Awoken Quotes

Let them tremble in fear at what they had awoken.

She had awoken this morning and slipped the amethyst ring off her finger. It had felt liked a blessed release, a final shadow lifted from her heart.

Waking up begins with saying am and now. That which has awoken then lies for a while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized I, and therefrom deduced I am, I am now. Here comes next, and is at least negatively reassuring; because here, this morning, is where it has expected to find itself: what’s called at home.

He had awoken too late for happiness, but not for strength, and could feel an austere joy, as of a warrior who is homeless but stands fully armed.

Love, be mystical as the flickering blue flame of night as the fully-awoken moon beneath cobwebs of passing clouds amidst chanting high-tides fuzzy, as my blanket big enough to illuminate a hundred thousand billion galaxies and just small enough to fit into my embrace.

That girl that had needed to be protected, who had craved stability and comfort . . . she had died Under the Mountain. I had died, and there had been no one to protect me from those horrors before my neck snapped. So I had done it myself. And I would not, could not, yield that part of me that had awoken and transformed Under the Mountain.

My child, I know you're not a child But I still see you running wild Between those flowering trees. Your sparkling dreams, your silver laugh Your wishes to the stars above Are just my memories. And in your eyes the ocean And in your eyes the sea The waters frozen over With your longing to be free. Yesterday you'd awoken To a world incredibly old. This is the age you are broken Or turned into gold. You had to kill this child, I know. To break the arrows and the bow To shed your skin and change. The trees are flowering no more There's blood upon the tiles floor This place is dark and strange. I see you standing in the storm Holding the curse of youth Each of you with your story Each of you with your truth. Some words will never be spoken Some stories will never be told. This is the age you are broken Or turned into gold. I didn't say the world was good. I hoped by now you understood Why I could never lie. I didn't promise you a thing. Don't ask my wintervoice for spring Just spread your wings and fly. Though in the hidden garden Down by the green green lane The plant of love grows next to The tree of hate and pain. So take my tears as a token. They'll keep you warm in the cold. This is the age you are broken Or turned into gold. You've lived too long among us To leave without a trace You've lived too short to understand A thing about this place. Some of you just sit there smoking And some are already sold. This is the age you are broken Or turned into gold. This is the age you are broken or turned into gold.

We who bore the mark might well be considered by the rest of the world as strange, even as insane and dangerous. We had awoken, or were awakening, and we were striving for an ever perfect state of wakefulness, whereas the ambition and quest for happiness of the others consisted of linking their opinions, ideals, and duties, their life and happiness, ever more closely with those of the herd. They, too, strove; they, too showed signs of strength and greatness. But as we saw it, whereas we marked men represented Nature's determination to create something new, individual, and forward-looking, the others lived in the determination to stay the same. For them mankind--which they loved as much as we did--was a fully formed entity that had to be preserved and protected. For us mankind was a distant future toward which we were all journeying, whose aspect no one knew, whose laws weren't written down anywhere.

No one ever told me how sorrow traumatizes your heart, making you think it will never beat exactly the same way again. No one ever told me how grief feels like a wet sock in my mouth. One I’m forced to breathe through, thinking that with each breath I’ll come up short and suffocate.

He looked at me the way you’d look at a poodle that suddenly started reciting Hamlet.

You have managed what no one else has: you have awoken my heart. So, no, Sara, of all the words I’d use to describe you, fascinating would definitely be one of them.

She'd awoken that morning feeling . . . clear. The grief and pain were still there, writhing inside her, but for the first time in a long while, she felt as though she could see. As though she could breathe.

How can this be real?” I whispered. “I mean you... you... where you come from. Your world. It is so beyond everything I've ever known. And you would... you would take me to the Pumpkin Ball?” “Try and stop me.

There was something very fishy about Riley Bay.

The sky has turned the color of sandy red clay: orange cream. The heat of the day at its heaviest: the insects awoken from their winter slumber. I cannot bear the world.

But I can tell you I myself have made many mistakes. Things sometimes I would be ashamed to admit. But if it weren’t for those mistakes I wouldn’t have seen the beauty in me. I wouldn’t have awoken the goddess that lives in me. You see, goddesses although immortal were all flawed. They were all a bit extreme at their calling, and they were all betrayed and hurt at some point. They were even considered devious but what made them unique was their strength.

God bless the rain, and the storm clouds that bring it. God bless the music, and the voices that sing it. God bless the ones who sing everything wrong. God bless the creatures who do not belong. God bless the hearts and the souls who are grieving For those who have left, and for those who are leaving. God bless each perishing body and mind, God bless all creatures remaining behind. God bless the dreamers whose dreams have awoken. God bless the lovers whose hearts have been broken. God bless each soul that is tortured and taunted, God bless all creatures alone and unwanted.

My dark secret is I’ve always wished I was Gatsby. As heartbroken as he was and as horrible a fate as he endured, I admired that he loved. It’s a difficult thing to do.

May I be awoken by the thunder of Zeus & touched by his lighting. It only need strike once. Once is enough to ignite the soul with purpose.

It was war upon them all. Let them tremble in fear at what they had awoken.

Simon blinked himself awake, confused, for a moment, why he was in a dungeon that smelled of dung rather than his Brooklyn bedroom - then, once he got his bearings, confused all over again about why he was being awoken in the middle of the night by a wide-eyed Scotsman. "Is there a fire?" Simon asked. "There better be a fire. Or a demon attack. And I'm not talking about some puny lower-lever demon, mind you. You want to wake me up in the middle of a dream about rock superstardom, it better be a Greater Demon.

I’m a heartless optimist. This combination could make me lethal, but mostly it has led to a successful hermit lifestyle.

I... I cannot take you to the Pumpkin Ball.

Just kill me. My life is nothing without you. Drive me mad. Let me be your sustenance. Eat my soul. You’re… you’re tearing me apart!

Beauty isn't skin-deep. It's bone-deep. Heart-deep. Soul-deep. Only put to sleep. When we prick our finger on fear. Beauty can't be bought or made. It can only be awoken through laughter, and living, and love. Through being you and being true.

And then he heard Mad-Eye Moody’s voice, echoing in some distant chamber of his empty brain: Jump onto the desk . . . jump onto the desk. . . . Harry bent his knees obediently, preparing to spring. Jump onto the desk. . . . Why, though? Another voice had awoken in the back of his brain. Stupid thing to do, really, said the voice. Jump onto the desk. . . . No, I don’t think I will, thanks, said the other voice, a little more firmly . . . no, I don’t really want to . . . Jump! NOW! The next thing Harry felt was considerable pain. He had both jumped and tried to prevent himself from jumping — the result was that he’d smashed headlong into the desk, knocking it over, and, by the feeling in his legs, fractured both his kneecaps.

From me,” Kaltain said, in a voice that was dead and hollow and yet vicious. “It has always been there—asleep. And now it has been awoken. Shaped anew.

... the girl remained unmoving. Dead. And yet the Fate continued to hold her. 'Bring her back,' he said softly. 'I am sorry,' said the queen who'd just awoken. She was a petite thing. She's tried to pull her son away from the girl to stop his unnatural feeding, but her hands were not strong enough. The queen could not fight immortals physically, but she had an iron will forged of mettle and mistakes. 'You know I cannot do that.' The Fate finally looked up. 'Bring her back,' he repeated. For he also possessed an indomitable will. 'I know you can do it.' The queen shook her head remorsefully. 'My heart breaks for you- for this. But I will not do this. After bringing back Castor and seeing what he became, I vowed to never use that sort of magic again.' 'Evangeline would be different.' The Fate glowered at the queen. 'No,' she repeated. 'You wouldn't be saving this girl, you would be damning her. Just as we did to Castor. She wouldn't want this life.' 'I don't care what she wants!' roared the Fate. 'I don't want her dead. She saved you, you need to save her.' The queen took a shaky breath. If the story curse could have breathed, it would have held its breath. It hoped the queen would say yes. Yes to bringing her back, to turning her in to another terrible immortal. Despite what this Fate believed, the girl would be horrible- the ones with endless life always were, eventually.

Riley Bay wasn’t human. But if he wasn’t human, then what was he? An alien, sent to Earth to learn about humanity in preparation for an invasion? Riley was certainly weird enough to be an alien, but I didn’t see why the mother ship would send him to Portsmouth, Rhode Island, in the guise of a high schooler.

I have just awoken, having dreamed of music. The final chord fades away within me while I try to focus on individuals amid the living, breathing mass packed into this vast waiting room, in this mixture of sleep and weariness.

He was the heart of my world, my gravity, my sun. My life before him was a dream from which I’d joyously awoken. He turned this dusty cell into a prince’s chamber, hung it with satin and silks. I loved him.

I’m an anchor and he is the sea and I sink into his tenderness as he presses my hand to his heart.

Don't wait for people to dress your bed for you, do it yourself and you'll be glad to sleep and feel relaxed.

The tiny features below, taken together with the gentle mass of Montblanc towering above them, the Vanoise glacier almost invisible in the shimmering distance, and the Alpine panorama that occupied half the horizon, had for the first time in her life awoken in her a sense of the contrarieties that are in our longings.

The world is dictated by our desires rather than our thoughts. The prior puts the latter in motion.

Denial has rented a room in my head and frequently stomps around slamming doors.

This book has awoken something in me. I don't know what it is, but it feels good.

It was as if the man had awoken from a terrible dream only to find that those terrors were dwarfed by those in the waking world.

Without remorse she gave good-bye to her fantasies. They'd served their purpose, they'd awoken her heart to its potential. But as far as using them as a template for her life ...

Don’t fucking touch her,” he growled as black light cracked through the air, his Asteris awoken with fresh power.

Waking up begins with am and now. That which has awoken then lies for a while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized I, and therefrom deduced I am, I am now.

But my decision to create a disturbance by renovating my house had awoken a different reality, as though I had disturbed a beast sleeping in its lair. I had started to become, in effect, angry. I had started to desire power, because what I now realised was that other people had had it all along, that what I called fate was merely the reverberation of their will, a tale scripted not by some universal storyteller but by people who would elude justice for as long as their actions were met with resignation rather than outrage.

Yet a single sound, a single scent, already heard or breathed long ago, may once again, both in the present and the past, be real without being present, ideal without being abstract, as soon as the permanent and habitually hidden essence of things is liberated, and our true self, which may sometimes have seemed to be long dead, but never was entirely, is re-awoken and re-animated when it receives the heavenly food that is brought to it.

Stir up thy mind, and recall thy wits again from thy natural dreams, and visions, and when thou art perfectly awoken, and canst perceive that they were but dreams that troubled thee, as one newly awakened out of another kind of sleep look upon these worldly things with the same mind as thou didst upon those, that thou sawest in thy sleep.

Smash cut to a smoke-bombed quarantine, Guards like 'all signs correlate with sorcery', It's more a dormant cell of valor as awoken by the smell of sordid power and defecting shortly after, Fist bump dry land, brackish, cat nap 15, back to swiss-cheese the flagship, Uh, blue in the menacing grip of a day for which you're manifestly unfit.

He was seized by a cheerful sort of desperation. The whole world was against him, everything was going awry. However, the obstacles that the tunnels put in the way of his mission had awoken in Artyom a rage, and this obstinate rage re-lit his weakening vision with a rebellious fire, devouring in him any fear, sense of danger, reason and force.

Her hand accidentally brushed up against his chest. She froze. His breathing remained steady and regular. He had not awoken. She was about to pull her hand away, then stopped. Never had she touched a man’s chest. She waited a moment. His breathing was still constant, still regular. He was still asleep. Flattening her palm against his chest, she felt the tautness of his muscles. She moved her hand, slowly, tremulously, down his chest and across his stomach, feeling the firmness of his skin and his strong physique. He seized her hand, pushed it away, and turned his back to her.

I’m not in a position where I can blindly allow myself to be manipulated. I’m a robot who has awoken to the realization that I’ve been damaged so I can’t perform, so I can’t take my rightful place within this society. And I don’t want to be damaged anymore.

The belongings people accumulate throughout their lives will always own them. People seem to think if they had more they’d be happier or freer, but their possessions only chain them to the earth.

We who bore the mark might well be considered by the rest of the world as strange, even as insane and dangerous. We had awoken, or were awaking, and we were striving for an ever more perfect state of wakefulness, whereas the ambition and quest for happiness of the others consisted of linking their opinions, ideals, and duties, their life and happiness, ever more closely with those of the herd.

Oh, and Juliet," he said. I turned back. Half of his face was thrown in deep shadow, while the whites of his teeth gleamed in the distant lights from the salon. "I’ll be working in the laboratory late tonight. I’ve a good start on the new specimens. Don’t be alarmed if you’re awoken. The animals - they scream, you know. An unfortunate effect of vivisection. It keeps the whole household up." For a breath, the world seemed to freeze. And then the clouds rolled again, the wind howled again. I realized that he had charmed me, just like he charmed everyone. I’d thought I was so clever. I thought I could see past his manipulations. But I’d heard only what I wanted to. He’d never said the accusations were untrue. Just unfair.

I think I may have an addiction. A sex-maniac beast has awoken, and I am a horny mess nearly all the time. I almost feel suprised that I haven't yet grabbed Estelle and shoved my tongue down that beautiful girls throat. I'd probably get father with Estelle than with her brother. Oh my God. What is wrong with me?

DNA passes the blueprints of life between generations. Ever more complex life forms input information from sensors such as eyes and ears and process the information in brains or other systems to figure out how to act and then act on the world, by outputting information to muscles, for example. As some point during our 13.8 billion years of cosmic history, something beautiful happened. This information processing got so intelligent that life forms became conscious. Our universe has now awoken, becoming aware of itself. I regard it a triumph that we, who are ourselves mere stardust, have come to such a detailed understanding of the universe in which we live.

So I wasn’t hallucinating; the boy was really there. He looked exactly the same as he had in my dreams, except… dry, and wearing FUBU.

Nunca me he considerado normal, pero sólo ahora me doy completa cuenta de lo extremadamente anormal que soy.

The moon has awoken with the sleep of the sun, the light has been broken; the spell has begun.

we are the transformed we are the awoken we lay your visions of a concrete world in ashes we build a new, a living world away from death and decay

Will was awoken by screams. Years of training made themselves known instantly: He was on the floor in a crouch before he was even properly awake.

I have awoken all hawks and owls, white owl as I am.

One cannot proclaim words of love if the heart has yet to be awoken.

This yearning for Cameron was growing more intense, as though he’d awoken these once dormant desires to be erotically enslaved by him, this insatiable need to be ferociously possessed.

When her gaze met his, her irises were luminous, pooling bright silvery purple, a definitely inhuman glow. He’d awoken the beast in her. Good. “What are you?” she whispered. Jesse took a step back to clear his head, to free himself from the tendrils of her sorcery. It’d be easier for both of them if he could think straight. Right. He needed to focus. He’d waited his lifetime for this moment, but, even so, the words came with difficulty. It was never painless to bare a soul. “I am both less than you and more,” he said. “An alchemist, an amalgamation of two opposite realms. I’m the fabric of the stars.

I had awoken back to Hell on Earth with the prince of darkness himself holding me so tightly against him. Almost as if he wanted to make sure that I would never go back to that dark place where he couldn’t follow.

At some point during our 13.8 billion years of cosmic history, something beautiful happened. This information processing got so intelligent that life forms became conscious. Our universe has now awoken, becoming aware of itself.

Maggie nodded. She was more than okay. Not only was she no longer sick, she felt as if she'd just awoken from the long, safe torpor of her childhood. The night had blasted her free of that shell, and she had emerged new and raw and ready. She felt the ticket stub folded carefully in her pocket. How many kids in Bray would be able to say they'd stood just feet from Billy Corgan, that they'd been at the Metro for the "Siamese Dream" record release show, that they'd seen Lake Shore Drive on a Sunday morning through the prism of a concert comedown, the runners looking so silly with their skinny legs and their neon shorts, chugging along the footpath with their calorie counters and Gatorade?

watched Gemma walk away. It literally physically hurt. Such longing in his gut and his chest—he had never felt this way before. It was total madness, he knew, but a hunger had awoken inside him, and he had no idea how to appease it.

I will let you laugh now, I understand you think you are wise, But within you fear thou whom shall rise; Take the wine, Realize I am divine, And run while you may still be fine. I am awake now. You have awoken the beast, And now you are the one who must be dead.

Yes, Spring has come! I felt it yesterday when I looked out the window at the moon over the rooftops, when I breathed in the fresh night air. This morning I was awoken by the sun, drenched the room with bright warm light. I opened my eyes, reached out to meet the sun and murmured "Good morning"!

It was beginning to feel like an almost familiar place to be. But perhaps hitting this new low had something to be said for it, she thought now, this morning, after she had awoken and realized in some surprise that she had slept for several hours. At least now there was no further down to go. And

Beautiful were the moon and the stars, beautiful was the stream and the banks, the forest and the rocks, the goat and the gold-beetle, the flower and the butterfly. Beautiful and lovely it was, thus to walk through the world, thus childlike, thus awoken, thus open to what is near, thus without distrust.

For a long time , I said, I believe that it was only through absolute passivity that you could learn to see what was really there. But my decision to create a disturbance...had awoken a different reality, as though I had disturbed a beast sleeping in its lair. I had started to become, in effect, angry. I had started to desire power, because what I now realized was that other people had had it all along, that what I called fate was merely the reverberation of their will, a tail scripted not buy some universal storyteller but by people who would elude justice for as long as their actions were met with resignation rather than outrage.

I think, if you had loved me when i wanted; if I'd looked up one day, and seen your eyes, And found my wild sick blasphemous prayer granted, And your brown face, that's full of pity and wise, Flushed suddenly; the white godhead in new fear Intolerably so struggling, and so shamed; Most holy and far, if you'd come all too near, If earth had seen Earth's lordliest wild limbs tamed, Shaken, and trapped, and shivering, for MY touch -- Myself should I have slain? or that foul you? But this the strange gods, who have given so much, To have seen and known you, this they might not do. One last shame's spared me, one black word's unspoken; And I'm alone; and you have not awoken.

searching, thus simply, thus childlike. Beautiful were the moon and the stars, beautiful was the stream and the banks, the forest and the rocks, the goat and the gold-beetle, the flower and the butterfly. Beautiful and lovely it was, thus to walk through the world, thus childlike, thus awoken, thus open to what is near, thus without distrust

My father has a name for my temper: he calls her the dragon. I hoard my hurts like gold and jewels, sleeping on them until someone wakes me up. Then, when she’s awoken (for example, by a big clod of a man), the mythical beast spreads her wings inside my body, scales scraping against the inside of my skin, reminding me of all the reasons I’m angry.

Fhtagn Nor’Farm Cthulhu Gr’der’si di ia! Ph’nglui ya mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!

Ms. Epistola is a grown woman. She should dress however she wants,” Vik shot back.

Everyone treats you extra nice when they think you’re about to die.

Intentions are flimsy in the face of opposing danger. Determination, on the other hand, is resilient to challenge. It’s the antidote.

Word,” said Jamal. “But you can jive on up to the taco hut on the boardwalk if you hungry, dig?

Espero hacer algo que conmueva a la gente algún día, tanto si es por su significado como si es por mi entusiasmo por ello.

But now day breaks! I waited and saw it come, And what I saw, the hallowed, my word shall convey, For she, she herself, who is older than the ages And higher than the gods of Orient and Occident, Nature has now awoken amid the clang of arms, And from high Aether down to the low abyss, According to fixed law, begotten, as in the past, on holy Chaos, Delight, the all-creative, Delights in self-renewal.

... he'd awoken alone, and the simple fact of the silent room and the empty bed beside him filled him with such despair he wondered for a breathless, bottomless moment if this is what hell might be like. Not flames and screams and lakes of fire, but anguish and hopelessness and misery wound together like a wretched braid cinched tight around his neck in an invisible noose from which he would hang for all eternity, alone.

Now they both smiled. The sweet, light fragrance of a first youthful, half-unspoken love, with all its intoxicating tenderness, had awoken in them like a dream on which you reflect ironically when you wake, although you really wish for nothing more than to dream it again, to live in the dream. The beautiful dream of young love that ventures only on half-measures, that desires and dares not ask, promises and does not give. They

The arrogance to insist on her own unhappiness, her own loneliness, had always been in her, but only now did it venture to emerge; it blossomed, ran wild, smothered her. She was unredeemable and nobody should have the effrontery to redeem her, to know the millennium in which the red-blossoming rods that had grown inseparably entangled would spring apart and leave the path open. Come, sleep, come, thousand years, that I may be awoken by another hand.

Each of our souls has a deep urge to confess something about its nature. It sits still within us, until we come across a certain song, book, movie or person. Then everything changes, Our soul stirs like it was suddenly awoken from a brief sleep like child running to their mother excited about about a new discovery, words flowing out of their mouth tripping over each other. Its like the calm before the storm and the dancing of a hurricane’s first winds.

Celaena awoke as dawn poured into her room. Chaol still held her to him, just as he had all night, as if she would somehow slip away during sleep. She smiled to herself, pressing her nose against his neck and breathing him in. He shifted, just enough for her to know that he’d awoken. His hands began moving, twining themselves in her hair. “There’s no way in hell I’m getting out of this bed and going for a run,” he murmured onto her head. She chuckled quietly.

Wars are won from a wink, a gesture, an event that transpired a millennium before the battle. Humanity has always been saved by small acts; the ones where someone gained a piece of their own puzzle, not the ones where a hero stood prodigious on a battlefield.

It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child had developed into the woman. It seldom is in such cases. That mysterious change is too subtle and too gradual to be measured by dates. Least of all does the maiden herself know it until the tone of a voice or the touch of a hand sets her heart thrilling within her, and she learns, with a mixture of pride and of fear, that a new and a larger nature has awoken within her. There are few who cannot recall that day and remember the one little incident which heralded the dawn of a new life.

The song came back suddenly, longer and more triumphant! It was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard. The voice of an angel. “SGN’WAHL! SHA’SHOGG! THROD! CTHULHU’AI!” The ground shook again. I was so lost in that most beautiful of songs that once again I fell to the stone. I peered up from the ground… and marveled.

It was because of this that she had allowed herself to sleep in, and now it was half past twelve and she was standing on the tree lawn in her robe and a pair of her son Trip’s tennis shoes, watching their house burn to the ground. When she had awoken to the shrill scream of the smoke detector, she ran from room to room looking for him, for Lexie, for Moody. It struck her that she had not looked for Izzy, as if she had known already that Izzy was to blame. Every bedroom was empty except for the smell of gasoline and a small crackling fire set directly in the middle of each bed, as if a demented Girl Scout had been camping there.

A dark man with a burning torch ran down the street on a dull night in late fall. The little girl saw him from the window of her house, having awoken from a dull dream. Then she heard a sharp rifle shot and a pitiful despondent scream — they must have killed the man running with the torch. Soon she was hearing other shots, many and distant, and the clamor of people in a nearby prison… The girl fell asleep and forgot everything that she would see later, on subsequent days: she was too young, and the memory and reason of early childhood were overgrown forever by her future life. But well into her old age the nameless man rose up sadly and unexpectedly and ran within her — in the dim light of her memory — and died once more in the darkness of the past, in the heart of the grown up child. Amidst hunger and sleep, in a moment of love or of some youthful joy — suddenly in the distance, in the depth of her body there rose again the despondent scream of the dead man, and the young woman instantly altered her life — stopped her dance, if she was dancing, grew more focused, more reliable in her work, if she was laboring, hid her face in her hands, if she was alone. That stormy night of late fall saw the start of the October revolution — in that town where Moskva Ivanovna Chestnova had lived at that time.

He had been the recipient, he now gratefully acknowledged, of a rare and precious gift. In demanding the hand of a woman he neither understood nor was capable of knowing, he had instead received from her the chance to see himself and the opportunity to become a better man. And he had changed. He knew he had. He knew that he was not that man stalking angrily back to his chambers in Rosings Hall. What had happened to him in those intervening months? He was not sure; he could offer no complete explanation, but the man who had opened Rosings's doors, already prepared to write an angry letter, was a stranger, a man who had been walking through his entire life asleep. But now, he had awoken.

Intelligence is central to what it means to be human. Everything that civilisation has to offer is a product of human intelligence. DNA passes the blueprints of life between generations. Ever more complex life forms input information from sensors such as eyes and ears and process the information in brains or other systems to figure out how to act and then act on the world, by outputting information to muscles, for example. At some point during our 13.8 billion years of cosmic history, something beautiful happened. This information processing got so intelligent that life forms became conscious. Our universe has now awoken, becoming aware of itself. I regard it a triumph that we, who are ourselves mere stardust, have come to such a detailed understanding of the universe in which we live.

How could they have forgotten the importance of today’s date? My brain screamed at me as, with shaking fingers, I climbed the stairs to the bus, before making my way to the back, out of sight. My birthday, like the norm, happens on the same date every year. Therefore, the confused part of my brain argued, how could they have all simply forgotten this fact and acted so “normal” when I entered the kitchen this morning? They may have been abducted by aliens in the night? This was a voice from the incomprehensible area of my mind. Consequently, their behaviour would make complete sense then! Furthermore, answered another voice from the same ridiculous compartment, they could’ve simply gone to bed last night fine and then awoken the next morning with amnesia? Sometimes, these things happen unexpectedly. Adele Rose, Awakening.

Why?” Celaena dared ask. “Why answer? Why do I need to be the King’s Champion?” Elena lifted her face toward the moonlight streaming into the tomb. “Because there are people who need you to save them as much as you yourself need to be saved,” she said. “Deny it all you want, but there are people—your friends—who need you here. Your friend, Nehemia, needs you here. Because I was sleeping—a long, endless sleep—and I was awoken by a voice. And the voice didn’t belong to one person, but to many. Some whispering, some screaming, some not even aware that they were crying out. But they all want the same thing.” She touched the center of Celaena’s forehead. Heat flared, and a blue light flashed across Elena’s face as Celaena’s mark burned and then faded. “And when you are ready—when you start to hear them crying out as well—then you will know why I came to you, and why I have stood by you, and will continue to watch over you, no matter how many times you shove me away.

When he’d worked in the garden, he’d awoken as the birds had heralded the rising sun. But here inside, in a soft bed with a softer, warm woman against his side, he found it harder to brush away the tendrils of sleep. “What?” Lily mumbled as he gently removed her arm from his belly. He’d like to linger longer. To kiss her awake and make love to her again, but it was only a matter of time before the servants descended on the room. Besides, the sooner he left, the less likely that he’d run into other guests. So he dressed quickly as she sighed and rolled to burrow into the warm spot he’d left. Apollo gathered his coat and gave a last glance around the room before bending to kiss her again on the lips. Her brow wrinkled ferociously and she cracked her eyelids to mutter, “Is it?” He smiled. Evidently she wasn’t an alert waker. “I’ll see you later.” Her only reply was an unfeminine grunt as she pulled a pillow over her head. The smile still lingered as he crept into the hall and gently shut the door behind him.

Rhysand opened his mouth, but then the silhouettes of two tall, powerful bodies appeared on the other side of the front door's fogged glass. One of them banged on it with a fist. 'Hurry up, you lazy ass,' a deep male voice drawled from the antechamber beyond. Exhaustion drugged me so heavily that I didn't particularly care that there were wings peeking over thier two shadowy forms. Rhys didn't so much as blink toward the door. 'Two things, Feyre darling.' The pounding continued, followed by the second male murmuring to his companion, 'If you're going to pick a fight with him, do it after breakfast.' That voice- like shadows given form, dark and smooth and... cold. 'I wasn't the one who hauled me out of bed just now to fly down here,' the first one said. Then added, 'Busybody.' I could have sworn a smile tugged on Rhys's lips as he went on, 'One, no one- no one- but Mor and I are able to winnow directly inside this house. it is warded, shielded, and then warded some more. Only those I wish- and you wish- may enter. You are safe here; and safe anywhere in this city, for that matter. Velaris's walls are well protected and have not been breached in five thousand years. No one with ill intent enters this city unless I allow it. So go where you wish, do what you wish, and see who you wish. Those two in the antechamber,' he added, eyes sparkling, 'might not be on that list of people you should bother knowing, if they keep banging on the door like children.' Another pound, emphasised by the first male voice saying, 'You know we can hear you, prick.' 'Secondly,' Rhys went on, 'in regard to the two bastards at my door, it's up to you whether you want to meet them now, or head upstairs like a wise person, take a nap since you're still looking a little peaky, and then change into city-appropriate clothing while I beat the hell out of one of them for talking to his High Lord like that.' There was such light in his eyes. It made him look... younger, somehow. More mortal. So at odds with the icy rage I'd seen earlier when I'd awoken... Awoken on that couch, and then decided I wasn't returning home. Decided that, perhaps, the Spring Court might not be my home.

On reading a translated copy of the covenant, Philip V was horrified. The Muslim ruler of Jerusalem, through his emissary, the viceroy of Islamic Granada, was extending to the Jewish people the hand of eternal peace and friendship. The gesture was occasioned by the recent discovery of the lost ark of the Old Testament and the stone tablets upon which God had etched the Law with His finger. Both were found in perfect condition in a ditch in the Sinai Desert and had awoken in the Muslims, who discovered them, a desire to be circumcised, convert to Judaism, and return the Holy Land to the Jews. However, since this would leave millions of Palestinian Muslims homeless, the King of Jerusalem wanted the Jews to give him France in return. The guilty homeowner Bananias told French authorities that after the Muslim offer, the Jews of France concocted the well-poisoning plot and hired the lepers to carry it out. After reading the translation and several corroborating documents, including a highly incriminating letter from the Muslim King of Tunisia, Philip ordered all Jews in France arrested for “complicity . . . to bring about the death of the people and the subjects of the kingdom.” Two years later, any Jewish survivors of the royal terror were exiled from the country.   The

He placed a gloved hand on Vikram’s shoulder. “There are worms at the world’s heart, coiled at the seats of earthly power like a manifold tumor that has awoken to its own hunger and craves more. There may be many worms or only one that manifests as many, or perhaps myriad strands of the One True Wyrm, but it equates to the same misery. The parasites feed, grow, and spread in Mankind’s wake, infesting new worlds through the blood, sweat, and fears of their hosts, leaving us enough to survive and occasionally even prosper, but only ever in service to the sickness we bear.” Vikram was staring straight ahead, his teeth gritted and his fists clenched. He realized he was nodding along to the tale. Worms? Yes, that was the right name for them. Why hadn’t he found it himself? “Our masters probably delight in cruelty, for that has been the most constant thread in human history,” Niemand continued, “yet it is possible they imagine themselves equitable, benevolent even. Have they not driven Mankind to survive, strive, and conquer with a ferocity its foes cannot match? Would there be a union of faiths and nations without the invisible coils binding us to a common cause? Would we have seized the stars without their hunger to drive us?’ Would we have endured at all?” Niemand’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Perhaps worms are the gods we deserve.” “No,” Vikram rasped. His eyes met Skaadi’s and found a rage that mirrored his own. “No,” he repeated, fiercely this time. “No,” Niemand agreed. “Never. We will raise our own gods—or better yet, do without them.

Waking up begins with saying am and now. That which has awoken then lies for a while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized I, and therefore deduced I am, I am now. Here comes next, and is at least negatively reassuring; because here, this morning, is where it has expected to find itself: what’s called at home. But now isn't simply now. Now is also a cold reminder: one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labeled with its date, rendering all past nows obsolete, until--later or sooner-- perhaps--no, not perhaps--quite certainly: it will come. Fear tweaks the vagus nerve. A sickish shrinking from what waits, somewhere out there, dead ahead. But meanwhile the cortex, that grim disciplinarian, has taken its place at the central controls and has been testing them, one after another: the legs stretch, the lower back is arched, the fingers clench and relax. And now, over the entire intercommunication system, is issued the first general order of the day: UP. Obediently the body levers itself out of bed--wincing from twinges in the arthritic thumbs and the left knee, mildly nauseated by the pylorus in a state of spasm--and shambles naked into the bathroom, where its bladder is emptied and it is weighed: still a bit over 150 pounds, in spite of all that toiling at the gym! Then to the mirror. What it sees there isn’t much a face as the expression of a predicament. Here’s what it has done to itself, here’s the mess it has somehow managed to get itself into the during its fifty-eight years; expressed in terms of a dull, harassed stare, a coarsened nose, a mouth dragged down by the corners into a grimace as if at the sourness of its own toxins, cheeks sagging from their anchors of muscle, a throat hanging limp in tiny wrinkled folds. The harassed look is that of a desperately tired swimmer or runner; yet there is no question of stopping. The creature we are watching will struggle on and on until it drops. Not because it is heroic. It can imagine no alternative. Staring and staring into the mirror, it sees many faces within its face—the face of the child, the boy, the young man, the not-so-young man—all present still, preserved like fossils on superimposed layers, and, like fossils, dead. Their message to this live dying creature is: Look at us—we have died—what is there to be afraid of? It answers them: But that happened so gradually, so easily. I’m afraid of being rushed. It stares and stares. Its lips part. It struggles to breathe through its mouth. Until the cortex orders it impatiently to wash, to shave, to brush its hair. Its nakedness has to be covered. It must be dressed up in the clothes because it is going outside, into the world of the other people; and these others must be able to identify it. Its behavior must be acceptable to them. Obediently, it washes, shaves, brushes its hair, for it accepts its responsibilities to the others. It is even glad that it has its place among them. It knows what is expected of it. It knows its name. It is called George.