out in weird streams from beyond the solid margin of the building. And the more intense it grew, the more clearly I could hear the screaming voice that had called out to me in a dream. I shouted his name, but the swelling colored brightness was a field of fear which kept me from making any move toward it. It was no amalgam of colors comparable to anything in mortal experience. It was as if all natural colors had been mutated into a painfully lush iridescence by some prism fantastically corrupted in its form; it was a rainbow staining the sky after a poison deluge; it was an aurora painting the darkness with a blaze of insanity, a blaze that did not burn vigorously but shimmered with an insect-jeweled frailness. And, in actuality, it was nothing like these color-filled effusions, which are merely a feeble means of partially fixing a reality uncommunicable to those not initiated to it, a necessary resorting to the makeshift gibberish of the mystic isolated by his experience and left without a language to describe it. ("The Dreaming In Nortown")

I need to remember what they look like. I try to hold them still behind my eyes, their faces, like pictures in an album. But they won't stay still for me, they move, there's a smile and it's gone, their features curl and bend as if the paper's burning, blackness eats them. A glimpse, a pale shimmer on the air; a glow, aurora, dance of electrons, then a face again, faces. But they fade, though I stretch out my arms towards them, they slip away from me, ghosts at daybreak. Back to wherever they are. Stay with me, I want to say. But they won't.

CENTURY, AFTER TERRANS DISCOVERED IN THE TWENTIETH THAT IT KILLED YOU!” “It took them two hundred years to stop doing it?” I ask, bewildered. “ISN’T THAT INSANE?” Magellan says. “HONESTLY, DOESN’T THAT SOUND LIKE A SPECIES THAT WOULD BENEFIT FROM SOME KIND OF BENEVOLENT MACHINE OVERLORD?” “Silent mode,” Tyler says.

I try to conjure, to raise my own spirits, from wherever they are. I need to remember what they look like. I try to hold them still behind my eyes, their faces, like pictures in an album. But they won’t stay still for me, they move, there’s a smile and it’s gone, their features curl and bend as if the paper’s burning, blackness eats them. A glimpse, a pale shimmer on the air; a glow, aurora, dance of electrons, then a face again, faces. But they fade, though I stretch out my arms towards them, they slip away from me, ghosts at daybreak. Back to wherever they are. Stay with me, I want to say. But they won’t. It’s my fault. I am forgetting too much.

You told me expecting change is like repeatedly putting your hand in a fire and expecting it not to burn you,” Aurora says. “I want to hold your hand so you don’t have to put it in the fire, Russ. Recovery isn’t easy for anyone, not just the addict; for you, too. It sounds like your dad has taken the step to try to get better, but nobody is going to force you to forgive him. I will physically fight your brother for you if he tries.

He wanted to grind every Federation world into dust beneath his boot as his army blazed a trail of blood and corpses all the way to Seneca. He wanted to storm their inner sanctum and fire a laser into the skull of their Field Marshal while their Chairman watched, then fire a laser into the skull of their Chairman. He wanted to burn their bodies on a pyre and carry the ashes back to Deucali and spread them on his mother’s consecrated grave.

He pointed to the burning building as sirens heralded the approach of emergency personnel. “This is your job—this is your life. Blood and death and pain and vengeance and justice. And sometimes it sucks, but it’s worth it.” Caleb sighed, but not in resignation. “I know this is the job, and it is worth it. But I refuse to believe it’s my life. Not only and not forever.” Samuel pinched the bridge of his nose and waved dismissively with his other hand. “F***ing romantic.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, paid in Aurora Leigh (1857) her well-known tribute to Keats in lines that are neither good as poetry nor accurate as fact, but in their chaotic way none the less passionately felt and haunting: — By Keats’ soul, the man who never stepped In gradual progress like another man, But, turning grandly on his central self, Ensphered himself in twenty perfect years And died, not young, (the life of a long life Distilled to a mere drop, falling like a tear Upon the world’s cold cheek to make it burn For ever;) by that strong accepted soul, I count it strange and hard to understand That nearly all young poets should write old.

I try to conjure, to raise my own spirits, from wherever they are. I need to remember what they look like. I try to hold them still behind my eyes, their faces, like pictures in an album. But they won't stay still for me, they move, there's a smile and it's gone, their features curl and bend as if the paper's burning, blackness eats them. A glimpse, a pale shimmer on the air; a glow, aurora, dance of electrons, then a face again, faces. But they fade, though I stretch out my arms toward them, they slip away from me, ghosts at daybreak. Back to wherever they are. Stay with me, I want to say. But they won't. It's my fault. I am forgetting to much.

The history of persecution is a history of endeavors to cheat nature, to make water run up hill, to twist a rope of sand. It makes no difference whether the actors be many or one, a tyrant or a mob. A mob is a society of bodies voluntarily bereaving themselves of reason and traversing its work. The mob is man voluntarily descending to the nature of the beast. Its fit hour of activity is night. Its actions are insane, like its whole constitution. It persecutes a principle; it would whip a right; it would tar and feather justice, by inflicting fire and outrage upon the houses and persons of those who have these. It resembles the prank of boys, who run with fire-engines to put out the ruddy aurora streaming to the stars. The inviolate spirit turns their spite against the wrongdoers. The martyr cannot be dishonored. Every lash inflicted is a tongue of fame; every prison a more illustrious abode; every burned book or house enlightens the world; every suppressed or expunged word reverberates through the earth from side to side. The minds of men are at last aroused; reason looks out and justifies her own and malice finds all her work in vain. It is the whipper who is whipped and the tyrant who is undone.

If one could nominate an absolutely tragic day in human history, it would be the occasion that is now commemorated by the vapid and annoying holiday known as “Hannukah.” For once, instead of Christianity plagiarizing from Judaism, the Jews borrow shamelessly from Christians in the pathetic hope of a celebration that coincides with “Christmas,” which is itself a quasi-Christian annexation, complete with burning logs and holly and mistletoe, of a pagan Northland solstice originally illuminated by the Aurora Borealis. Here is the terminus to which banal “multiculturalism” has brought us. But it was nothing remotely multicultural that induced Judah Maccabeus to reconsecrate the Temple in Jerusalem in 165 BC, and to establish the date which the soft celebrants of Hannukah now so emptily commemorate. The Maccabees, who founded the Hasmonean dynasty, were forcibly restoring Mosaic fundamentalism against the many Jews of Palestine and elsewhere who had become attracted by Hellenism. These true early multiculturalists had become bored by “the law,” offended by circumcision, interested by Greek literature, drawn by the physical and intellectual exercises of the gymnasium, and rather adept at philosophy. They could feel the pull exerted by Athens, even if only by way of Rome and by the memory of Alexander’s time, and were impatient with the stark fear and superstition mandated by the Pentateuch. They obviously seemed too cosmopolitan to the votaries of the old Temple—and it must have been easy to accuse them of “dual loyalty” when they agreed to have a temple of Zeus on the site where smoky and bloody altars used to propitiate the unsmiling deity of yore. At any rate, when the father of Judah Maccabeus saw a Jew about to make a Hellenic offering on the old altar, he lost no time in murdering him. Over the next few years of the Maccabean “revolt,” many more assimilated Jews were slain, or forcibly circumcised, or both, and the women who had flirted with the new Hellenic dispensation suffered even worse. Since the Romans eventually preferred the violent and dogmatic Maccabees to the less militarized and fanatical Jews who had shone in their togas in the Mediterranean light, the scene was set for the uneasy collusion between the old-garb ultra-Orthodox Sanhedrin and the imperial governorate. This lugubrious relationship was eventually to lead to Christianity (yet another Jewish heresy) and thus ineluctably to the birth of Islam. We could have been spared the whole thing.

was fogged by their combined breath, the night seemed to grow colder and more mysterious, with only the brightest stars burning pinpricks in the aurora.

She betrayed you,'' Mortania fumes. She did. Unforgivably. But in this moment, damn my feckless heart, I want to go to her. Burn this cursed tower to the ground and fly away with Aurora in my arms.

Love isn’t a little flower drowning in the ocean, you young fool. Love is an inferno. It’ll burn wherever it’s growing.

YES, I’M HERE, I’M HERE, NOBODY PANIC!” comes a small, muffled voice. “Silent mode,” Zila says.

A cold east wind wailed over the waste; a white fog like curd lay on the water, and the surface of the saltings, clinging to the surface and rising scarce above three feet from it. Here and there it lifted itself in a vaporous column, and moved along in the wind like a white spectral woman, nodding her head and waving her arms cumbered with wet drapery. Above, the sky was clear, and a fine crescent moon sparkled in it without quenching the keenness of the stars. Cassiopeia was glorious in her chair, Orion burned sideways over Mersea Isle. No red gleam was visible to-night from the tavern window at the City, the veil of fog hung over it and curtained it off. To the north-west was a silvery glow at the horizon, then there rose a pure ray as of returning daylight, it was answered by a throb in the north-east, then it broke into two rays, and again united and spread, and suddenly was withdrawn. Mehalah had often seen the Aurora, and she knew that the signals portended increased cold or bad weather.

How can this woman have spent half her life in Nostraza and turn out like that? It should have broken her. It should have left her as a shell. But somehow, she survived both that and Atlas’s Trials and came out on the other end in a blazing ball of confident fire that threatens to burn me up every time she walks into the room.

It’s addictive. The way she hates me. The way she burns with that fire that glows so white hot, I ache whenever she looks at me. Like she’s always just on the edge of erupting and blowing my entire life to pieces.

With her in my embrace, I am complete again. Wish her beside me, there is nothing I cannot do "You will not lose me," I vow. "I am yours forever. When the fire of the last sun fails, my love for you will still burn.

I told you I had anger problems before. Because of what she said, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t turn into my father, that I wouldn’t be a violent person. But it’s there, deep down, always burning and building, just waiting to snap.” “Because you’re afraid of it!” “Ask Declan,” he said uneasily, and his dark eyes met mine for a moment. “Ask him what it’s like to watch me snap, because he is one of two people who have been on the wrong end of it.” His admission surprised me, and I wondered what they had been fighting over in the first place, but I let it go when he continued talking. “I vowed to myself that I would protect people instead of hurt them. That’s why I became a Marine. That’s why I plan to go through the academy to be a police officer. But the smallest thing could still set me off. Do you know what it feels like to constantly have anger simmering in your veins?” he asked. “It’s sickening, and it’s dark. So, yes, my mother was crazy, but she was right. It wasn’t until one night at a party with the most beautiful girl I have ever seen that I realized that, and finally understood what she meant. Because this anger inside? It’s dark. And you, Aurora? You’re good and you’re light, and I knew that from the moment I saw you; just like I knew what would happen if I was allowed to touch you.” Like he had that first night a year ago, he pressed his hand to my chest and whispered, “My dark would stain your good . . . but I couldn’t walk away from you.” I placed my hand over his, and said, “You’re more afraid of your anger than I ever could be, even knowing what I do now.” Jentry looked like he was going to disagree, so I pressed harder against his hand and spoke over him. “Do you see me?” His eyes searched mine. “I’ve always seen you.” I released his hand to place mine on his chest, and whispered, “Just as I have always seen you. Nothing about what you told me has changed anything.” The

What other girls, Aurora? There have been no other girls since you, because I couldn’t get past you. You are the only girl I have refused to tell anyone about because I never wanted to share even the thought of you. I would have given anything to make that night continue—anything to come back to the States and have you there waiting for me. Now that you’re in front of me again, I want nothing more than to remind you over and over again what that night was like. I want to make you forget every other guy, because the thought of you with anyone else has a rage burning inside me that I hate more than you’ll ever understand. It is a constant struggle not to pull you into my arms and keep you. But despite all of that, I owe Declan my life. I hate myself for wanting what is his, and I would never forgive myself if he ever looked at me with the betrayal that goes with the guilt I already feel.” Her mouth slowly parted as the weight of my words crashed down on her. Confusion, awe, and denial lingered in her eyes. “I told you I see you, so I see what you’re doing. You’re spouting off bullshit to protect yourself. I get it, because I’m doing it, too. Like before, I’ve been trying to give you every reason to walk away from me before I take you and never let you go. That guilt that you’re feeling just being near me, I feel it. That pain of being so close and keeping yourself from what you need, I feel that, too. If you hurt, then I hurt. And this hurts, because it feels like I need you to fucking breathe, and you’re just out of my reach.” A

Are you hurt?” asked Sergeant Burns, with reluctant professional solicitude.

Aurora, I don’t like this. Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?

Miss Deya,” the leader finally said, and his tone was the condescending sort I’d only heard people use with children. “You come from a simpler way of living, I know, and although your father certainly has the best intentions, I must alert you to the fact that this is an inexcusable arrangement. You cannot expect a halfling to protect you. You cannot trust their kind. This creature will likely turn on you, and if it does not, you will certainly lose much esteem here in the capital to be seen in this sort of … company.” My pulse kicked up a notch as one of the sons sneered at Aurora, but Deya seemed unphased by the leader’s speech. “It’s very generous of you to consider my reputation as carefully as you do your own,” she assured him, “however I would not dismiss Miss Solana for anything.” The elven beauty wound her slender arm around Aurora’s affectionately. “Miss Solana absolutely loves burning men alive for me. She’s irreplaceable.” Deya sent a sweet smile to the three sons, and I tried not to laugh at the expression on their faces.

[Ranger-Mage – Radiance] You’ve glowed like the moon. Twinkled like the stars. Shined like the Aurora. Burned liked a fire. Now, Blaze like the sun! +10 Free Stats, +5 Speed, +5 Vitality, +20 Mana, +20 Mana Regen, +20 Magic Power, +20 Magic Control per level.

I held the tattoo gun out to her. “I want you to tattoo me. Mark me, Aurora. You already marked my heart; you might as well mark the outside too.

You have them all fooled.” I don’t mean to speak, but seeing her pull on her sunshine mask irritates me for some reason. “They see the sweet, biddable Aurora because that’s what you want them to see. They have no idea that you’re a vat of gasoline just waiting for the right match strike to set you aflame. One wrong move and you burn down all of Carver City.