Cyan Quotes

He looked over at me. “Indigo,” he said. “Cyan”. He glanced at the road in front of him, glanced at me. He reached over and ran his fingers down one of the darkest strands in the back, where I’d used a little purple. “Violet.

Potassium cyanide," says the talent wrangler as she leans over to pick up a paper napkin off the floor. "Found naturally in the cassava or manioc roots native to Africa, used to tint architectural blueprints in the form of the deep-blue pigment known as Prussian blue. Hence the shade 'cyan' blue.

Being with men can be exciting and pleasurable, yes. But take my word for it, they are not as wonderful as they think they are." - Cyane

Let the quiet tuck you in. Let the quiet massage your shoulder. Let the quiet embrace you; feeling all the dimensions of your skin. Feel the quiet between your toes. Behind your earlobes. Under your tongue. Over the space above your heart. In the cells regenerating from the wounds. Let it permeate through your blood. Indigo & Cyan. Eyes watching Zion. Be the quiet Lion

Danny shook his head, amusement relaxing the tense line of his mouth. 'Is that all you think about?' 'No! Sometimes I think about food. And beer. The color cyan. I'm a complex and multilayered flower, Danny.

Actions make priorities evident

[...] sketches of Saussure's cyanometer, which distinguished the various blues in the sky.

it’s a warm march evening, almost like summer. the sky is still bright cyan but the sun is low and the sidewalks are streaked with long shadows.

How crazy it would be if the moon did spin and the earth stood still and the sun went dim! How absolutely ludicrous if snakes could walk and kids could fly and mimes did talk! How silly it would be if the nights were tan and the mornings green and the sun cyan! How totally ridiculous if horses chirped and spiders sang and ladies burped! How shocking it would be if the dragons ruled and the knights were daft but the fish were schooled! How utterly preposterous if rain were dry and snowflakes warm and real men cried! I love to just imagine all the lows as heights, and the salty, sweet, and our lefts as rights. Perhaps it is incredible and off the hook, but it all makes sense in a storybook! 

It's easy loving someone in the light: in the bright light where everyone wants you to love each other, everyone expects you to stay together, and it's the right thing to do. But have you ever loved someone in the dark: in the deep dark where nobody wants you to love, everyone expects you to be a mistake, and it's supposed to be the wrong thing to do? A love like that isn't for anybody's eyes, it isn't for anybody else, and for no other reasons than love itself. It's the flower that grew in the pavement, the vines that grew inside cement walls, the lotus that rises cyan blue from the mud.

Surely, somewhere in the back of Bulfinch, in a part Lillian had not gotten to, there is an obscure (abstruse, arcane, shadowy, and even hidden) version of Proserpine in he Underworld in which a tired Jewish Ceres schleps through the outskirts of Tartarus, an ugly village of tired whores who must double as laundresses and barbers, a couple of saloons, a nearly empty five-and-dime, and people too poor to pull up stakes. In this version, Ceres looks all over town for her Proserpine, who crossed the River Cyane in a pretty sailboat with Pluto, having had the good sense to come to an understanding with the king early on. Pluto and Proserpine picnic in a charming park, twinkling lights overhead and handsome wide benches like the ones in Central Park. When Ceres comes, tripping a little on her hem as she walks through the soft grass, muttering and trying to yank Proserpine to her feet so they can start the long trip home to Enna and daylight (which has lost much of its luster, now that Proserpine is queen of all she surveys), the girl does not jump up at the sight of her mother, but takes her time handing out the sandwiches and pours cups of sweetened tea for the three of them. She lays a nicely ironed napkin in her lap and another in the lap of her new husband, the king. Proserpine does not eat the pomegranate seeds by mistake, or in a moment of desperate hunger, or fright, or misunderstanding. She takes the pomegranate slice out of her husband’s dark and glittering hand and pulls the seeds into her open, laughing mouth; she eats only six seeds because her mother knocks it out of her hand before she can swallow the whole sparkling red cluster. “We have to get home,” Ceres says. “I am home,” her daughter says.

Let my teeth become water let my skin become water let my flesh become water let my bones become water — Cyane, or a woman who’s heard more than she can stand and takes herself to the well and drops herself in like a stone; heavy bullet, exit wound; Cyane: soiled water; body in the well.

A skilled interior designer can look at five shades of blue and distinguish azure, cobalt, ultramarine, royal blue, and cyan. My husband, on the other hand, would call them all blue. My students and I had discovered a similar phenomenon for emotions, which I described as emotional granularity.

Letters blend to give rise to words  Like colors pave way for the birth of million shades! Evanescence reminisces sepia! Memory takes back to black and white! Music pops hot pink! Dance rocks wine red! Marvelous is miraculous as the indigo! Magnificent is magnanimous like Russian red! Splendid is classy like arctic blue! Resplendent inspires like  strawberry pink! Flamboyance is flowery like fuchsia! Flawless is perfect like flamingo! Extraordinary stands out like lime yellow! Peculiar is unique like cyan! Pleasant pleases like periwinkle! Soothing soothes like lemonade! Opulent glitters gold! Spectacular shimmers silver! Nice is as mild as dulce de leche! Attractive dazzles onyx! Powerful is headstrong like tangerine! Puissance stupefies like scarlet red! Mellifluence is dissolving, like lavender! Sonorous sounds magenta! Lovely cutely blushes! Sweet is peachy! Richness is wealthy like lush green! Poverty is brown as in flower wilt! Candid is frank as candy red! Altruism is selfless like parmesan! But, BEAUTY IS IRIDESCENT! Which

The forces of nature are color blind. Just as an infinite chessboard would look the same if we interchanged black and white, the force between a green quark and a red quark is the same as that between two blue quarks, or a blue quark and a green quark. Even if we were to use our quantum mechanical "palette" and replace each of the "pure" color states with a mixed-color state (e.g., "yellow" representing a mixture of red and green or "cyan" for a blue-green mixture), the laws of nature would still take the same form. The laws are symmetric under any color transformation. Furthermore, the color symmetry is again a gauge symmetry-the laws of nature do not care if the colors or color assortments vary from position to position or from one moment to the next.

We continued through the dark, quiet waters of the river, feeling we owned it, as far as the estuary. We passed industrial buildings, their lights muted, faint as stars, as if we were in a time capsule of the war years when blackouts and curfews had been in effect, when there was just warlight and only blind barges were allowed to move along this stretch of river. I watched the welterweight boxer whom I once had perceived as harsh and antagonistic turn and look towards me, talking gently as he searched for the precise words about the ankles of Olive Lawrence, and about her knowledge of cyan charts and wind systems. I realised he had probably stored away that information for some aspect of his work, even as it also diverted him from that slow blue pulse at her neck.

I look for my paints, and when I find them, they are mostly congealed. It has been two years since I painted anything, but I have optimistically kept a bag of art supplies on hand. There is a dead mouse in the bag, and I have no idea how long it’s been in there. Because for two years I have slowly moved all my art supplies out of view. I have woken up from dreams where my hands are slick with oil and turpentine and lost the inspiration by the time I brushed my teeth. The last time I painted, I was twenty-one. The president was Black. I had more serotonin and I was less afraid of men. Now the cyan and yellow come out hard. I need hot water to make them mix. I work with the paint, let the acrylic dry, and when it isn’t right I rework it again. I remain as faithful as I can to scale. I mix thirteen shades of green, five

Eternity, in the sense of the pools, manifests as an enigma within the mathematical fabric of existence. It represents a fractal realm in which the notion of endless duration deviates from conventional human experience. Far beyond the finite bounds of what we call ‘time,’ eternity morphs into a disorienting continuum of perpetual recurrence and unbounded expansion. The cyan merely acts as a catalyst to understanding. Within this eerie realm, space dissolves into a concept, and the usual arithmetic constraints fail to hold sway. The rooms become a ceaseless amalgamation of symbolic sequences and iterations, where infinite series relentlessly converge and diverge, oscillating in rhythm to the waves. The wave function collapses when th//Цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан HELP ME цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан Цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан HELP ME цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан

Fanning my arms to the side, I draw my pointe shoe forward. As I make my way towards the sea, more twinkles of music unfurl with each step, adding to the present melody. I take a breath, mustering the courage to walk on water. An aquamarine ripple flecked with golden stardust flickers to life beneath me, glowing brightly. I drag my other foot forward. The ocean sparkles, as if accepting the magic I offer. When I find comfort on the water, I relevé--- bringing myself onto pointe. My arms extend in a port de bras, and I begin a series of quick bourrée steps. A ribbon of stardust unravels from my feet, kissing the ocean with that glittering aqua glow. I embrace the beauty I've created, tilting into an arabesque. When I send my arm into the sky, the night illuminates. Stars explode like a shimmering tapestry woven from my body. I smile--- proudly owning the stage--- or in this case, the sea. I ignite the ocean with a piqué manège before leaping into a grand jeté, sending shooting stars as I fly. When I land, I fall into a series of chaîné turns before transitioning into more bourrée steps. Every move leads me closer and closer to Damien. The emptiness between us disappears as I leap into his arms. He lifts me towards the sky, moonlight showering us, before I fall into a fish dive--- my face towards the sea and my legs swept into the air. I glide my fingertips through the water, painting even more color into the night. The ocean radiates with undernotes of jade and lavender, shimmers of bright cyan and pearl. He gently places me down, guiding me into a pirouette. I tether my vision to his as the symphony of the sea blooms into a crescendo. Together, we burst into an allegro--- our own medley of fast, brisk movement. I surrender to his familiar hands around my waist, feeling weightless as he lifts me, as if I'm becoming an angel myself. Damien gives me wings, and I fly across the ocean. The once-black waves have transformed entirely. Plumes of stardust swirl like milk in water, feathering out into a soft iridescence.

What coordinates?" he asked. "For Byra," Cyan prodded. "How in this blighted pile of rot would I know?" he snapped. "Easy, tiger. I was just asking. Cyani, do you know?" "The Union doesn't have a clue where Byra is. That's why they're paying you, remember?" "So, you're telling me, none of us knows where we are going?

Traumatic events of the earliest years of infancy and childhood are not lost but, like a child’s footprints in west cement, are often preserved lifelong. Time does not heal the wounds that occur in those earliest years; time conceals them. They are not lost; they are embodied.”—

I painted so they would listen to me, because it’s not different from speaking; misunderstandings also happen in conversations. They didn't understand so I stayed in silent, but kept trying to express something that, perhaps, even I didn't understand.

Who says I’se free? I warn’t neber no slabe. I libed wid qual’ty an’ was one ob de fambly. Take dis bandanna off? No, ‘deedy! dats the las’ semblance I’se got ob de good ole times. S’pose I is brack, I cyan’t he’p it. If mah mammy and pappy chose for me ter be brack, I ain’t gwine ter be lak some white folks I knows an’ blame de Lord for all de ’flictions dat comes ’pon ’em. I’se put up wid dis brackness now, ’cordin’ to ol’ Mis’s Bible, for nigh on ter ninety years, an’ t’ank de good Lord, dat eberlastin’ day is mos’ come when I’ll be white as Mis’ Chloe for eber mo’! [Her mistress had died some years before.] What’s dat, honey? How I knows I’se gwine ter be white? Why, honey, I’se s’prised! Do you s’pose ’cause Mammy’s face is brack, her soul is brack too? Whar’s yo’ larnin’ gone to?

I huffed gently, knowing my best friend was there to make sure my ass stayed out of trouble.

Why were you late this morning, Alpha Declan?” I snorted softly and took a gulp of the nasty coffee, sitting back on my chair and grabbing a bagel to munch on. Around a mouthful of the most disgusting, plain stale shit, I snarled, “No real problem, Alpha Vinci. Just a little nuisance this morning. Really, if she liked my face so much, she should have taken a picture. That would last longer than she’ll live if she keeps up her stalking tendencies.” The cat blinked slowly. Then…the motherfucker laughed. It was cold-blooded and merciless. Final Death laid within his amusement.

Estabas lleno de manchas por todos lados, pero a ti nunca te importó, eras tú y tu obra, y eso era perfecto. Esa imagen de ti nunca la he podido superar. No había forma de que pudiera. No cuando estabas lleno de cyan, de magenta y de amarillo. Tú no estabas haciendo arte, tú eras arte.

The strange desire to keep her close so I could protect her,

The self-righteous clamor to say they are on the high ground as they jump off the cliff of hypocrisy

The first gift I'd ever given to a girl in my life, and it was a toilet. What a ridiculous thought. (Ch 6)

In a black-and-white picture, every little dot on the screen—the pixels—can be either black or white, and the zeros and ones are telling your computer whether to make a pixel black or white. Color pictures take more instructions because they are represented by five different possibilities: black, white, red, yellow, and cyan. That’s why color picture files are larger than black-and-white picture files—they contain more information.

Yonder loosestrife, gusts carry into sea. Totemic wing. Ghost wafts above water, unravels the seismic splay of muscle tissue in the flow. Waves lap into relentless roars. Ghost in a landscape of rain carves bone beyond aviary. Water curls form a heaviness in the body. North-coast. Clef wave with ghost made of fig leaves. A storm groans with compost hands to return cyan-blue to the sea. The listless downpour submerges ghost but ghost rises to the surface with gills. Water is a memory trail of floodlines.

the realms above space require even more extraordinary technologies. Hisarya murmured, What technologies? Wisdom, the entity said in sad cyan. Self-control. Maturity. The survival of what you call bivnik. The true game of empire is not the subjugation of worlds so they might be collected in a little museum of power, but the cultivation of the wisdom to delay gratification.

cyan, magenta, yellow and black

Paintings will always be the greatest art to me, since I never liked talking to others, they are my way of expressing myself, with small spots that anyone could do, although few understand.

En mi perspectiva, nunca vi la vida como el antónimo del sufrimiento, por ende, la muerte tampoco lo era de la felicidad.

We need to get diverse books into the hands of our kids.

Do you believe in book fairies?

في عينيه. سيان، لون بارد، يشبه تلك الليلة من أوائل ديسمبر، بعد عدة ساعات ستكسو تلك الزرقة السماء لتكسبها لونها المفضل، اليوم أيضا يسير بنفس ترتيب ألواح الطباعة التي تتخذ مصطلح «CMYK» اختصارا للأحرف المكونة لأربعتها: «Cyan» (سيان): الأزرق، الذي يعلن سطوته في غياب الشمس مُنذرًا بشروقها. «Magenta» (ماجينتا): الأحمر الدموي، لون الشروق، مخاض الشمس الذي لا بد أن يأتي مصحوبا بالدم كأي مخاض. «Yellow» (يلو): الأصفر، النهار بطوله، الذهب الذي يسعى خلفه الجميع في ساعات العمل، والغيرة المقرونة بالتنافس كذلك. «Black» (بلاك): الأسود، الليل، وخفاياه وأسراره، الموت والحداد على الدم الذي سال طوال يوم مرهق.

Traveling to another plane of existence tasted like cyan. It smelled like a stubbed toe. I detected notes of lighthouse, iambic pentameter, and general relativity.

I loved you as you became Cyan’s mom—a woman who made sure the house was clean, who watched over our daughter, who protected her, cherished her. But I fell for the woman who smiled at a dirty biker like he wasn’t scum.

Eternity, in the sense of the pools, manifests as an enigma within the mathematical fabric of existence. It represents a fractal realm in which the notion of endless duration deviates from conventional human experience. Far beyond the finite bounds of what we call ‘time,’ eternity morphs into a disorienting continuum of perpetual recurrence and unbounded expansion. The cyan merely acts as a catalyst to understanding. Within this eerie realm, space dissolves into a concept, and the usual arithmetic constraints fail to hold sway. The rooms become a ceaseless amalgamation of symbolic sequences and iterations, where infinite series relentlessly converge and diverge, oscillating in rhythm to the waves. The wave function collapses when th//Цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан HELP ME цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан...........................

The creature scrambled closer, walking on long legs that were of polished metal. Its tall and thin torso, an amalgamation of metal rods and black, pulsing organic parts, was bent and grated against the ceiling, while its head looked like a flat iron with eyes. Short and stubby steel teeth lined its long jaws. The entire room smelled of hot metal and molten rubber.

Eternity, in the sense of the pools, manifests as an enigma within the mathematical fabric of existence. It represents a fractal realm in which the notion of endless duration deviates from conventional human experience. Far beyond the finite bounds of what we call ‘time,’ eternity morphs into a disorienting continuum of perpetual recurrence and unbounded expansion. The cyan merely acts as a catalyst to understanding. Within this eerie realm, space dissolves into a concept, and the usual arithmetic constraints fail to hold sway. The rooms become a ceaseless amalgamation of symbolic sequences and iterations, where infinite series relentlessly converge and diverge, oscillating in rhythm to the waves. The wave function collapses when th//Цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан HELP ME цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан Цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан HELP ME цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан..................

What did it matter? There was no changing it. What’s done is done and cannot be undone. At least they were together. Together in the cyan, cyan, cyan.

They have the place to themselves and for a while they simply sit and look out at the view, her body relaxing into his. The cloudless sky is a spectacular wash of graduated colors- navy highest above them, fading to lighter cyan closer to the earth, under-lit by the rosy blush of the sun hovering upon the horizon. There is a peace to the place, a certain stillness, nothing but the setting sun and the occasional silhouette of a soaring bird to distract from the awe-inspiring view.

When I was young, I drew self-portraits by the moonlight of my bedroom window, scribbling in crayon a woman on a pedestal with a painted face and a crooked smile, all curves and mystery. Me When I Grow Up, I would title these pieces, a prophecy scrawled in Blue Cyan. When my mother found my drawings, she worried that I had become enamored with whores. Little did she know, it was her, us, our foremothers I was drawing. A troubled youth, they’ll say, daddy issues—these are the citations people will give when explaining why a girl turns into a woman like me. I am guilty of all of these and more. Yet stronger than these streams leading ever toward my fate, there is one reason that never makes the list: a portrait of a goddess, drawn by a child in the dark. A half-orphan, the town slut, unlovable by all. The one the boys liked enough to touch, but not enough to claim. Hands clasped in the dark of closets, but not in the hallway at school. Did you know you can get paid for touching boys in closets?

I look calm. Regal. Poised. But there’s an ineffaceable sorrow in my eyes that I study closely, trying to discern the exact cyan flecks conveying woe.

But Xander didn’t let their baleful eyes bother him one little bit. Quick as a flash, he reached in and grabbed the smallest axolotl, a cyan-colored one, and shoved it in his mouth, gulping it down with a single swallow.

You should have told me you were into vampires.” I grin, leaning in close to her neck until her breath stills, like she’s anticipating. Lowering my voice, I say, “You know, I can make that scene come true.

Falling for a human is only destined to end in heartbreak.