Crimson Rivers Quotes

These people have learned not from books, but in the fields, in the wood, on the river bank. Their teachers have been the birds themselves, when they sang to them, the sun when it left a glow of crimson behind it at setting, the very trees, and wild herbs.

If I cannot climb, I will grow.

A Robin said: The Spring will never come, And I shall never care to build again. A Rosebush said: These frosts are wearisome, My sap will never stir for sun or rain. The half Moon said: These nights are fogged and slow, I neither care to wax nor care to wane. The Ocean said: I thirst from long ago, Because earth's rivers cannot fill the main. — When Springtime came, red Robin built a nest, And trilled a lover's song in sheer delight. Grey hoarfrost vanished, and the Rose with might Clothed her in leaves and buds of crimson core. The dim Moon brightened. Ocean sunned his crest, Dimpled his blue, yet thirsted evermore.

I love you more than the tides love the moon. I'm as temperamental as the ocean, and just the same, I'm at your mercy. Give me a ship, and I will wreck it at your command.

Death does not erase the point of life. A dead flower does not mean it never bloomed. It did, and it was beautiful.

No one ever thinks to look up.

The river split for the jump of a red-gilled silver salmon, then circled to mark the spot where it fell. Spoonbills shoveled at the crimson mud in the shallows, and dowitchers jumped from cattail to cattail, frantically crying "Kleek! Kleek!" as though the thin reeds were as hot as the pokers they resembled.

That's what people don't tell you about grief, about loss; you do get farther away from it with time, and as much as you might wish not to, you forget the very things you want to cling to.

You're crazy," Rodolphus states. "I like crazy." "I like women," Dorcas replies. "Only.

I'd die for them, but I'd live for you.

Putting off your own issues to be there for everyone else doesn't mean you're fine. If anything, that means you're less fine than everyone else, because you're not even letting yourself deal with your problems.

But, when you love someone, it can feel like you'll never survive the loss of them, and then, somehow, you do.

I'm tired of breaking your heart, you've been so gentle with mine.

This myth he'd made out of intricate movements and imagination, out of moonlight and love, out of prayers older than Adam, and gray cliffs and crimson shadows, laments and rivers of martyrs - what had it come to at last? When the waves receded, the shores of Time would spread out there clean, empty, shining with infinite grains of memory and little else.

She sighed. “I wish I had their faith. Crimson is a Lannister color.” “That thing’s not crimson,” Ser Brynden said. “Nor Tully red, the mud red of the river. That’s blood up there, child, smeared across the sky.” “Our blood or theirs?” “Was there ever a war where only one side bled?

I don't want to be a great big tragedy anymore," Regulus cokes out, looking at him almost desperately. "Me neither," James admits. "Maybe someday, we won't be. Maybe, one day, well look at each other and see that other life, and maybe we actually get to have it. I can find it in we to hope for that, even after everything. I've had so much practice these last ten years, so I'll just do it for us both.

But, when you love someone, it can feel like you'll never survive the loss of them, and then, somehow, you do.

How do you kill what's already dead? You revive it just to watch it rot.

Think about it, love. A slap across the face is just a hand cradling a cheek with too much force," James says, his mouth dry. "I can take it. I swear I can take it. I might even like the way it stings, so long as it's your hand that leaves the mark.

Where the hell is my chair, Blue?

If there's one thing I've learned, though, impermanence only solidifies importance. You can learn through loss to better cherish what you have, and be thankful for what you got. It's awful, mostly, but you look back and there are glimpses that you can't bring yourself to regret. The inevitability of endings can't remove all that came before it. That still exists, and we get that, and we keep that. And that's—that's special. That's precious.

Dante watched Tess eat the thick, caramel-laced brownie, feeling her pleasure radiate across the small space that separated them on the river-walk bench. She’d offered him a bite, and although his kind could not consume crude human food in anything more than a mouthful, he accepted a small taste of the sticky chocolate confection if only to share in Tess’s unabashed enjoyment. He swallowed the heavy, pretty much revolting bit of pasty sweetness with a tight smile. “Good, huh?” Tess licked her chocolate-coated fingers, slipping one after the other into her mouth and sucking them clean. “Delicious,” Dante said, watching her with his own brand of hunger. “You can have some more if you want it.” “No.” He drew back, shaking his head. “No, it’s all yours. Please. Enjoy it.

October—with a gorgeous pageant of color around Mistawis into which Valancy plunged her soul. Never had she imagined anything so splendid. A great, tinted peace. Blue, wind-winnowed skies. Sunlight sleeping in the glades of that fairyland. Long dreamy purple days paddling idly in their canoe along shores and up the rivers of crimson and gold. A sleepy, red hunter’s moon. Enchanted tempests that stripped the leaves from the trees and heaped them along the shores. Flying shadows of clouds. What had all the smug, opulent lands out front to compare with this?

If your mind and spirit are seduced by images of windswept ridge tops, flutters of aspen leaves caressed by a canyon breeze and the crimson tendrils of dying sun…if your fingers feel the silken pulse of a lover and your lips taste the deep kisses of building passion…if nostrils flare with the conjured scents of gunpowder and perfume, sage brush and pine, and your ears delight in the murmur of river current…if your heart pounds at the clash of good and evil and with each twist and turn of interwoven lives you feel a primal throb, then I have accomplished my mission.

The slaughter was slow, every single act carried out with precision and care. Once he’d sheared her like a lamb, she was left on the cold floor, bleeding out in crimson rivers that followed the path of the cracks in the concrete.

It is true I have not seen the earth nor men, but in your books I have drunk fragrant wine, I have sung songs, I have hunted stags and wild boars in the forests, have loved women ... Beauties as ethereal as clouds, created by the magic of your poets and geniuses, have visited me at night, and have whispered in my ears wonderful tales that have set my brain in a whirl. In your books I have climbed to the peaks of Elburz and Mont Blanc, and from there I have seen the sun rise and have watched it at evening flood the sky, the ocean, and the mountain-tops with gold and crimson. I have watched from there the lightning flashing over my head and cleaving the storm-clouds. I have seen green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, towns. I have heard the singing of the sirens, and the strains of the shepherds' pipes; I have touched the wings of comely devils who flew down to converse with me of God ... In your books I have flung myself into the bottomless pit, performed miracles, slain, burned towns, preached new religions, conquered whole kingdoms ...

Well, for you, I imagine it comes from a place of pettiness, because you're a raging bitch

Five letters. A name. The word that starts the war. Poppy.

refused to be jealous of their happiness. Refused. It was harder to refuse the loneliness.

His little brother. Always his little brother.

They got him. The Hallows got him. His big brother. Always his big brother.

Me and you," Regulus says. "Me and you," Sirius agrees.

You're my favorite hello

You want me? I'm here. I'm right fucking here, love. Use me. Have me, then discard me. Hurt me. I don't care, Regulus. You can do anything to me, and I'll thank you for it every time.

For fifteen years I have been intently studying earthly life. It is true I have not seen the earth nor men, but in your books I have drunk fragrant wine, I have sung songs, I have hunted stags and wild boars in the forests, have loved women ... Beauties as ethereal as clouds, created by the magic of your poets and geniuses, have visited me at night, and have whispered in my ears wonderful tales that have set my brain in a whirl. In your books I have climbed to the peaks of Elburz and Mont Blanc, and from there I have seen the sun rise and have watched it at evening flood the sky, the ocean, and the mountain-tops with gold and crimson. I have watched from there the lightning flashing over my head and cleaving the storm-clouds. I have seen green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, towns. I have heard the singing of the sirens, and the strains of the shepherds' pipes; I have touched the wings of comely devils who flew down to converse with me of God ... In your books I have flung myself into the bottomless pit, performed miracles, slain, burned towns, preached new religions, conquered whole kingdoms ...

He paused a moment, gazing in awe at the huge mass of buildings composing the castle. It stood close to the river, on either side and to the rear stretched the extensive park and gardens, filled with splendid trees, fountains and beds of brilliant flowers in shades of pink, crimson, and scarlet. The castle itself was built of pink granite, and enclosed completely a smaller, older building which the present Duke's father had considered too insignificant for his town residence. The new castle had taken forty years to build; three architects and hundreds of men had worked day and night, and the old Duke had personally selected every block of sunset-colored stone that went to its construction. 'I want it to look like a great half-open rose,' he declared to the architects, who were fired with enthusiasm by this romantic fancy. It was begun as a wedding present to the Duke's wife, whose name was Rosamond, but unfortunately she died some nine years before it was completed. 'never mind, it will do for her memorial instead,' said the grief-stricken but practical widower. The work went on. At last the final block was laid in place. The Duke, by now very old, went out in his barouche and drove slowly along the opposite riverbank to consider the effect. He paused midway for a long time, then gave his opinion. 'It looks like a cod cutlet covered in shrimp sauce,' he said, drove home, took to his bed, and died.

Oregon October, when the fields of timothy and rye-grass stubble are being burned, the sky itself catches fire. Flocks of wrens rush up from the red alder thickets like sparks kicked from a campfire, the salmon jumps again, and the river rolls molten and slow . . . Down river, from Andy’s Landing, a burned-off cedar snag held the sun spitted like an apple, hissing and dripping juices against a grill of Indian Summer clouds. All the hillside, all the drying Himalaya vine that lined the big river, and the sugar-maple trees farther up, burned a dark brick and over-lit red. The river split for the jump of a red-gilled silver salmon, then circled to mark the spot where it fell. Spoonbills shoveled at the crimson mud in the shallows, and dowitchers jumped from cattail to cattail, frantically crying “Kleek! Kleek!” as though the thin reeds were as hot as the pokers they resembled. Canvasback and brant flew south in small, fiery, faraway flocks. And in the shabby ruin of broken cornfields rooster ringnecks clashed together in battle so bright, so gleaming polished-copper bright, that the fields seemed to ring with their fighting. This is Hank’s bell.

When he reached the Neva he stood still for a minute and turned a keen glance up the river into the smoky frozen thickness of the distance, which was suddenly flushed crimson with the last purple and blood -red glow of sunset, still smouldering on the misty horizon... . Night lay over the city, and the

Images surround us; cavorting broadcast in the minds of others, we wear the motley tailored by their bad digestions, the shame and failure, plague pandemics and private indecencies, unpaid bills, and animal ecstasies remembered in hospital beds, our worst deeds and best intentions will not stay still, scolding, mocking, or merely chattering they assail each other, shocked at recognition. Sometimes simplicity serves, though even the static image of Saint John Baptist received prenatal attentions (six months along, leaping for joy in his mother's womb when she met Mary who had conceived the day before): once delivered he stands steady in a camel's hair loincloth at a ford in the river, morose, ascetic on locusts and honey, molesting passers-by, upbraiding the flesh on those who wear it with pleasure. And the Nazarene whom he baptized? Three years pass, in a humility past understanding: and then death, disappointed? unsuspecting? and the body left on earth, the one which was to rule the twelve tribes of Israel, and on earth, left crying out - My God, why dost thou shame me? Hopelessly ascendent in resurrection, the image is pegged on the wind by an epileptic tentmaker, his strong hands stretch the canvas of faith into a gaudy caravanserai, shelter for travelers wearied of the burning sand, lured by forgetfulness striped crimson and gold, triple-tiered, visible from afar, redolent of the east, and level and wide the sun crashes the fist of reality into that desert where the truth still walks barefoot.

THE STAGE: The stage is empty, and you watch as the figure of Medusa steps into the gas-light. Her body is dressed in a crimson traversed by the golden branches of willow trees, colour and light held into shape by sharp black borders. Lifting languidly her hands, she reaches towards you. Her emerald vipers, in the cohesive movements of unseen mechanisms, weave loops about her head. Music is beginning, and from the shadows off-stage the narrator speaks. “Medusa had a beautiful name and a lovely voice, though no one cared to listen; seeking only the gaze of those famous eyes.” Perseus walks onto the stage, cloaked as though he were the blazing sun. Now what you have to understand is his voice – it is like nothing you could tie down. It feels peaceful to hear it, to see him flow into the song with his fine, clear looks and his finer, clearer voice. Is the head quite forgotten? Not quite but the horror exists alongside the beauty and they flow like twin rivers, and neither is able to wash the other from you.

I've never had a friend before you," Evan croaks. "So, you know, thanks for that, I suppose. It—it was nice while it lasted." "You—" Regulus fumbles for Evan's hand, and their fingers clasp around each other, slipping from the blood. "I'm—Evan—" Evan hums, and he's slurring when he says, "Your turn, lover boy." "I miss my brother," Regulus confesses in a whisper

Images surround us; cavorting broadcast in the minds of others, we wear the motley tailored by their bad digestions, the shame and failure, plague pandemics and private indecencies, unpaid bills, and animal ecstasies remembered in hospital beds, our worst deeds and best intentions will not stay still, scolding, mocking, or merely chattering they assail each other, shocked at recognition. Sometimes simplicity serves, though even the static image of Saint John Baptist received prenatal attentions (six months along, leaping for joy in his mother's womb when she met Mary who had conceived the day before): once delivered he stands steady in a camel's hair loincloth at a ford in the river, morose, ascetic on locusts and honey, molesting passers-by, upbraiding the flesh on those who wear it with pleasure. And the Nazarene whom he baptized? Three years pass, in a humility past understanding: and then death, disappointed? unsuspecting? and the body left on earth, the one which was to rule the twelve tribes of Israel, and on earth, left crying out—My God, why dost thou shame me? Hopelessly ascendant in resurrection, the image is pegged on the wind by an epileptic tentmaker, his strong hands stretch the canvas of faith into a gaudy caravanserai, shelter for travelers wearied of the burning sand, lured by forgetfulness striped crimson and gold, triple-tiered, visible from afar, redolent of the east, and level and wide the sun crashes the fist of reality into that desert where the truth still walks barefoot.

These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer’s spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By pavèd fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beachèd margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport. Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, As in revenge have sucked up from the sea Contagious fogs, which, falling in the land, Hath every pelting river made so proud That they have overborne their continents. The ox hath therefore stretched his yoke in vain, The plowman lost his sweat, and the green corn Hath rotted ere his youth attained a beard. The fold stands empty in the drownèd field, And crows are fatted with the murrain flock. The nine-men’s-morris is filled up with mud, And the quaint mazes in the wanton green, For lack of tread, are undistinguishable. The human mortals want their winter here. No night is now with hymn or carol blessed. Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger, washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound. And thorough this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazèd world By their increase now knows not which is which. And this same progeny of evils comes From our debate, from our dissension; We are their parents and original.

He eases himself down to die. He thinks, others can do it and so can I. He inhales something: sweet raw smell of sawdust; from some-where, the scent of the Frescobaldi kitchen, wild garlic and cloves. He sees the movement from the corner of his eye as the spectators kneel and avert their faces. His mouth is dry, but he thinks, while I breathe I pray. 'All my confidence hope and trust, is in thy most merciful goodness...’ In the sky he senses movement. A shadow falls across his view. His father Walter is here, voice in the air. 'So now get up.' He lies broken on the cobbles of the yard of the house where he was born. His whole body is shuddering. 'So now get up. So now get up.' The pain is acute, a raw stinging, a ripping, a throb. He can taste his death: slow, metallic, not come yet. In his terror he tries to obey his father, but his hands cannot get a purchase, nor can he crawl. He is an eel, he is a worm on a hook, his strength has ebbed and leaked away beneath him and it seems a long time ago now since he gave his permission to be dead; no one has told his heart, and he feels it writhe in his chest, trying to beat. His cheek rests on nothing, it rests on red. He thinks, follow. Walter says, ‘That's right, boy, spew everywhere, spew everywhere on my good cobbles. Come on, boy, get up. By the blood of creeping Christ, stand on your feet?' He is very cold. People imagine the cold comes after but it is now. He thinks, winter is here. I am at Launde. I have stumbled deep into the crisp white snow. I flail my arms in angel shape, but now I am crystal, I am ice and sinking deep: now I am water. Beneath him the ground upheaves. The river tugs him; he looks for the quick-moving Pattern, for the flitting, liquid scarlet. Between a pulse-beat and the next he shifts, going out on crimson with the tide of his inner sea. He is far from England now, far from these islands, from the waters salt and fresh. He has vanished; he is the slippery stones underfoot, he is the last faint ripple in the wake of himself. He feels for an opening, blinded, looking for a door: tracking the light along the wall.

Karim s'adossa au mur, pris d'un vertige. Puis il scruta sa montre. Il avait bien tué deux heures. Mais ces heures l'avaient tué en retour.

L. Wilson, editor of the Chicago Evening Journal; and General Henry Eugene Davies, who wrote a pamphlet, Ten Days on the Plains, describing the hunt. Among the others rounding out the group were Leonard W. and Lawrence R. Jerome; General Anson Stager of the Western Union Telegraph Company; Colonel M. V. Sheridan, the general's brother; General Charles Fitzhugh; and Colonel Daniel H. Rucker, acting quartermaster general and soon to be Phil Sheridan's father-in-law. Leonard W. Jerome, a financier, later became the grandfather of Winston Churchill when his second daughter, jenny, married Lord Randolph Churchill. The party arrived at Fort McPherson on September 22, 1871. The New York Herald's first dispatch reported: "General Sheridan and party arrived at the North Platte River this morning, and were conducted to Fort McPherson by General Emery [sic], commanding. General Sheridan reviewed the troops, consisting of four companies of the Fifth Cavalry. The party start[s] across the country tomorrow, guided by the renowned Buffalo Bill and under the escort of Major Brown, Company F, Fifth Cavalry. The party expect[s] to reach Fort Hays in ten days." After Sheridan's review of the troops, the general introduced Buffalo Bill to the guests and assigned them to their quarters in large, comfortable tents just outside the post, a site christened Camp Rucker. The remainder of the day was spent entertaining the visitors at "dinner and supper parties, and music and dancing; at a late hour they retired to rest in their tents." The officers of the post and their ladies spared no expense in their effort to entertain their guests, to demonstrate, perhaps, that the West was not all that wild. The finest linens, glassware, and china the post afforded were brought out to grace the tables, and the ballroom glittered that night with gold braid, silks, velvets, and jewels. Buffalo Bill dressed for the hunt as he had never done before. Despite having retired late, "at five o'clock next morning . . . I rose fresh and eager for the trip, and as it was a nobby and high-toned outfit which I was to accompany, I determined to put on a little style myself. So I dressed in a new suit of buckskin, trimmed along the seams with fringes of the same material; and I put on a crimson shirt handsomely ornamented on the bosom, while on my head I wore a broad sombrero. Then mounting a snowy white horse-a gallant stepper, I rode down from the fort to the camp, rifle in hand. I felt first-rate that morning, and looked well." In all probability, Louisa Cody was responsible for the ornamentation on his shirt, for she was an expert with a needle. General Davies agreed with Will's estimation of his appearance that morning. "The most striking feature of the whole was ... our friend Buffalo Bill.... He realized to perfection the bold hunter and gallant sportsman of the plains." Here again Cody appeared as the

sedimentary time. The lowest stratum, or the layer immediately above the Deterrence Center, had probably been deposited four billion years ago. The Earth had been born only five hundred million years before that. The turbid ocean was in its infancy, and nonstop flashes of lightning struck its surface; the Sun was a fuzzy ball of light in a haze-veiled sky, casting a crimson reflection over the sea. At short intervals, other bright balls of light streaked across the sky, crashing into the sea and trailing long tails of fire; these meteor strikes caused tsunamis that propelled gigantic waves to smash onto continents still laced with rivers of lava, raising clouds of vapor generated by fire and water that dimmed the Sun.… In contrast to this hellish but magnificent sight, the turbid water brewed a microscopic tale. Here, organic molecules were born from lightning flashes and cosmic rays, and they collided, fused, broke apart again—a long-lasting game played with building blocks for five hundred million years. Finally, a chain of organic molecules, trembling, split into two strands. The strands attracted other molecules around them until two identical copies of the original were made, and these split apart again and replicated themselves.… In this game of building blocks, the probability of producing such a self-replicating chain of organic molecules was so minuscule that it was as if a tornado had picked up a pile of metallic trash and deposited it as a fully-assembled Mercedes-Benz. But it happened, and so, a breathtaking history of 3.5 billion years had begun.

rose from the plain before them, peaceful and solid—very solid—in the autumn sun. The day was warm and beautiful, and the air was alive with the rich, earthy smells of the river and forest. He’d never seen such a forest. The trees that edged the plain and grew all along the banks of the St. Lawrence grew impenetrably thick, now blazing with gold and crimson. Seen against the darkness of the water and the impossible deep blue of the vast October sky, the whole

In between us ran a river of mucky slime with a terrible odor like an old porta-john left to sit too long in the noonday sun. It was a bit strange actually, since I hadn’t run across a single toilet anywhere in Eldgard and no one—players or NPCs alike—actually seemed to have any need for the bathroom. Yet, here, flowing beneath Rowanheath like a sludgy, disgusting river, was actual sewage. Rancid crap, to be precise.

Remedio : Ocotillo (Candlewood) To forgive one’s life love for dying, pick the long, feather-like, crimson flowers in early spring, when the desert is in bloom. Boil in river water only. Let cool. Drink at once. Drink when waking, at noon, and at bedtime each day for three full weeks thereafter. If resentment persists, go to your beloved’s grave daily and pray for forgiveness until sound sleep and appetite return. ◊◊◊ My last days May they pass slow as black smoke goes father’s only prayer of late No No I’m certain that he stole it from Adam I’m sure who first uttered it just outside the Garden the first night he spent alone

Silent morning Quiet nature in dim light It is almost peaceless of the chirping of birds Waiting for the sunrise Feeling satisfied with pure breath Busy life- in pursuit of livelihood, running people In the intensity of the wood-burning sun, astray finch Sometimes the advent of north-wester I’m scared The calamitous heartache of the falling Caesalpinia pulcherrima! Listen to get ears Surprisingly I saw the unadulterated green weald Vernal, yellow and crimson colors are the glorious beauty of the unique nature An amazing reflection of Bengal The housewife’s fringe of azure color sari fly in the gentle breeze The cashew forest on the bank of flowing rivers white egret couple peep-bo The kite crookedly flies get lost in the far unknown The footstep of blustery childhood on the zigzag path Standing on a head-high hill touches the fog Beckoning with the hand of the magical horizon The liveliness of a rainy-soaked juvenile Momentary fascinated visibility of Ethnic group’s pineapple, tea, banana and jhum cultivation at the foot of the hill Trailer- shrub, algae and pebble-stone come back to life in the cleanly stream of the fountain Bumble bee is rudderless in the drunken smell of mountain wild flower The heart of the most beloved is touched by pure love In the distant sea water, pearl glow in the sunlight Rarely, the howl of a hungry tiger float in the air from a deep forest The needy fisherman’s ​​hope and aspiration are mortgaged to the infinite sea The waves come rushing on the beach delete the footprint to the beat of the dancing The white cotton cloud is invisible in the bluey The mew flies at impetuous speed to an unknown destination A slice of happy smile at the bend of the wave The western sky covered with the crimson glow of twilight Irritated by the cricket’s endless acrid sound The evening lamp is lit to flickering light of the firefly The red crabs tittup wildly on the beach Steadfast seeing Sunset A beautiful dream Next sunrise.

The opulence of Bedford Square and the British Museum may be only a few hundred yards away, but New Oxford Street runs between there and here like a river too wide to swim, and you are on the wrong side.

But most of his time he spent west of Sunset Glow exploring the banks of the Magic River. There, by the Rock of Rebirth, he found the beautiful Crimson Pearl Flower, for which he conceived such a fancy that he took to watering her every day with sweet dew, thereby conferring on her the gift of life.

dominance—those who needed power over another for sexual gratification; hallucinatory—those compelled by voices or visions; objective oriented—those on a mission to exterminate a particular class of people like prostitutes or a racial minority group; and lust—those for whom violence and sex were the same things. No dominance was involved, as the victims had been unconscious during the entire interaction, and dominance killers needed their victims to know they were being dominated. Pharr and River were not from any ethnic, racial, or religious minority groups. The possibilities were that he was being compelled by hallucinations he believed were instructing him to carry out the killings; that he was a lust killer, though the evidence for sexual assault was sparse; or that this was not serial murder at all but murder for money, for revenge, or for hire, with the allusions to Sarpong thrown in to deceive law enforcement. Or this was an entirely unique type of serial predator as yet unidentified by the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit. If he was a lust or hallucinatory killer, he wouldn’t stop until he was dead or in prison. Until then, all he could do was keep moving

İnsan kendi karanlıklarda boğulurken, başkalarına nasıl ışık dağıtır?

Fuck. You feel so good, Blue.

Fuck, but I loved her. I was in love with Lyla Eden. I had been for weeks.

From the outside, my life was rock solid. So why couldn’t I shake this unease? This feeling that I was missing something. This feeling that somehow, I’d failed. That I was marching in the wrong direction

We dare not be original; our American Pine must be cut to the trim pattern of the English Yew, though the Pine bleed at every clip. This poet tunes his lyre at the harp of Goethe, Milton, Pope, or Tennyson. His songs might better be sung on the Rhine than the Kennebec. They are not American in form or feeling; they have not the breath of our air; the smell of our ground is not in them. Hence our poet seems cold and poor. He loves the old mythology; talks about Pluto—the Greek devil,—— the Fates and Furies—witches of old time in Greece,—-but would blush to use our mythology, or breathe the name in verse of our Devil, or our own Witches, lest he should be thought to believe what he wrote. The mother and sisters, who with many a pinch and pain sent the hopeful boyto college, must turn over the Classical Dictionary before they can find out what the youth would be at in his rhymes. Our Poet is not deep enough to see that Aphrodite came from the ordinary waters, that Homer only hitched into rhythm and furnished the accomplishment of verse to street talk, nursery tales, and old men’s gossip, in the Ionian towns; he thinks what is common is unclean. So he sings of Corinth and Athens, which he never saw, but has not a word to say of Boston, and Fall River, and Baltimore, and New York, which are just as meet for song. He raves of Thermopylae and Marathon, with never a word for Lexington and Bunkerhill, for Cowpens, and Lundy’s Lane, and Bemis’s Heights. He loves to tell of the Ilyssus, of “ smooth sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,” yet sings not of the Petapsco, the Susquehannah, the Aroostook, and the Willimantick. He prates of the narcissus, and the daisy, never of American dandelions andbue-eyed grass; he dwells on the lark and the nightingale, but has not a thought for the brown thrasher and the bobolink, who every morning in June rain down such showers of melody on his affected head. What a lesson Burns teaches us addressing his “rough bur thistle,” his daisy, “wee crimson tippit thing,” and finding marvellous poetry in the mouse whose nest his plough turned over! Nay, how beautifully has even our sweet Poet sung of our own Green river, our waterfowl,of the blue and fringed gentian, the glory of autumnal days.

Gray-blue eyes locked with mine. He raised a hand in the air. I pressed one against the glass. Then I aimed my eyes on the road. And as I drove away, I didn’t let myself look back.

Somewhere along the way, I lost that girl. You’re good at finding people, right? Maybe after you catch Cormac, you could teach me your tricks.

But cacti know the real trick. Sometime in the last 35 million years, they rolled up their primordial leaves into spines, the most daring fashion accessory of the season. Multipurpose, too: a useful defense against nibblers, and a kind of sunshade and air-conditioning system in one. In the absence of leaves, photosynthesis moved to the green, leathery skin. Here another innovation took place: cacti learned to keep their pores (known as stomata) closed during the day, to prevent moisture from siphoning away into the unforgiving sky. They open their pores only during the cool hours of the night, squirreling away pockets of carbon dioxide, and complete the task of making sugar during the day. They also store water under their waxy skins and quickly grow networks of tiny roots after rain to siphon up moisture. One good storm can sustain a cactus through several years of drought. For all this, cacti can be extravagant too, coming out in showy blossoms in shades of cerise, gold, and crimson as gaudy as any high school prom dress. Clover and Jotter couldn’t have known all this (the details of cactus photosynthesis wouldn’t be worked out for decades). But in cataloging plants that thrived in extremes, they were adding to the general picture of evolution and adaptation, tracing the subtle threads of a tapestry that had been in the making for 3.5 billion years.

Because Montana hiking trails were teeming with eligible, handsome men who’d worship the ground I walked on.

Remus groans, his eyes sinking shut. He lifts his hands and scrubs them over his face before he drops them heavily, looking weary. "You are one the most unbelievably fucked up people I've ever met, you know that?" "Takes one to know one, I suppose," Regulus replies wryly, arching an eyebrow at him. Remus huffs out a weak laugh. "Yeah, can't argue that.

The region of the Barrens—the dry, desert-covered peninsula in the southeast that all dragonkind abandoned after General Daramor ruined the land during the Great War—is completely painted in crimson. The stain stretches into Braevick, over the Dunness River.

A slap across the face is just a hand cradling a cheek with too much force. I can take it. I swear I can take it. I might even like the way it stings, so long as it's your hand that leaves the mark.

You want me? I'm here. I'm right fucking here, love,

I have this habit of wearing my feelings like jewelry, bright and sparkly for the world to see. I trust people just because people can trust me. That’s how I was raised.

Cincinnati, I thought, was the most beautiful of the inland cities of the Union. From the tower of its unsurpassed hotel the city spreads far and wide its pageant of crimson, purple and gold, laced by silver streams that are great rivers.

There are three things that are difficult to keep hidden: a fire, a cold, and love. —Polish Proverb

1683 he aided the legendary King Jan Sobieski and much of Christian Europe in keeping Vienna—and therefore Eastern Europe—from the Turks.

Jurata, Queen of the Baltic.

There’s no key to the woods and fields.

Look!” The Khwaja nudged a sleepy Bizhad. What was white before sparkled with a fine glaze of crimson, smearing the ashen tents that housed soldiers and animals inside the fort’s walls, lighting up the city of palaces and mosques, casting a halo over the silent fountains and the imperial boat. One by one, the great doorways of the fort gleamed like mirrors, reflecting the sun, now a spear’s length over the horizon. Marble palaces breathed free of the crisscrossing beams, managing to stand aloof from common homes. The intruder, satisfied by the result, turned an effortless gold – a gold coin floating on the river, at its still centre. A bird called, flew across, reflecting the world on its tiny wings – the lapis sky, the turquoise river, the crimson fort and the golden sun. “Look!” The Khwaja whispered into Bizhad’s ear, tracing its flight with his raised finger. “The finest artist in all Agra!” And so on Saturday the twenty-seventh of Rabi, year 975 of the Hegira, 1568 of the Christian era, the sun lit imperial Agra, blessing every moment and delighting every one of its subjects. It rose for the ten thousandth time since that dawn when Babur, the Mughal invader, had woken after a restful night to find himself the conqueror of Hindustan. Under the western wall of the fort, his grandson, the emperor, was about to rise. Rise and begin his favorite sport – racing elephants when they are in their frightening best. In heat.

I looked down at my feet and watched the remnants of blood go down the drain. The water swirled into a crimson red and went down the drain almost as if it was never there to begin with.

Thank you," Sirius says abruptly . Remus blinks. "You're welcome. Wait, for what?" "For taking care of me," Sirius murmurs as he washes a plate and passes it to Remus. He's not looking at him and there's a far-away look in his eyes. "You don't have to, and yet you are, and that- means something. That has meaning, like you said. I'd say I'd like to return the favor, but I'd never wish for you to be in a position where you need to be taken care of. But I hope you know that I would. And I hope that has meaning too.

I may be mental, but you're a mess, Sirius Black

Regulus snorts weakly. "Not really. I'm not exactly…the easiest person to get on with." "What? No. You're a fucking delight, what are you on about?" Evan mocks through a shit-eating grin. "No one's ever—" Regulus exhales shakily. "I have a friend at home, just one, but that's…different. I think you two would have gotten on well. But he's—" Regulus stops, because he's not sure how to even begin explaining Barty, who is his friend, yes, but not the way Evan has been. "Well, I'm not the type to have a best friend, but if I were, it would have been you." "Pity we never met before this, eh?" Evan swallows harshly

I have to tell you a joke," James says, and the angel blinks at him, then arches an eyebrow. "I need you to laugh." "James—" "What did the big flower say to the little flower?" The angel glances over at the best friend, and the best friend is stifling laughter, and then the angel focuses on James again. The angel indulges him. "I don't know. What did the big flower say to the little flower?" "Hey there, bud," James tells him, and the mother laughs, and the father laughs, and the best friend laughs, but the angel does not laugh. No, the angel only reaches up to grab his hand, gently pressing a smile to his knuckles. It's a small smile. Lips of an angel. Sweet. James wants to put his mouth on it, and stick his fingers in it, but he's also sad because the angel didn't laugh. "You were supposed to laugh. I told a flower joke. It was funny, and you like flowers." "Mm." The angel's eyes drift shut. The angel is still smiling and cradling his hand. "Better luck next time." "I'll keep trying." "I know.

The man glares up at him, blood streaming down his nose, "No one is scared of you or your bitch of a boyfriend-" "Fiancé," Regulus corrects harshly, then bangs the man's face into the table again. "Yeah, careful with that. He's really touch about that," Barty calls out, sounding like he's having the time of his life. "Regulus, stop," Rabastan says firmly. "No, keep going, this shit is hilarious," Barty announces.

They're okay, because they have each other. Here they are, holding onto this moment: two comforted, two comforting, two brothers. Always brothers.

Finally, Monty clears his throat and says, "Alright, well, I'm claiming Regulus. We'll take the back." Regulus looks oddly charmed by this. "Hey, be careful," Sirius and James announce at basically the same exact time, and Regulus rolls his eyes as Monty snorts. They're clearly thick as thieves, because Regulus' lips curl up when Monty knocks their shoulders together, and they slink off while whispering to each other, Monty chuckling quietly as they go. James and Sirius exchange an exasperated look.

I believe you, man," Rabastan assures him, jerking his thumb at Rodolphus. "All he does is lie, so yeah, I believe you." "When do I lie?" Rodolphus sputters. "Name one time—" "You told me you didn't steal my pillow months ago, and I know it was you. I know it was." "It wasn't! I'm telling you, Bas, it was someone else!" "Who, then?" "Um. Well, okay, I don't know, but—" Rabastan gestures to Rodolphus, raising his eyebrows pointedly. "See? Liar." "I do see," Regulus replies with a straight face, looking completely neutral as he nods in agreement. Sirius stares at the side of Regulus' face until, finally, Regulus' gaze darts towards him very briefly before he quickly looks away, because he's a lying, sneaky little shit of a pillow thief and has no shame in it. Sirius shakes his head and looks away, reaching up to swipe a hand over his mouth to hide his grin. Rabastan and Rodolphus continue to argue about who the pillow thief is, and Sirius doesn't interrupt to inform them of the real culprit, because he knows it's his brother.

James is the one who saved eleven extra people, just to lose one friend.

Regulus, who said I miss my brother. Sirius has been crying ever since. Regulus hasn't said that, or anything even close to that, in ten years. Something he doesn't tell anyone else—that's what Evan asked of him, and that's what Regulus went with. I miss you, too, Sirius had thought, and maybe he whispered it, maybe Remus heard him, or maybe not. He's been crying too incoherently to know. But it's true. He's been missing Regulus for the last ten years.

Hallow is Hollow

We are something, but we can't be everything. I-I do wish that we could be. Or I wish that we could at least try. If it's easier to be nothing, because we can't be everything, then I understand." Sirius breathes for a moment, then says, "I don't think I can be nothing with you.

Regulus swallows. "You're a good person, Evan Rosier." "That's the thing, though. I'm really not." Evan blinks at him slowly. "I just—like you. Isn't that mental?" "Certifiably insane," Regulus says, his chest feeling tight. Evan waves his free hand lazily. "I don't mean the way your boyfriend likes you. Just…person to person, I suppose. It's a shame, really. I think—well, I think you're my friend.

Either way, sometimes there are people that just—recognize each other. Like whatever you're made of, you might be lucky enough to find someone holding a little bit of you in them, and without even knowing it, you've been carrying around a little bit of them before you ever even met. So, when you do meet, it's like something inside of you starts wriggling around that says hey, that's me, that's ours, that's us. Recognition. Connection. Something really, truly special. Regulus has just watched that die.

What we are is something. We're something Sirius.

You'll stay, right?" James mumbles. "I'll stay," promises the angel, and James believes the promise, because James looks into the angel's eyes and knows the angel means the promise and isn't being a sneaky little liar. James smiles, pleased. "I'm going to keep you." The angel finally, finally, finally laughs, and it has special angel powers to make James' chest go warm. It sounds like a gentle jingle, a tinkling bell, and it's the last thing James hears before he happily falls off into dreams of a knitted hat with the angel's laughter trapped inside.

It's a long trek, and James is admittedly lost in his own little world, so he's not really paying attention when heading to his porch. That's why a yelp tumbles out of his mouth as he reaches for the door and, instead, feels a cold clump of snow collide directly into the back of his head. Immediately, from behind him, there's a roar of laughter James would know in his sleep, all belonging to his children. He swivels on the spot, swiping the snow out of his hair, and Regulus stands there with a smug little smile as he wipes his snow-dusted gloves together, surrounded by their kids that, apparently, find this to be absolutely hilarious. "You walked by like we weren't even here," Regulus calls out, eyebrows raised. "Don't ignore us." James just stares at him for a long moment, his breath caught in his chest, knowing the same thing he's known since the day Regulus turned fifteen—that he's absolutely, unequivocally beautiful. Helplessly, James breaks out into a grin, and he makes his way back to them, because apparently it's the perfect day to build a snowman. Well, James can't argue that one.

Being touched by you is being blessed by divinity. I know I'm not worthy, but I crave it ceaselessly all the same." "I thought I was the devil," James choked out. "You're that, too. You're everything to me, baby.

Can't steal the moon, can't keep the stars, but we're fortunate enough to know them anyways. Isn't that us?" "Yeah," Remus whispers. "Yeah, that's us.

Reflexively, he glances up to scan the trees. He always thinks to look up now. Evan is never there.

A stranger is just someone you haven't met yet. What do you call someone you knew better than yourself, but you no longer recognize? A ghost?

Alright, alright," Aberforth grunts, grimacing at the truly ridiculous amount of warm-and-fuzzies implied with all of that. The boy is usually better about keeping that shit to himself, unlike his over-emotional brother. Makes sense why Aberforth prefers him. "Fine, I'll—stop in to officiate your wedding, but I'm doing that and nothing else. I'm doing it on one condition, you hear me?" "Okay," Regulus says, eyes narrowing again. "I'm old. I'm probably gonna die in the next fifteen years or so, if I'm lucky," Aberforth announces with a grunt, and he appreciates that the boy doesn't protest, or try to deny it, or even seem to care very much. He only blinks and, after a moment of hesitation, nods. "I don't have kids, never cared to have a spouse, and all my family is dead. I don't much care what happens to my property or possessions after I'm gone, but I need someone to carry out my last wishes for my burial." "The tree," Regulus murmurs. Aberforth nods. "I want to be cremated, then buried with Albus and Ariana. Think you can handle that?" "You—me?" Regulus blinks again, this time with mild alarm, visibly startled. "Wait, you're putting me in your will? No, that's too much. I don't want your stuff, or to deal with all that shit. It's stressful. Pick someone else." "How bad do you want me to officiate your wedding?" Aberforth asks, eyebrows raised. Regulus holds his hand out immediately. "I'd be happy to bury you. You have yourself a deal." Aberforth chuckles, helplessly, and reaches out to shake his hand.

Some people see it this way, and some people do not. Some are angry, and some are scared, and some are so hurt that they can't see the point of anything, let alone fighting. Some people give up. Some people try harder. They all grieve, though, all of them—and, for all the differences in the people who remain behind, one thing is the same about those who are gone. The world is a little more hollow without them in it.

They all knew this was coming. They all knew war would reach into the pools of kinship between countless people and gut the innards of it like emptying out a pumpkin. So many seeds torn away and crushed into nothing; seeds of friendship, seeds of romance, seeds of family. All of them planted and ruined in various stages, left with nothing but growing pains and, worse than that, the pain of absent growth altogether. War is cruel. It's cancerous. The end of the world is always tied to war, isn't it? Maybe this is why; because war is so much more than just war. It goes beyond bullets and blood and bodies. War comes in like a flood, like a disease, and it claims anyone who comes in contact with it. Even the living can't get free from it; they're as claimed as the dead are. Once war touches them, they're branded to their last breath. In this world, most people have been branded for a lot longer than they stepped on their first battlefield.

I hope you trip on your way down the aisle," Narcissa tells Regulus. "I hope you have a baby, and I hope it's the ugliest, snottiest, brattiest little shit that ever graced this earth," Regulus snips. "Impossible," Narcissa retorts, hand to her chest. "I will be their mother, so they will be, at the very least, quite beautiful." "And the rest?" "Well, no one's perfect.