Chasing Sunset Quotes

Today was about chasing sun-rays, beach waves, & sunsets. All things beautiful that give you peace are worth chasing. Everything else isn't.

It was our story, played out on the open highway chasing sunsets. It wasn't an easy story to tell you. It was a story of kisses, lust, passion, youth, mistakes, lies, hiding, stupidity, judging, but most of all, love.

I've always been told that I was born chasing sunsets, but sometimes I wonder if I'm really just trying to find a way to be in two places at once.

Prayer makes a difference.

To sail beyond the sunset… I’d thought that beautiful, once. But now I knew it was a wasted effort, chasing sunsets. There was nothing on the other side.

All I wanted was to scoop you up in my arms and take you with me. I wanted to chase darkness where we could hide beneath the shadows of a million sunsets. If you could transcend time, why couldn’t we stop it? Why couldn’t our love be immortal?

Yadriel wanted to chase down the sunset. To not let it rise. How long after he was gone would Yadriel be dreaming about Julian and this drive? Yadriel thought it would be worth the sleepless nights ahead.

Life was not all laughter and mornings at the beach. It was okay to cry.

God knows better than we do. He always does. Even when it doesn’t make sense.

Anger does not bring about the righteousness God desires.

You have on chance to write the story of your life. Make it a bestseller.

I roll my eyes at him, walk away and ahead, try to chase after that stupid heart of mine that’s riding off into the sunset with a boy who doesn’t like me like that.

The tide of hope approaches us and recedes from us as we stand on the mortal shore - some of us wait for it to arrive, some chase after it, but we all vanish into the sunset and our footprints in the sand fade in time. The feet of infants replace ours, and the dance of the tide commences anew.

If I had your life story, it would be the first thing I mentioned to anyone. ‘Hullo, I’m Chase Reynaud. I learned to toddle aboard a merchant ship, and the Seven Seas rocked my cradle. And have I mentioned that no tropical sunset could compare with your beauty?’ The women would fall into bed with me.” “Don’t they fall into bed with you anyway?” “That’s true. But they might do so a half minute faster. Over months and years, those half minutes add up. So let’s hear the rest of the tale.

Probably we’d have been better off born in nineteenth-century Russia. I’d have been Prince So-and-so and you Count Such-and-such. We’d go hunting together, fight, be rivals in love, have our metaphysical complaints, drink beer watching the sunset from the shores of the Black Sea. In our later years, the two of us would be implicated in the Something-or-other Rebellion and exiled to Siberia, where we’d die. Brilliant, don’t you think? Me, if I’d been born in the nineteenth century, I’m sure I could have written better novels. Maybe not your Dostoyevsky, but a known second-rate novelist. And what would you have been doing? Maybe you’d only have been Count Such-and-such straight through. That wouldn’t be so bad, just being Count Such-and-such. That’d be nice and nineteenth century.

Life could never be measured in the number of days a person lived, but only by the beautiful, brilliant life that had colored those days.

The sunset turned the downtown skyline to red gold. The sea stretched ahead of us in silky sheets of blue, and for now all I had to do was stand at the prow and enjoy the view.

Yes, God knew the number of a man’s days. But sometimes that number was small because the enemy had cut it short.

It wasn’t enough to wish people well and offer a quick prayer. God’s people needed to act.

I’m not sure anyone knows exactly why certain things happen, but I know this. Evil doesn’t come from God.

The autumn hill gathers the remaining light, A flying bird chases after its companion. The green color is bright And brings me into the moment, like a sunset mist that has no fixed place

It was raining when Amarelle Parathis went out just after sunset to find a drink, and there was strange magic in the rain. It came down in pale lavenders and coppers and reds, soft lines like liquid dusk that turned luminescent mist on the warm pavement. The air itself felt like champagne bubbles breaking against the skin. Over the dark shapes of distant rooftops, blue-white lightning blazed, and stuttering thunder chased it.

This is my wish for you. Comfort on difficult days, smiles when sadness intrudes, rainbows to chase the clouds away, laughter to kiss your lips, sunsets to warm your heart, hugs when spirits sag, beauty for your eyes to see, friendships to brighten your being, faith so that you can believe, confidence for you when you doubt, courage to know yourself, patience to accept the truth and love to complete your life. I love you, baby boy.

This house had survived for many, many years. It had copper pipes that reached down into the earth like roots, its woodwork had taught its stonework how to breathe in exchange for lessons in strength, and the ironwork that chased the eaves and climbed the walls and curled along the windows danced in the sunset.

Breathtaking sunsets and storms, transformation and realization that life's beauty is worth chasing even beyond the tempests of the sky

That’s how it is, day after day... night after night. The Moon chases her sunsets constantly, hoping for a mere glimpse. And for him, that was enough.

Catherine wasn’t going to settle. Not in life, and not in love.

Life’s too short to worry.

He would have to be real in his beliefs, real in his character. Real in the way he treated her and everyone

Don’t just be hearers of the Word of God. Be doers.

Try to chase after that stupid heart of mine that's riding off into the sunset with a boy who doesn't like me like that.

I like to think you're somewhere in the sunsets, Weston, so I'll chase them forever.

He felt whole and clean and full of light. Of course he would mess up again. He could never be perfect. But at least now he had assurance. If the bullet hit him next time, he’d go from life on earth to life in heaven.

Be your own anchor, and sail along the shore of Life with a bunch of smiles. In a whirlwind of a thousand journeys, we flow through Life, as if crossing through an Ocean of an endless voyage. Sometimes we marvel at the ports we glide along, sometimes we chase the waves with our heart and soul, while sometimes we lose our way only to find a lighthouse guiding us along, always catching our breath at the majestic sunrises and sunsets.

Probably we’d have been better off born in nineteenth-century Russia. I’d have been Prince So-and-so and you Count Such-and-such. We’d go hunting together, fight, be rivals in love, have our metaphysical complaints, drink beer watching the sunset from the shores of the Black Sea. In our later years, the two of us would be implicated in the Something-or-other Rebellion and exiled to Siberia, where we’d die. Brilliant, don’t you think?

They are ever-changing. They are unlike immortals who stay young and beautiful forever—who have time under their control. Humans, they only have a few years to live, and yet there is beauty in the way time controls them.

have you noticed how selfish everyone is? We’re all about our own social media, our own platform, our own interests. I still haven’t found a guy who can be in the moment. You know, carry on a conversation without checking his phone halfway through.

I think you always write what you love. Whether it’s your grandmother or gourmet cooking or mountains and rivers. Sunsets kissing the tallest building or chipmunks scattering off to bed. I like the quiet. And I like the sound of the quiet. I’m a mountain girl. I listen and make lists of what I hear.

It wasn’t that a child like Jalen needed so many voices praying on his behalf. God heard the desperate prayer of a single voice in a dark room. But sometimes something happened that caused the world to sit up and take notice. A time when miracles could sway a generation to believe in God. Miracles amidst tragedies.

Truth's Virtue- Poem Excerpt: Truth, in all her virtue, Will be your sunrise, your sunset, Your morning breeze and your bedtime nest, She will want a home in your heart, Guiding your way As a star that pounces from the heavens, Chasing cheating ghosts away, She will be the fruitful soil, from which a sincere and striking beauty will spring free, With sagely roots to ground her as the mightiest tree.

He had decided before the accident not to chase them anymore, but the circumstances of the accident made him fear for Lilia's safety. he would never bring her in, not anymore; all he wanted now was to watch over her. Michaela had been reading his notes for years, but his notes were only part of it: the other part was the way he woke up at night in his bed in Montreal and knew where Lilia was, the way he could glance at a map of the United Staes and realize with absolute, inexplicable certainty that she was in West Virginia, the way he tried to ignore his terrifying clairvoyance and forget where she was and couldn't, the way he knew where she was but had to keep driving south to check, the horror of always being right: he saw her face in the crowd on Sunset Boulevard, he stepped into a hardware store in St. Louis at the moment she stepped out of the deli across the street, he stood on a corner in a run-down neighborhood in Chicago and watched her emerge from an apartment building down the block. After each sighting he returned north more depleted, more frightened, less intact.

Finally, I have come to realise that an imperfect Life is actually the most perfect Life. I have come to see how Life is beautiful in all its colours, more so because the shades of grey bind them and paint them with even more radiance. A clear sky is always beautiful but what if we never have rain or storm? Sunshine is always wonderful but what if we never have the soothing dusk or the cold night to coil in our own misty self? Storms that come to jolt us often leave us with more courage as we sail along the gust to chase a silver lining. The scorching heat that chokes us often makes us wait more eagerly for that balm of rain. So is Life, in all those moments of sunset we have the hope of the following sunrise, and if we may wait and absorb all that crumbling ray of that sunset we would be able to paint our sunrise with even more crimson smile. Because just like a story, nothing in Life is really concrete without patience. We cannot skip pages of a book because each line contains just so much to seep in, and to have the story fully lived inside our heart and soul we have to keep reading until the very end to feel that sense of peaceful happiness, that always clutches us no matter how the ending is drafted. In the same manner, we have to keep walking through Life, as each and every step of ours leads us to the destination of our Life, the destination of peace, the destination of knowledge of self. The best part of this walk is that it is never a straight line, but is always filled with curves and turns, making us aware of our spirit, laughing loud at times while mourning deep at times. But that is what Life is all about, a bunch of imperfect moments to smile as perfect memories sailing through the potholes of Life, because a straight line even in the world of science means death, after all monotony of perfection is the most cold imperfection. So as we walk through difficult times, may we realise that this sunset is not forever's and that the winter often makes us more aware of the spring. As we drive through a dark night, may we halt for a moment and watch for the stars, the smile of the very stars of gratitude and love that is always there even in the darkest sky of the gloomiest night. As we sail along the ship of Life, may we remember that the winds often guide us to our destination and the storms only come to make our voyage even more adventurous, while the rain clears the cloud so that we may gaze at the full glory of the sky above, with a perfect smile through a voyage of imperfect moments of forever's shine. And so as we keep turning the pages of Life, may we remember to wear that Smile, through every leaf of Life, for Life is rooted in the blooming foliage of its imperfect perfection.

The fact is, real beauty is found out there under the same sky as vulnerability. I’m not suggesting we can’t die out there—we can. But we will most certainly die if we stay inside forever. Given enough time in the artificial light, within our insulated walls, our fruit will dry up and our branches will wither. Tap water simply can’t compare with the feeling of rain on our faces. Hearing the wind is a paltry substitute for feeling it whip through our hair. Shut yourself in from the pain of exposure, and you’ll also miss the sunset, where orange turns to purple and restores the souls of weary mortals. When we overinsulate ourselves, we’re protecting ourselves right out of our callings.

As a boy, he'd always had some elaborate project that had nothing to do with school. On Summit Avenue, alone in his aerie, he drew the stately homes across the street and numbered the many windows and doors, compiling a detailed log of his neighbors' activities. In sixth grade, simultaneously, he kept a diary concerning the girls he liked and a ledger chronicling every penny he made and spent. These secret fascinations led nowhere in the end, were left mysteriously incomplete like the detective novel he patterned after Sherlock Holmes, to be replaced by his next obsession. At Princeton, when he was supposed to be cramming for exams, he wrote a musical. In the army it was a novel. Nothing had changed. He was still that boy, happiest pursuing some goose chase of his own making, and lost without one.

The thought makes my teeth gnash and my lip snarl and my jaw fill with a scream. A scream that always has the same chorus. What they took away, seemingly so easily, was a person. "This was a person!" A person who could watch a sunset and feel the wind against their cheek. Smell fresh-cut grass or listen to a Bowie song. A person who could scrape up enough money to buy themselves a hot-fudge sundae. A person who could still close their eyes and dream. That's what the media refuses to understand. No matter how down and out someone may seem, no matter how many drugs they took or arrests they had or rock bottoms they hit-they could have still done all those things. Those things that make us human. And one day, someone came along and took all those things away. Every single one of them. And left them with darkness.

I wonder if Jack and Diane ever made it After the drums and the guitars all faded Was the best they could do good enough Or did the heartland just swallow 'em up How did my mom and my dad ever do it If there were troubles then we never knew it I guess they had each other and that was enough You know you can't keep the ground from shaking, no matter how hard you try, You can't keep the sunsets from fading, you gotta treat you love like You're jumping off a rope swing maybe 'cause the whole thing is really just a shot in the dark You gotta love like there's no such thing as a broken heart You gotta love like there's no such thing as a broken heart What am I gonna tell my kids when they see All of this bull that goes down on TV When the whole world is down on its luck I gotta make sure they keep that chin up Cry when it hurts, laugh when it's funny Chase after the dream, don't chase after the money And know we got each other, that's what's up 'Cause you can't keep the ground from shaking, no matter how hard you try You can't keep the sunsets from fading, you gotta treat you love like You're jumping off a rope swing maybe cause the whole thing is really just a shot in the dark You gotta love like there's no such thing as a broken heart You gotta love like there's no such thing as a broken heart You gotta love like there's no such thing as a broken heart 'Cause you can't keep the ground from shaking, no matter how hard you try You can't keep the sunsets from fading, you gotta treat you love like You're jumping off a rope swing maybe 'cause the whole thing is really just a shot in the dark You gotta love like there's no such thing as a broken heart You gotta love, love, love, love You gotta love, love, love, love You gotta love like there's no such thing as a broken heart

Moreover, Nancy Sinatra was afflicted, as the overwhelming majority of Americans were, with monolingualism. Lana’s richer, more textured version of “Bang Bang” layered English with French and Vietnamese. Bang bang, je ne l’oublierai pas went the last line of the French version, which was echoed by Pham Duy’s Vietnamese version, We will never forget. In the pantheon of classic pop songs from Saigon, this tricolor rendition was one of the most memorable, masterfully weaving together love and violence in the enigmatic story of two lovers who, regardless of having known each other since childhood, or because of knowing each other since childhood, shoot each other down. Bang bang was the sound of memory’s pistol firing into our heads, for we could not forget love, we could not forget war, we could not forget lovers, we could not forget enemies, we could not forget home, and we could not forget Saigon. We could not forget the caramel flavor of iced coffee with coarse sugar; the bowls of noodle soup eaten while squatting on the sidewalk; the strumming of a friend’s guitar while we swayed on hammocks under coconut trees; the football matches played barefoot and shirtless in alleys, squares, parks, and meadows; the pearl chokers of morning mist draped around the mountains; the labial moistness of oysters shucked on a gritty beach; the whisper of a dewy lover saying the most seductive words in our language, anh oi; the rattle of rice being threshed; the workingmen who slept in their cyclos on the streets, kept warm only by the memories of their families; the refugees who slept on every sidewalk of every city; the slow burning of patient mosquito coils; the sweetness and firmness of a mango plucked fresh from its tree; the girls who refused to talk to us and who we only pined for more; the men who had died or disappeared; the streets and homes blown away by bombshells; the streams where we swam naked and laughing; the secret grove where we spied on the nymphs who bathed and splashed with the innocence of the birds; the shadows cast by candlelight on the walls of wattled huts; the atonal tinkle of cowbells on mud roads and country paths; the barking of a hungry dog in an abandoned village; the appetizing reek of the fresh durian one wept to eat; the sight and sound of orphans howling by the dead bodies of their mothers and fathers; the stickiness of one’s shirt by afternoon, the stickiness of one’s lover by the end of lovemaking, the stickiness of our situations; the frantic squealing of pigs running for their lives as villagers gave chase; the hills afire with sunset; the crowned head of dawn rising from the sheets of the sea; the hot grasp of our mother’s hand; and while the list could go on and on and on, the point was simply this: the most important thing we could never forget was that we could never forget.

So I’d settle for the sorry, and if I didn’t get it, I’d be leaving pronto, riding Angry Jack off into the sunset with Brutus chasing a squirrel at our side.

Her grandmother laughed. “Honey, men can only be a certain amount of interesting before they become a bit dull. That’s why we need

Bang bang was the sound of memory’s pistol firing into our heads, for we could not forget love, we could not forget war, we could not forget lovers, we could not forget enemies, we could not forget home, and we could not forget Saigon. We could not forget the caramel flavor of iced coffee with coarse sugar; the bowls of noodle soup eaten while squatting on the sidewalk; the strumming of a friend’s guitar while we swayed on hammocks under coconut trees; the football matches played barefoot and shirtless in alleys, squares, parks, and meadows; the pearl chokers of morning mist draped around the mountains; the labial moistness of oysters shucked on a gritty beach; the whisper of a dewy lover saying the most seductive words in our language, anh oi; the rattle of rice being threshed; the workingmen who slept in their cyclos on the streets, kept warm only by the memories of their families; the refugees who slept on every sidewalk of every city; the slow burning of patient mosquito coils; the sweetness and firmness of a mango plucked fresh from its tree; the girls who refused to talk to us and who we only pined for more; the men who had died or disappeared; the streets and homes blown away by bombshells; the streams where we swam naked and laughing; the secret grove where we spied on the nymphs who bathed and splashed with the innocence of the birds; the shadows cast by candlelight on the walls of wattled huts; the atonal tinkle of cowbells on mud roads and country paths; the barking of a hungry dog in an abandoned village; the appetizing reek of the fresh durian one wept to eat; the sight and sound of orphans howling by the dead bodies of their mothers and fathers; the stickiness of one’s shirt by afternoon, the stickiness of one’s lover by the end of lovemaking, the stickiness of our situations; the frantic squealing of pigs running for their lives as villagers gave chase; the hills afire with sunset; the crowned head of dawn rising from the sheets of the sea; the hot grasp of our mother’s hand; and while the list could go on and on and on, the point was simply this: the most important thing we could never forget was that we could never forget.

Moreover, Nancy Sinatra was afflicted, as the overwhelming majority of Americans were, with monolingualism. Lana’s richer, more textured version of “Bang Bang” layered English with French and Vietnamese. Bang bang, je ne l’oublierai pas went the last line of the French version, which was echoed by Pham Duy’s Vietnamese version, We will never forget. In the pantheon of classic pop songs from Saigon, this tricolor rendition was one of the most memorable, masterfully weaving together love and violence in the enigmatic story of two lovers who, regardless of having known each other since childhood, or because of knowing each other since childhood, shoot each other down. Bang bang was the sound of memory’s pistol firing into our heads, for we could not forget love, we could not forget war, we could not forget lovers, we could not forget enemies, we could not forget home, and we could not forget Saigon. We could not forget the caramel flavor of iced coffee with coarse sugar; the bowls of noodle soup eaten while squatting on the sidewalk; the strumming of a friend’s guitar while we swayed on hammocks under coconut trees; the football matches played barefoot and shirtless in alleys, squares, parks, and meadows; the pearl chokers of morning mist draped around the mountains; the labial moistness of oysters shucked on a gritty beach; the whisper of a dewy lover saying the most seductive words in our language, anh oi; the rattle of rice being threshed; the workingmen who slept in their cyclos on the streets, kept warm only by the memories of their families; the refugees who slept on every sidewalk of every city; the slow burning of patient mosquito coils; the sweetness and firmness of a mango plucked fresh from its tree; the girls who refused to talk to us and who we only pined for more; the men who had died or disappeared; the streets and homes blown away by bombshells; the streams where we swam naked and laughing; the secret grove where we spied on the nymphs who bathed and splashed with the innocence of the birds; the shadows cast by candlelight on the walls of wattled huts; the atonal tinkle of cowbells on mud roads and country paths; the barking of a hungry dog in an abandoned village; the appetizing reek of the fresh durian one wept to eat; the sight and sound of orphans howling by the dead bodies of their mothers and fathers; the stickiness of one’s shirt by afternoon, the stickiness of one’s lover by the end of lovemaking, the stickiness of our situations; the frantic squealing of pigs running for their lives as villagers gave chase; the hills afire with sunset; the crowned head of dawn rising from the sheets of the sea; the hot grasp of our mother’s hand; and while the list could go on and on and on, the point was simply this: the most important thing we could never forget was that we could never forget. When Lana was finished, the audience clapped, whistled, and stomped, but I sat silent and stunned as she bowed and gracefully withdrew, so disarmed I could not even applaud.

And hosts of other memories would have followed, crowding: a thousand skyscapes, day and night, the gay or sombre garments of the blue; the way the earth looked, falling; the wonder at first coming out above the clouds; the rush of engines starting; swallowing to stop deafness in a dive; the scream of wires; shadows of clouds on hills; rain, sweeping like veils over the sea, far off; sunlight; stars between wings; friends, close in formation, swaying, hand on throttle, as they rode ten feet away a mile above the earth. And many others: grass blown down when engines were run up; the smell of dope, and castor oil, and varnish in new cockpits; moonlight shining on struts; sunset clouds, gold-braided; the gasp before the dive; machine-guns; chasing wild duck; the feel of bumps, and all the mastery over movement, pride in skill.

I’m starving,” I said as we sat in Healer Hanna’s cozy waiting room. The place had been painted with sage green and sunset orange

there are wilder sunsets and more colors to know… and there are still answers for what's pulling at you… and i think you have to chase them, i think you have to keep going.

i think you have to chase it. that thing that tells you... keep. going. that there are wilder sunsets and more colors to know. that there are still answers for what's pulling at you. that the emptiness and heartbreak aren't where love will leave you because somewhere there is a lover who will kiss you like you have poetry and addiction on your lips and who needs your touch and taste like mercy on their soul. and there are all those virgin, unfelt things in you; still untouched and tender and unfolding. so you have to keep searching. for all that soul stuff. until your intangible aches are in the flesh, and that fire within you is spilling all around you... i think you have to keep going.

I glanced over at my best friend, Willow Rhoswen.

I Won't Be a Part of Letting You Destroy Me" (Verse 1) I've walked through fire, I've danced in the rain, Felt the sting of heartache, the weight of the pain. But there's one thing I've learned, as I've roamed free, I won't be a part of letting you destroy me. (Chorus) I'm standing tall, like an old oak tree, Roots dug deep, where the eye can't see. You may try to break me, try to decree, But I won't be a part of letting you destroy me. (Verse 2) I've seen the darkness, I've chased the light, Fought my demons, every single night. Your words can cut deep, but they won't decree, I won't be a part of letting you destroy me. (Bridge) Like a cowboy ridin' into the sunset, I'll find my peace, without a single regret. Life's a rodeo, wild and free, And I won't be a part of letting you destroy me. (Chorus) I'm standing tall, like an old oak tree, Roots dug deep, where the eye can't see. You may try to break me, try to decree, But I won't be a part of letting you destroy me. (Outro) So here's to the strong, the brave, the free, Here's to the hearts that refuse to flee. I'll take my leave, with my soul decree, I won't be a part of letting you destroy me.

Being in love with her was like chasing a sunset. She was always out of reach but still the most beautiful thing to experience.

Summer Wild… a restless summer child, sunrise-sweet and sunset-wild, kissed by light glimmer and running free in the wild air, under the magic of fireflies and in the glow of bonfire flare, feeling alive and chasing new horizons is why we're here, so when the sunset unfolds into the night of our lives… promise you'll meet me there.

The fullness of life had overflowed in you that day, Food mattered nothing, nor home, nor love of Us, only the chase, the penetrating of burrows, the return to the life for which your sires had been bred. But at sunset you came home, weary little dogs, ready to be stroked, to be held on comfortable laps, to submit to the pulling out of burrs.

Daddy's Little Girl [Verse] I remember when you took your first steps, Tiny shoes dancing in the soft spring grass, I was chasing dreams, didn't see the moments pass, Now all I have are these memories to confess. [Verse 2] Birthday candles lighting up your eyes, I was on the road while you cried your childish cries, Missed your laughter, your hugs, and all your highs, Each mile I traveled was another goodbye. [Chorus] I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me the most, I'm sorry I wasn't the father you needed me to be, But you'll always be daddy's little girl, No matter where life leads you, in my heart, you're free. [Verse 3] Years have flown by like a runaway train, Photographs can't capture all the joy and pain, I missed your proms, your fears, your growing pains, But you shined a light that helped me see again. [Verse 4] I see your face in every sunset's hue, Wishing I could turn back and stand beside you, Your forgiveness is a gift that pulls me through, You're the song I sing when the day is anew. [Chorus] I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me the most, I'm sorry I wasn't the father you needed me to be, But you'll always be daddy's little girl, No matter where life leads you, in my heart, you're free.

Believe you can and you are half-way there. Thousands of candles can be lighted from a single candle. Happiness never decreases by being shared. Clouds come floating into my life to add color to my sunset sky. Perfection is not attainable but if we chase perfection we can catch excellence.

A few watercourses still held the red rays of sunset. They glittered like fire snakes, twining through the dark opaqueness of the landscape, murmuring through funereal waving plumes of blackening grass and rushes. They had witnessed the chasing of witches to their deaths. Here, where all was now still, save for the wailing cry of the peewit, those beings ha shrieked aloud their innocence, or ,borne aloft on the maddened wings of ambitious ecstasy,had proclaimed their power to raise the quick and the dead , to curse if they could not bless, hate if they could not love-clothing themselves with sombre majesty, playing with elemental fires, rather than eat porridge humbly , bow to the squire, and tremble before the priest.

I felt like summer sunsets or July fireworks or chasing down the ice cream truck.

Marabela didn’t just wake up one morning and think she wanted to leave; she simply realized the time had finally arrived. their marriage didn’t change from night to day; there were sunrises, and sunsets, and times when the sky was neither dark nor light, when the dawns and the dusks became indistinguishable from the constant fog they tried to ignore.

He’s my buddy,” she said, then patted my hand. “And he’s faithful.” Patsy opened the door to her home and shuffled in. “Like the Lord.

sons and daughters of God, His chosen ones, His creation? Moments like this made Jag impatient for the time when all angels would be unleashed and the enemy would be overthrown once and for all. When time ended and eternity began.

The Pitjantjatjara and Pintupi don’t wash with water—for one thing because there isn’t much water in the desert, but for another because they don’t want to bother the Rainbow Serpent, the all-powerful creator god who lives around the water holes. Instead they use ashes from their fires to wash themselves, and it doesn’t deodorize them. The thing that fascinated me most was that they have absolutely no possessions. This is connected to the fact that they don’t believe in tomorrow; there is only today. For example, it is very rare to find a kangaroo in the desert. When they find one, they have food to eat, which is a big deal for them. But after they kill and cook the kangaroo, they can never finish it: there’s always lots of meat left. But since they’re always moving from place to place, when they wake up the next morning, they don’t take the meat with them. They just leave everything—the next day is the next day. Ulay and I separated, because among the Aborigines, the men stay with men and the women with women. The two sexes only make love during nights with a full moon, then they separate again. This creates total harmony—they don’t get a chance to bother each other! My main job with the women was watching them present their dreams. Every morning we would go to a field somewhere, and in hierarchical order, starting with the oldest women and moving down to the youngest, they would show us, using a stick to make drawings in the dirt, what they’d dreamed the night before. Each woman would then assign the rest of us roles to act out the dream as they interpreted it. They all had dreams; they all had to show them—dreams playing all day long! As spring turned to summer, the heat would rise to 50 degrees Celsius or more—130-plus degrees Fahrenheit. It’s like a hot wall. If you just stand up and walk a few paces, your heart feels like it’s going to hammer through your chest. You can’t. There are very few trees; there’s very little shade of any kind. So you literally have to be motionless for long periods of time. You function before sunrise and after sunset—that’s it. To stay motionless during the day, you have to slow down everything: your breathing, even your heartbeat. I also want to mention that Aboriginals are the only people I know who don’t take drugs of any kind. Even tea is much too strong a stimulant for them. That’s why they don’t have any kind of resistance to alcohol—it completely wipes out their memory. In the beginning, there were flies everywhere. I was covered with them—in my nose, in my mouth, all over my body. It was impossible to chase them away. Then after three months, I woke up one morning without a single fly on me. It was then that I understood that the flies had been drawn to me because I was something strange and different: as I became one with my surroundings, I lost my attraction.

Outside, the coo shadows that lurk under rocks and beneath houses during the day have crept out for their night-time prowl. Fingers of them climb up my legs beneath mu nightie, chasing out the warmth of my bed. Cold beats hot, like stone beats scissors and paper beats stone.

i think you have to chase it. that thing that tells you… keep. going. because there are wilder sunsets and more colors to know. and there are still answers for what's pulling at you. and i think you have to chase them… i think you have to keep going.

Think Daniel Craig stepping out of the Mediterranean in Casino Royale, or as I like to call it, the moment you heard millions of nonexistent gay boy ovaries explode all around the world.

So what, I would be? Your employee? Where would I stay? Would there be enough for me to do to make rent and pay bills and all that shit? What would I be?” “You’d be mine. Full stop. Just mine.

Give me tonight. Just tonight. Let us have one more night together before we have to make any decisions. One more night before the real world closes in.” “One more sunset.

Love at first sight isn’t a concept I believe in, something I have ever bought into. Lust at first sight, sure. Infatuation, why not. But full-on love? There’s no way. Love is hard won, and hard-fought, but worth it when you manage to build it. Build it, not have it fall at your feet on a random Friday in January, and then refuse to get in the damn water while on a dive.

It means I’m done chasing sunsets.” I lean in and press a quick kiss to his lips, finally opening my eyes to look at him. “It means that wherever you are,” I kiss him again, “that’s where I want to be.” another kiss. “If you’ll have me.

Negativity can feel familiar if that’s where you’re used to living. If you expect that things won’t work out, you can’t be disappointed, right? In fact, the mind is wired to emphasize negativity. The brain evolved to prioritize the sight of a predator over the aesthetic perfection of the sunset framing that predator as it bounds toward you with supper in mind. By default, we watch for predators and miss the sunsets entirely.

Negativity can feel familiar if that’s where you’re used to living. If you expect that things won’t work out, you can’t be disappointed, right? In fact, the mind is wired to emphasize negativity. The brain evolved to prioritize the sight of a predator over the aesthetic perfection of the sunset framing that predator as it bounds toward you with supper in mind. By default, we watch for predators and miss the sunsets entirely. This hardwired instinct is a liability in the modern world. It’s literally poisonous. Negative thinking releases stress hormones, raises blood pressure, suppresses your immune system, and leads to a host of other health problems. Negative thinking impairs your cognitive ability and memory. Worst of all, negativity becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. When you expect a negative outcome, you tune your intuition to act accordingly, creating the dreaded outcome and reinforcing that negative response: “See? I told you it was going to turn out like this!” It’s a downward spiral that’s also contagious. When you take a cynical view of life, your toxic outlook infects everyone around you, at home and at work.

Chasing the sunrise and the sunset. Angels watching over me as I rest. With a soft melody playing in my chest. Guiding me to the ultimate quest - Love

face. Then she was gone. I patted Rusty on the shoulder. She is not going away. Good, said Rusty. Twilight snorted her approval and bunted Tumpoo with her head, pushing him toward home. It was time to head back. The evening sky was turning red again and this sunset promised to be as dazzling as the last. Twilight and Tumpoo started playing a chasing game in front of us, as Rusty walked serenely along. “What goofs,” I said and Loonie looked up at me, a big doggy grin on her face. She loved coming with us so much – and I loved her to come. My smile slipped from my face. Now that the excitement of the rodeo was over and Kestrel was staying, I needed to take care of some important stuff. First, Loonie’s days of running beside us were ending. I needed to face it. She was not only half blind, but going deaf.

We have to wait around for a relationship to realize our destiny. It’s time to stop waiting and start living. Yes, two people coming together is a beautiful thing . . . but so is one person standing boldly in their purpose. You don’t have to sit idly by, waiting for the day that a prince comes riding up on his white horse and the two of you gallop off into the sunset of your destiny. Your destiny is in the here and now. God wants to do something powerful with you and for you and through you now. Today. This moment. I don’t know what it is, I can’t possibly tell you what your destiny on this planet is, but I can tell you that had I not made the choice to follow my passion and chase my dreams and pour my heart and soul into making the world around me a better place right where I was . . . you wouldn’t be reading this book right now. I had to get past my singleness and decide that I had things to do with my life, and I didn’t have time to wait around on a man to come along for me to do them. I hope with all my heart that someday someone will come along and join me in my journey, but I’m not going to hit the Pause button on my life until that happens (although I do reserve the right to hit the Pause button on my dating life from time to time). And you shouldn’t either. Do all the things you want to do with your life right now. Stop waiting. Because the truth is, a woman who creates a full, joyful, meaningful life for herself is a lot more appealing (and happy) than a woman who waits around on a man to do it for her.

i think you have to chase it. that thing that tells you… keep. going. that there are wilder sunsets and more colors to know. that there are still answers for what's pulling at you. that the emptiness and heartbreak aren't where love will leave you because somewhere there is a lover who will kiss you like you have poetry and addiction on your lips and needs your touch and taste like mercy on their soul. and there are all those virgin, unfelt things in you, still untouched and tender and unfolding. so you have to keep searching. for all that soul stuff. until your intangible aches are in the flesh and that fire in you is spilling all around you… i think you have to keep going.

Hey, Izzy, boy, let's go chase a sunset.

But his most exciting action was something we witnessed ourselves. At issue were some five tons of contraband coffee, as we were informed much later. At any rate, word had got out, and one night the police were on their way to arrest Siegel Hans. He was able to escape out of a window. All he had on him was his trumpet, and the next morning when it got light, he blew down on his trumpet from the Spitzstein. The police gave chase, but by the time they got to the summit, he was blowing from the cloven top of the Mühlhorn or the peak of the Geigelstein on the other side of the valley. The police, humiliated, called up more and more reinforcements, but Hans continued tooting at them from peak to peak. We heard him. We saw troops of police running through the valley and up the slopes, but neither they nor the officials stationed at the pass got a glimpse of him. He was like a phantom. We children knew why they couldn’t catch him. As far as we were concerned, he had run from the Spitzstein all along the border heading into the sunset until he had run right around the whole of Germany to the Geigelstein on its east-facing side. It was the only way he could avoid having to go down into the valley. Twelve days later, he surrendered to the police, but by then, he had a mythic status among his admirers.

To be a lover of the moon and stars, to chase the sunsets and gaze at stars, and yet to thirst for the opening dawn is to find the light of transformation.

From the moment our ancestors first danced around a fire, cinders flickering in the darkened sky, celebrations have inspired us to light up the night. With fireworks and lanterns, birthday candles and bonfires, festive occasions chase away the shadows and carve out a space for joy within the darkness. It’s hard to imagine now, in a world that glows with electric light, how rare and special it once was to see the world lit up at night. But until the advent of gas-lit streetlamps in the early nineteenth century, most cities were completely dark after sunset.

liked the Big Banana a lot more when it wasn’t bouncing through subterranean rapids or drifting towards inter-dimensional waterfalls. A strong wind filled the sail. The sunset turned the downtown skyline to red gold. The sea stretched ahead of us in silky sheets of blue, and for now all I had to do was stand at the prow and enjoy the view.

AT 3:00 P.M. SHARP on August 23, 2012, Colonel Edgar escorted the two men into Mattis’s office on MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa. The sixty-one-year-old general was an intimidating figure in person: muscular and broad shouldered, with dark circles under his eyes that suggested a man who didn’t bother much with sleep. His office was decorated with the mementos of a long military career. Amid the flags, plaques, and coins, Shoemaker’s eyes rested briefly on a set of magnificent swords displayed in a glass cabinet. As they sat down in a wood-paneled conference room off to one side of the office, Mattis cut to the chase: “Guys, I’ve been trying to get this thing deployed for a year now. What’s going on?” Shoemaker had gone over everything again with Gutierrez and felt confident he was on solid ground. He spoke first, giving a brief overview of the issues raised by an in-theater test of the Theranos technology. Gutierrez took over from there and told the general his army colleague was correct in his interpretation of the law: the Theranos device was very much subject to regulation by the FDA. And since the agency hadn’t yet reviewed and approved it for commercial use, it could only be tested on human subjects under strict conditions set by an institutional review board. One of those conditions was that the test subjects give their informed consent—something that was notoriously hard to obtain in a war zone. Mattis was reluctant to give up. He wanted to know if they could suggest a way forward. As he’d put it to Elizabeth in an email a few months earlier, he was convinced her invention would be “a game-changer” for his men. Gutierrez and Shoemaker proposed a solution: a “limited objective experiment” using leftover de-identified blood samples from soldiers. It would obviate the need to obtain informed consent and it was the only type of study that could be put together as quickly as Mattis seemed to want to proceed. They agreed to pursue that course of action. Fifteen minutes after they’d walked in, Shoemaker and Gutierrez shook Mattis’s hand and walked out. Shoemaker was immensely relieved. All in all, Mattis had been gruff but reasonable and a workable compromise had been reached. The limited experiment agreed upon fell short of the more ambitious live field trial Mattis had had in mind. Theranos’s blood tests would not be used to inform the treatment of wounded soldiers. They would only be performed on leftover samples after the fact to see if their results matched the army’s regular testing methods. But it was something. Earlier in his career, Shoemaker had spent five years overseeing the development of diagnostic tests for biological threat agents and he would have given his left arm to get access to anonymized samples from service members in theater. The data generated from such testing could be very useful in supporting applications to the FDA. Yet, over the ensuing months, Theranos inexplicably failed to take advantage of the opportunity it was given. When General Mattis retired from the military in March 2013, the study using leftover de-identified samples hadn’t begun. When Colonel Edgar took on a new assignment as commander of the Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases a few months later, it still hadn’t started. Theranos just couldn’t seem to get its act together. In July 2013, Lieutenant Colonel Shoemaker retired from the army. At his farewell ceremony, his Fort Detrick colleagues presented him with a “certificate of survival” for having the courage to stand up to Mattis in person and emerging from the encounter alive. They also gave him a T-shirt with the question, “What do you do after surviving a briefing with a 4 star?” written on the front. The answer could be found on the back: “Retire and sail off into the sunset.

To be a lover of the moon and stars, to chase the sunsets and stare at stars, and yet to thirst for dawn to break, is to find the light of transformation.

To be a lover of the moon and stars, to chase the sunsets and stare at the stars, and yet to thirst for dawn to break, is to find the light of transformation.

To be a lover of the moon, to chase the sunsets and stare at stars, and yet to thirst for dawn to break, is to find the light of transformation.

The pull of life is not in the treasures but in the moments when we wonder, what the moon could be whispering to the sky of dark. The magic lies in the bird songs filling the sunset sky. Wonders weave as the air gets thick with the scent of rain. The wonder we chase is woven in the light of heart. It then becomes a story written in the stars, shining in the eyes.

Deep down you know, you have lived by the sunsets you have chased, the hearts you have fallen in love with and the stars that have brought light to your eyes. Aftet all, it is the moments and memories that make an emotional feast , bringing you to the spirit of life.

A Lovely Homicidal Sunset Cruise

May you always chase sunsets, knowing that every ending holds the promise of a new beginning.

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