Awaiting Your Arrival Quotes

Why are we sitting way back here?" "This way we can see the whole room and do some recon." "Great, here we go with the black op lingo. Were you a Navy SEAL or some special forces officer in a past life?" Sally asked. "It's a gift. It comes so naturally that you think I've had formal training." Jen winked. "Yeah, that's exactly what I was thinking. And, by the way, Hogwarts accepted you and is awaiting your arrival." "Ha ha, good one," Jen said dryly. "You have my vote – you'll be mayor in no time.

Love when you can. Cry when you have to. Be who you must, it's a part of the plan. Await your arrival, with simple survival, and one day we'll all understand.

O thrice-romantic Master, would you not rather take long walks in a blooming cherry tree alley with your friend and listen to Schubert in the evenings? Would you not rather write by candlelight with a quill pen? Like Faust, would you not rather sit over a retort in the hopes of crafting a new homunculus? That is your desination, there. A house awaits you, with an aging servant; the candles are already lit and will soon extinguish as dawn inevitably arrives. Take this path, Master, and farewell! I must go.

Your words, thoughts, intentions and actions today are your best hope, comfort, building blocks and insurance for tomorrow. But it is now alone that is guaranteed – tomorrow is a dream, a maybe a potential gift. It’s now - not tomorrow - where happiness and fulfilment live...awaiting your discovery. It’s all this that will make each extra day that may arrive extra special and rich.

How, then, to imagine, the expansive heart of this God—greater than God—who takes seven buses, just to arrive at us. We settle sometimes for less than intimacy with God when all God longs for is this solidarity with us. In Spanish, when you speak of your great friend, you describe the union and kinship as being de uña y mugre—our friendship is like the fingernail and the dirt under it. Our image of who God is and what’s on God’s mind is more tiny than it is troubled. It trips more on our puny sense of God than over conflicting creedal statements or theological considerations. The desire of God’s heart is immeasurably larger than our imaginations can conjure. This longing of God’s to give us peace and assurance and a sense of well-being only awaits our willingness to cooperate with God’s limitless magnanimity.

When you really want something, when you lust, seek, desire, await, anticipate or expect, when you sit in front of the TV after the late news twirling a plastic spoon in a bowl of lukewarm skim milk and saturated puffs of Special K, praying for nine or so hours to pass so that you can check the morning mail to see if the college accepted, the one-night stand wrote, the tax refund arrived or Publisher's Clearing House made you the winner of a dream house in Wisconsin, when you're really looking forward to something, that's when Fortuna dispatches a couple of her handmaidens to drop a load of shit on you.

At certain moments, when death is close, the veils pull back between this world and the next. Heaven and earth overlay. When they do, it is possible to glimpse certain souls already departed. You can see them awaiting your arrival. And they can see you coming. *

Dear Miss Bird, The Lady of North Farm had asked us to send you this map to Briery Swamp Lake, just in case. She thought you might be having trouble finding it on your own, and she is expecting you to be prompt. We are very sorry for the danger you will endure, but we eagerly await your arrival should you survive it, as we are in great need of your help. The Lady joins me in sending you good luck and best wishes. Sincerely, Ms. H. Kari Kagaki T. E. A. Travel

At certain moments, when death is close, the veils pull back between this world and the next. Heaven and earth overlay. When they do, it is possible to glimpse certain souls already departed. You can see them awaiting your arrival. And they can see you coming.

Those Lost Of Eden, the Heavens await your arrival.

Your greater purpose is already written in the fabric of your being; your purpose awaits your arrival.

There are times when you awake, and sense the coming day hovering just beyond the edge of the world. Your heartbeat quickens, anticipating the blinding brightness of it, grasping its awesome possibility. You await the first rays of dawn, feeling that God must have whispered something in your ear just before you roused from sleep. You can hear the voice, not quite the words, but you feel, you know with everything in you, that a promise has been made. The dark night of your soul is fading and dawn will soon arrive.

What I've been shown by my Angels confirms that we don't die alone, and are immediately greeted by Angels and Spirits. We are whisked away to Heaven, where eager Departed Loved Ones await to celebrate our arrival. I hope that information will someday lessen your grief after a loss.

If I had hoped to skirt the sense of being a stranger in the world by coming to Ghana, then disappointment awaited me. And I had suspected as much before I arrived. Being a stranger concerns not only matters of familiarity, belonging, and exclusion but as well involves a particular relation to the past. If the past is another country, then I am its citizen. I am the relic of an experience most preferred not to remember, as if the sheer will to forget could settle or decide the matter of history. .I am a reminder that twelve million crossed the Atlantic Ocean and the past is not yet over. I am the progeny of the captives. I am the vestige of the dead. And history is how the secular world attends to the dead.

A beautiful, majestic, and awe-inspiring sea awaits you. And you are welcome to enter however you see fit - to wade, to walk lightly, to swim for your life, or to sail. The decision is yours. No one will stop you from returning to the sandy towel on the shore if you desire. But I’d like to think you chose to come to the sea for a reason. You have been called to the sea. There is something here that you need, and it has awaited your arrival for quite some time.

I was amused and somewhat astonished at a critic a few years back who wrote an article analyzing Dandelion Wine plus the more realistic works of Sinclair Lewis, wondering how I could have been born and raised in Waukegan, which I renamed Green Town for my novel, and not noticed how ugly the harbor was and how depressing the coal docks and railyards down below the town. But, of course, I had noticed them and, genetic enchanter that I was, was fascinated by their beauty. Trains and boxcars and the smell of coal and fire are not ugly to children. Ugliness is a concept that we happen on later and become selfconscious about. Counting boxcars is a prime activity of boys. Their elders fret and fume and jeer at the train that holds them up, but boys happily count and cry the names of the cars as they pass from far places. And again, that supposedly ugly railyard was where carnivals and circuses arrived with elephants who washed the brick pavements with mighty steaming acid waters at five in the dark morning. As for the coal from the docks, I went down in my basement every autumn to await the arrival of the truck and its metal chute, which clanged down and released a ton of beauteous meteors that fell out of far space into my cellar and threatened to bury me beneath dark treasures. In other words, if your boy is a poet, horse manure can only mean flowers to him; which is, of course, what horse manure has always been about.

You know, time... You arrive and an adventure awaits. It's the morning of the first day and you feel you have the whole time in the world. But moments pass by, slow at first yet at an ever speeding pace, slipping through your fingers like the golden grains of sand, faster, faster. And then it's already the last day, and the last hour, and the plane is waiting for you, ready to touch the sky. And there will be another sunset, and another sunrise, miles and miles away; and you can never come back... Because you can't enter the same river twice.

We probably won’t arrive home in time for your wedding.” She pictured the wedding gown hanging in her closet. The veil. The shoes. Even the strands of pearls, all laid out awaiting her return. Return. The heavy word weighed on her as Ira continued to snore and Oscar continued to study her in a way that made her feel captivating and beautiful. Camille stood up, not sure if she’d been inching toward him. His lips had certainly seemed to be getting closer. “Randall will understand, I’m sure. He’s a very reasonable person,” she said, her voice rapid. Oscar started to stand. “Where are you going?” “No, please, sit,” she said. “I…I just need to, um, use the trees.” Camille jiggled her nearly empty canteen to strengthen her excuse. She turned in a circle until she spotted a copse of trees. She had to be somewhere other than hidden in the flowers with Oscar, somewhere she could try and convince herself that Randall might one day be able to look at her with the same intensity Oscar had just displayed. Oscar sat back down, and Camille trampled the grass on the way to the safety of the trees. Another attack of guilt snuck up on her as she glanced back at Oscar, who was watching her walk away. Camille would miss her own wedding-and she didn’t care one bit.

1.    Sun Tzu said: Whoever is first in the field and awaits the coming of the enemy, will be fresh for the fight; whoever is second in the field and has to hasten to battle will arrive exhausted. 2.    Therefore the clever combatant imposes his will on the enemy, but does not allow the enemy’s will to be imposed on him. [One mark of a great soldier is that he fight on his own terms or fights not at all.77 ] 3.    By holding out advantages to him, he can cause the enemy to approach of his own accord; or, by inflicting damage, he can make it impossible for the enemy to draw near. [In the first case, he will entice him with a bait; in the second, he will strike at some important point which the enemy will have to defend.] 4.    If the enemy is taking his ease, he can harass him; [This passage may be cited as evidence against Mei Yao-Ch’en’s interpretation of I. ss. 23.] if well supplied with food, he can starve him out; if quietly encamped, he can force him to move. 5.    Appear at points which the enemy must hasten to defend; march swiftly to places where you are not expected. 6.    An army may march great distances without distress, if it marches through country where the enemy is not. [Ts’ao Kung sums up very well: “Emerge from the void [q.d. like “a bolt from the blue”], strike at vulnerable points, shun places that are defended, attack in unexpected quarters.”] 7.    You can be sure of succeeding in your attacks if you only attack places which are undefended. [Wang Hsi explains “undefended places” as “weak points; that is to say, where the general is lacking in capacity, or the soldiers in spirit; where the walls are not strong enough, or the precautions not strict enough; where relief comes too late, or provisions are too scanty, or the defenders are variance amongst themselves.”] You can ensure the safety of your defense if you only hold positions that cannot be attacked. [I.e., where there are none of the weak points mentioned above. There is rather a nice point involved in the interpretation of this later clause. Tu

... - the Age of Anxiety, dating from around August 1945, is twenty three years old this very month - and her daily life is in essence a sandbagging operation against its seas and their tides. But this is worry and it is a little different from anxirty: Particular rather than pervasive, it arrives unannounced, without anxiety's harbingers, dread and forboding, the fearful tea in which we steep awaiting oblivion. Instead, worry turns up on the door step, the overbearing, passive aggressive out-of-town relative who insists he "won't be any trouble" even as he displaces every known routine and custom of the house for days and weeks on end; as he expropriates the sofa, the bathroom, the contents of the liqour cabinet and cigarette carton, and monopolises the telephone and the ear of anyone within shouting distance. Worry displaces the entire mood, the entire ethos of the house - even if that mood hitherto consisted largely of anxiety - and replaces it with something more substantive, more real than mere mood. You would be mightily pleased to have ordinary anxiety back in residence, for under worry there is no peace whatsoever, not even the peace of cynicism, pessimism or despair. Even when the rest of the world is abed, worry is awake, plundering the kitchen cupboards, raiding the refrigerator, playing the hifi, watching the late show until the national anthem closes the broadcast day; then noisily treading the halls, standing in your bedroom door, wondering if by any chance you are still up (knowing that of course you are), breathing and casting its shadow upon you, the silhouette of its slope-shouldered hulk and towering black wings.

DEAR YOUNG DEMIGOD, Your destiny awaits. Now that you have discovered your true parentage, you must prepare yourself for a difficult future—fighting monsters, adventuring across the world, and dealing with temperamental Greek and Roman gods. I don’t envy you. I hope this volume will help you on your journeys. I had to think long and hard before publishing these stories, as they were given to me in the strictest confidence. However, your survival comes first, and this book will give you an inside look at the world of demigods—information that may help keep you alive. We’ll begin with “The Diary of Luke Castellan.” Over the years, many readers and campers at Camp Half-Blood have asked me to tell the story of Luke’s early days, adventuring with Thalia and Annabeth before they arrived at camp. I have been reluctant to do this, as neither Annabeth nor Thalia likes to talk about those times. The only information I have is recorded in Luke’s own handwriting, in his original diary given to me by Chiron. I think it’s time, though, to share a little of Luke’s story. It may help us understand what went wrong for such a promising young demigod. In this excerpt you will find out how Thalia and Luke arrived in Richmond, Virginia, chasing a magic goat, how they were almost destroyed in a house of horrors, and how they met a young girl named Annabeth. I have also included a map of Halcyon Green’s house in Richmond. Despite the damage described in the story, the house has been rebuilt, which is very troubling. If you go there, be careful. It may still contain treasures. But it most assuredly contains monsters and traps as well. Our second story will definitely get me in trouble with Hermes. “Percy Jackson and the Staff of Hermes” describes an embarrassing incident for the god of travelers, which he hoped to solve quietly with

Lady Thornton, how very good of you to find the time to pay us a social call! Would it be too pushing of me to inquire as to your whereabouts during the last six weeks?” At that moment Elizabeth’s only thought was that if Ian’s barrister felt this way about her, how much more hatred she would face when she confronted Ian himself. “I-I can imagine what you must be thinking,” she began in a conciliatory manner. He interrupted sarcastically, “Oh, I don’t think you can, madam. If you could, you’d be quite horrified at this moment.” “I can explain everything,” Elizabeth burst out. “Really?” he drawled blightingly. “A pity you didn’t try to do that six weeks ago!” “I’m here to do it now,” Elizabeth cried, clinging to a slender thread of control. “Begin at your leisure,” he drawled sarcastically. “here are only three hundred people across the hall awaiting your convenience.” Panic and frustration made Elizabeth’s voice shake and her temper explode. “Now see here, sir, I have not traveled day and night so that I can stand here while you waste time insulting me! I came here the instant I read a paper and realized my husband is in trouble. I’ve come to prove I’m alive and unharmed, and that my brother is also alive!” Instead of looking pleased or relieved he looked more snide than before. “Do tell, madam. I am on tenterhooks to hear the whole of it.” “Why are you doing this?” Elizabeth cried. “For the love of heaven, I’m on your side!” “Thank God we don’t have more like you.” Elizabeth steadfastly ignored that and launched into a swift but complete version of everything that had happened from the moment Robert came up behind her at Havenhurst. Finished, she stood up, ready to go in and tell everyone across the hall the same thing, but Delham continued to pillory her with his gaze, watching her in silence above his steepled fingertips. “Are we supposed to believe that Banbury tale?” he snapped at last. “Your brother is alive, but he isn’t here. Are we supposed to accept the word of a married woman who brazenly traveled as man and wife with another man-“ “With my brother,” Elizabeth retorted, bracing her palms on the desk, as if by sheer proximity she could make him understand. “So you want us to believe. Why, Lady Thornton? Why this sudden interest in your husband’s well-being?” “Delham!” the duchess barked. “Are you mad? Anyone can see she’s telling the truth-even I-and I wasn’t inclined to believe a word she said when she arrived at my house! You are tearing into her for no reason-“ Without moving his eyes from Elizabeth, Mr. Delham said shortly, “Your grace, what I’ve been doing is nothing to what the prosecution will try to do to her story. If she can’t hold up in here, she hasn’t a chance out there!” “I don’t understand this at all!” Elizabeth cried with panic and fury. “By being here I can disprove that my husband has done away with me. And I have a letter from Mrs. Hogan describing my brother in detail and stating that we were together. She will come here herself if you need her, only she is with child and couldn’t travel as quickly as I had to do. This is a trial to prove whether or not my husband is guilty of those crimes. I know the truth, and I can prove he isn’t.” “You’re mistaken, Lady Thornton,” Delham said in a bitter voice. “Because of its sensational nature and the wild conjecture in the press, this is no longer a quest for truth and justice in the House of Lords. This is now an amphitheater, and the prosecution is in the center of the stage, playing a starring role before an audience of thousands all over England who will read about it in the papers. They’re bent on giving a stellar performance, and they’ve been doing just that. Very well,” he said after a moment. “Let’s see how well you can deal with them.

Don’t look back; look only towards the horizon of your dreams. They await you and you need only make the effort to arrive.

I shall crave for love at the bottom of the abyss, until I find you... (fragment from "Awaiting your arrival", chapter Hope)

Sometimes to see your work’s rightful place you have to walk to the edge of the precipice and search the deep chasms. You have to see that the universe is not formless and dark throughout, but awaits simply the revealing light of your own mind. Your art does not arrive miraculously from the darkness, but is made uneventfully in the light. What

Cruel misapprehension, you choose the shape and cast of this wey clay in your hands, as the wheel ever spins Tempered in granite, this fired shell hardens into the scarred shield of your deeds, and the dark decisions within Settle hidden in suspension, unseen in banded strata awaiting death's weary arrival, the journey's repast to close you out We blind grievers rise you high, honouring all you never were and what rots sealed inside follows you to the grave I stand now among the mourners, displeased by my suspicions as the vessel's dust drifts— oh how I despise funerals. The Secrets of Clay Panith Fanal

Dear moon, my days are waiting for your arrival and my nights are awaiting your arrival.

Andy’s Message Around the time I received Arius’ email, Andy’s message arrived. He wrote: Young, I do remember Rick Samuels. I was at the seminar in the Bahriji when he came to lecture. Like you I was at once mesmerized by his style and beauty, which of course was a false image manufactured by the advertising agencies and sales promoters. I was surprised to hear your backroom story of him being gangbanged in the dungeon. We are not ones to judge since both of us had been down that negative road of self-loathing. This seems to be a common thread with people whom others considered good-looking or beautiful. In my opinion, it’s a fake image that handsome people know they cannot live up to. Instead of exterior beauty being an asset, it often becomes a psychological burden. During the years when I was with Toby, I delved in some fashion modeling work in New Zealand. I ventured into this business because it was my subconscious way of reminding me of the days we posed for Mario and Aziz. It was also my twisted way of hoping to meet another person like me, with the hope of building a loving long-term relationship. It was also a desperate attempt to break loose from Toby’s psychosomatic grip on my person. Ian was his name and he was a very attractive 24 year old architecture student. He modeled to earn some extra spending money. We became fast friends, but he had this foreboding nature which often came on unexpectedly. A sentence or a word could trigger his depression, sending the otherwise cheerful man into bouts of non-verbal communication. It was like a brightly lit light bulb suddenly being switched off in mid-sentence. We did have an affair while I was trying to patch things up with Toby. As delightful as our sexual liaisons were there was a hidden missing element, YOU! Much like my liaisons with Oscar, without your presence, our sexual communications took on a different dynamic which only you as the missing link could resolve. There were times during or after sex when Ian would abuse himself with negative thoughts and self-denigration. I tried to console him, yet I was deeply sorrowed about my own unresolved issues with Toby. It was like the blind leading the blind. I was gravely saddened when Ian took his own life. Heavily drugged on prescriptive anti-depressant and a stomach full of extensive alcohol consumption, he fell off his ten story apartment building. He died instantly. This was the straw that threw me into a nervous breakdown. Thank God I climbed out of my despondencies with the help of Ari and Aria. My dearest Young, I have a confession to make; you are the only person I have truly loved and will continue to love. All these years I’ve tried to forget you but I cannot. That said I am not trying to pry you away from Walter and have you return to me. We are just getting to know each other yet I feel your spirit has never left. Please make sure that Walter understands that I’m not jeopardizing your wonderful relationship. I am happy for the both of you. You had asked jokingly if I was interested in a triplet relationship. Maybe when the time and opportunity arises it may happen, but now I’m enjoying my own company after Albert’s passing. In a way it is nice to have my freedom after 8 years of building a life with Albert. I love you my darling boy and always will. As always, I await your cheerful emails. Andy. Xoxoxo

Exactly. Once you’ve disposed of your cargo, sail to Dartmouth in their ship. Then sink it, reboard the Fortune, which will be in the cove we agreed on, and await my arrival.” So saying, Armon held up the black gem, pivoting it slowly in order to admire all its facets. “I’ve waited a long time for this day. And no one and nothing is going to stand in my way.” “Good morning.” That deep baritone penetrated Courtney’s haze, and she blinked, taking

Happy Thirty-Third Birthday On your 33rd birthday, go to your local gas station and pick up the newspaper. The classified ads will have a small segment commemorating your birth and asking you to turn around. Upon looking behind you, a man dressed in a black cloak will be advancing in your direction. If you choose to run away, he will hunt you for the rest of your life, eventually killing you. However, if you await his arrival and show no intent of fleeing, he will give you a small package. Inside, you shall find the object you most desire.

Panhandle's residence was situated in a remote part of the country, and at this moment I have no clear recollection of the complicated journey, with its many changes at little-known junctions, which I had to make in order to find my friend. The residence stood in the midst of elevated woodlands, and was well hidden by the trees. An immense sky-sign, standing out high above all other objects and plainly visible to the traveller from whatever side he made his approach, had been erected on the roof. The sky-sign carried the legend "No Psychologists!" It turned with the wind, gyrating continually, and when darkness fell the letters were outlined in electric lamps. Only a blind man could miss the warning. This legend was repeated over the main entrance to the grounds, with the addition of the word "Beware!" I thought of mantraps and ferocious dogs, and for some minutes I stood before the gates, wondering if it would be safe for me to enter. At last, remembering how several friends had assured me that I was "no psychologist," I concluded that little harm awaited me, plucked up my courage, and boldly advanced. Beyond the gates I found the warning again repeated with a more emphatic truculence and a finer particularity. At intervals along the drive I saw notice-boards projecting from the barberries and the laurels, each with some new version of the original theme. "Death to the Psychology of Religion" were the words inscribed on one. The next was even more precise in its application, and ran as follows:— "Inquisitive psychologists take notice! Panhandle has a gun, And will not hesitate to shoot." Somewhat shaken I approached the front door and was startled to see a long, glittering thing suddenly thrust through an open window in the upper storey; and the man behind the weapon was unquestionably Panhandle himself. "Can it be," I said aloud, "that Panhandle has taken me for an inquisitive psychologist?" "Advance," cried my host, who had a keen ear for such undertones. "Advance and fear nothing." A moment later he grasped me warmly by the hand, "Welcome, dearest of friends," he was saying. "You have arrived at an opportune moment. The house is full of guests who are longing to meet you." "But, Panhandle," I expostulated as we stood on the doorstep, "I understood we were to be alone. I have come for one purpose only, that you might explain your familiarity with—with those people." I used this expression, rather than one more explicit, because the footman was still present, knowing from long experience how dangerous it is to speak plainly about metaphysical realities in the hearing of the proletariat. "Those very people are now awaiting you," said Panhandle, as he drew me into the library. "I will be quite frank with you at once. This house is haunted; and if on consideration you find your nerves unequal to an encounter with ghosts, you had better go back at once, for there is no telling how soon the apparitions will begin.

Is it too late to enjoy some lunch?” “No,” he said, not looking as relieved as she’d hoped; but then, it was what it was. Both of them would have to find their way past their personal disappointment on their own. “Not at all.” He reached for the wine again as she took the rest of the containers out of the hamper and began setting out a more organized spread. “Although,” he said, easing the cork up and out as his grin flickered back to life, like a long-awaited ray of sunshine after a storm, “I don’t suppose you have anything else to wear.” She gave a little spurt of laughter at that, relieved that he wasn’t going to make it harder on either of them, and was perversely that much more turned on. His eyes widened when she grinned and held up a finger, then scrambled back aft and retrieved her canvas tote. She came back wearing the faded hoodie and ancient fishing hat. “Better?” she asked, plopping back down on the blanket and modeling her new look. His gaze skimmed over her legs, then back up to her face, his own eyes glittering now. “Not in the least.” She swallowed. Hard. When he surprised her by not looking away, her palms began to sweat. Then he shocked her speechless by reaching behind his neck, grabbing the back collar of his shirt, and pulling it over his head and off. A life spent on a cattle station had given him a deeply golden, well-muscled torso. One she’d thought about often, though, it turned out, her imagination hadn’t remotely done justice to reality. Even though she’d been on Cameroo Downs for a full year in a wide variety of different situations, this was the first time she’d ever seen him with his shirt off. He grinned for real at her dumbfounded expression, then began filling his plate as if he’d done nothing more than take off his hat. More at ease than she’d seen him since she’d arrived at the dock. “I suppose I deserve that,” she said, shaking her head in a silent touché. He just winked at her, then went back to filling his plate with another lobster roll, a few more hush puppies, and a small mound of blueberries. She laughed--what else was there to do?--then shook her head as he handed her a glass of wine. She lifted it in a toast. “To good food, good company, and a few hours of solid torture on the high seas.” Chuckling, he lifted his glass, tapped hers, then held her gaze over the rim as he took a sip. She was now intimately acquainted with his reference to aching teeth and need. You’re in so much trouble, Kerry McCrae.

My dear, you have…” His eyes bore into mine so intensely that I fight the urge to look away. “So many questions. For starters, I’m Calum. Welcome to the Resistance. Well, a small part of it. We’ve been patiently awaiting your arrival.

There is a beautiful rainbow awaiting your arrival down the road, with all the celebration and glamour. Get ready.

What about grandchildren? Don’t you want grandchildren?” His mother was silent for a long moment. “You’re not going to like this answer, darling, but not particularly. Which is not to say I wouldn’t welcome any you had. I am not, however, awaiting their arrival in order to give my existence meaning.

For all the years you’ve lived…This is what you have to show as a result?.. tell me, …what has become of you?.. are you not who you expected to be? Have you no idea of the person you’d become? Did you not know this very day was awaiting your arrival? Judgement has dawned and exposed you… did you not come prepared? Why did you deny yourself a chance to change? Than to remain here … the same?

My Spring and Your Eyes After a long winter spell the Spring is here, But without seeing it reflect through your eyes, for me it appears to be nowhere, Everything, the buds of May, even the bright day seem to be glad, But without you around my love, every surrounding and every corner looks so sad, Million flowers await to bloom from every hopeful bud of Spring, But to me, without you, nothing, no matter how beautiful does any joy bring, The freshness of light green hue, covers everything, even the morning dew, But I only think of you, even though the nature looks so beautiful and new, The Spring has rescued everything from the veil of seemingly permanent gloom, But I, my thoughts, and my joys wait for you, to be able to bloom, In the distance I can hear the river flowing happily to meet the sea, But I wait for my beautiful Spring that only through your eyes I can feel and see, And I know the Spring is here and it surely has arrived, But for me, the Spring bliss is incomplete unless from your senses it is derived, To me the real Spring shall feel like you and be as beautiful as you, But with you not here, maybe it is Spring time somewhere, but not here , not here, because this year it does not feel like you, So I shall let them rejoice and say “the Spring is here!” But for me as long as you are not here, it is Spring there but not here, not here!

Poirot and I were expecting our old friend Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard to tea. We were sitting round the tea-table awaiting his arrival. Poirot had just finished carefully straightening the cups and saucers which our landlady was in the habit of throwing, rather than placing, on the table. He had also breathed heavily on the metal teapot, and polished it with a silk handkerchief. The kettle was on the boil, and a small enamel saucepan beside it contained some thick, sweet chocolate which was more to Poirot’s palate than what he described as ‘your English poison’.

Holy Father, may I ask, is there such grave danger in the codex? Would it not simply remain an object of academic discussion, among philosophers?” “Philosophers have students, and students who love their teachers spread their ideas into every realm of human endeavor. Abstract academic discussions have a way of leaving their mark on entire civilizations, as the events of this century have proved all too well. In another age this codex might have been relatively harmless, especially if we were to be blessed with the original Greek text, against which it could be measured. But the true text eludes us, and thus we must now contend with a chimera that has come back from the dead and that uses Aristotle’s great name as a charm and a passkey into men’s minds.” Still, Elijah wondered if the Pope were not making more of the danger than was warranted. “I hear your silent reservations, Father Elijah. But you must understand that the arrival of this document is no accident. It can be understood only within the larger context of this present struggle. Iustitia is not, in the end, about justice. Its purpose is to reconcile men to an ultimate bondage, but it does so—oh, bitterest of ironies—it does so in the name of freedom.” “And so, you are faced with a dilemma?” “Indeed. Should the manuscript be quietly placed in the archives, awaiting a better time in history? Or should we open it to the world and bear the burden of knowing that some souls may be misled by it?” “Have you decided?” “I have. The manuscript will be open for study by all serious scholars. Translations will be made and published in various languages, in editions that carry an explanation of its background, its shortcomings, and the danger of misinterpretations.” “If I may be frank, Your Holiness, I think your decision is wise. The modern age has styled us as anti-intellectual.

In order to guard those who must be protected, Our plan has changed and been perfected. A team of three will unite for the trip, To the Head of the Sky, on the northern tip. A cave of horrors will set the stage, Where green boots rest, and never age. Further plans will await your arrival, Destroying this note will ensure your survival. Seek the moonlark to set you on your way, Then find us at sunrise on the third day.

A pending applause awaits your arrival from the weary travels through the long dimly lit halls where classes dismissed you out into their fruitful plantations of resumes where secular knowledge showed the extent of its worth.

Dear Sophia, Welcome to this crazy world of ours. I sure hope you like to travel, because your mom and I haven’t planted roots anywhere in almost two years. Scratch that . . . I just hope you like boats. Thankfully, it’s been a long time since I’ve been to a hospital, and this time I couldn’t be happier for the reason that brought me back to one. In fact, sitting next to a hospital bed for two days awaiting your arrival made me think of someone else. Someone I loved once, and someone who led me to your mom. Jessica paused to look up at me, and I leaned in and gave her a kiss. I want you to know how much your mom and I love each other, and how much we love you. How much we’ve talked about your arrival, and how eager we are to get to know you better. We can’t wait to hear the sound of your voice. We can’t wait to see if you’ll like dresses or jeans, or prefer blue to pink. We can’t wait to show you the water and our world, and we can’t wait to see what an amazing woman you’ll become. We’ve imagined all of it. Mom and I want you to know that you can do anything with your life. That we will take care of you and teach you everything we know and give you every opportunity to follow your dreams. Imagine us smiling and cheering you on every step of the way. As for what you do afterward . . . we can only imagine.

That come Saturday, when you don’t show in Samara, he’ll come looking, even if it means violating his leave policy. You’re pinning your hopes that he’ll break the rules for you. That he’ll save you, since your own mother hasn’t lifted a finger for you.” My throat moves even though I’m too dehydrated to swallow. “He won’t wait until Saturday,” Liam promises. “That’s what I’m counting on.” Varrish nods. “I waited all year for you to break a rule so I could question you under Codex. Your mom’s a real rule follower that way. But you have no idea the joy it gives me to know that Fen Riorson’s son will break Codex by abandoning his post to come to your aid, that he’ll be strapped to this chair next. And he will give me the answers I seek.” Wait. What? “Shit. He’s not just questioning you. He’s setting a trap for Xaden.” Liam tenses. My heart starts to pound. “You have so much power here, Sorrengail. You alone can save Lieutenant Riorson from what awaits him should he arrive. Tell me what I want to know, and I won’t hurt him.” For a heartbeat, I’m tempted. The thought of Xaden being tortured makes my hand curl and my nails catch on the rough grain of the wooden slab. “Where are you trying to ward? What are the marked ones up to?” “Hold the line, Vi.” Liam rests his hand against my side, and gods it feels so real. “Talking would lead to the deaths of every living thing on this Continent. If they had anything on Xaden, he’d already be in custody. They’re not going to hurt him. They can’t.” Logically, I know that, but emotionally…

I pictured in detail my bodily decomposition. What would go first? Would I stay fresh longer if I left the air conditioning on high? How long before the smell seeped into the apartment hallway, or through ventilation shafts into other apartments? My poor neighbors. I should send them flowers. I had an overwhelming desire to turn in my body and donate it wholesale. "I have so many organs!" I'd declare to anyone who'd listen, mutter to myself several times a day. This is just weird enough to sound like a sick joke to another human being but for me it never was: I was gobsmacked by my own wasteful monopoly on body parts. Dozens of people die every day awaiting organs, and here I was hogging so many of them—perfectly good pancreas, lungs, liver, kidneys that could save the lives of people who could then go on to win Nobel Prizes or solve refugee crises. That aspiration ran so deep, I felt cheated to discover you can only donate organs inf you die while stabilized, on a ventilator—not if you're dead on arrival at a hospital. (If that fact doesn't sound devastating to you, you clearly don't dream up suicides designed so that no one will find you for at least thirty hours.)