Cypher Quotes

Crazy. It was the same word María and Tía Rosa flung at Grandpa Lázaro. The same word anyone said when they didn't understand something. "Crazy" was a way to shut people up, disregard them entirely.

every human being who is born into this universe is like a child who has been given a key to an infinite Library, written in cyphers that are more or less obscure, arranged by a scheme—of which we can at first know nothing, other than that there does appear to be some scheme.

It’s really nice to meet you, sir. You drive like a wild maniac, and I respect that.

Today she looked menacingly into the mirror and said: “I’m Sierra María Santiago. I am what I am. Enough.” She sighed. These days were spooky enough without her talking to herself. “More than enough.

What would be the point of cyphering messages that very clever enemies couldn’t break? You’d end up not knowing what they thought you thought they were thinking …

Her voice carried the voices of a hundred thousand souls in it; a whole history of resistance and rage moved with her.

I am a cypher...I carry no weight, no worth, no influence. I represent nothing. I do not exist.

In life, the visible surface of the Sperm Whale is not the least among the many marvels he presents. Almost invariably it is all over obliquely crossed and re-crossed with numberless straight marks in thick array, something like those in the finest Italian line engravings. But these marks do not seem to be impressed upon the isinglass substance above mentioned, but seem to be seen through it, as if they were engraved upon the body itself. Nor is this all. In some instances, to the quick, observant eye, those linear marks, as in a veritable engraving, but afford the ground for far other delineations. These are hieroglyphical; that is, if you call those mysterious cyphers on the walls of pyramids hieroglyphics, then that is the proper word to use in the present connexion. By my retentive memory of the hieroglyphics upon one Sperm Whale in particular, I was much struck with a plate representing the old Indian characters chiselled on the famous hieroglyphic palisades on the banks of the Upper Mississippi. Like those mystic rocks, too, the mystic-marked whale remains undecipherable.

Under the redwood tree my grave was laid, and I beguiled my true love to lie down. The stream of our kiss put a waterway around the world, where love like a refugee sailed in the last ship. My hair made a shroud, and kept the coyotes at bay while we wrote our cyphers with anatomy. The winds boomed triumph, our spines seemed overburdened, and our bones groaned like old trees, but a smile like a cobweb was fastened across the mouth of the cave of fate. Fear will be a terrible fox at my vitals under my tunic of behaviour. Oh, canary, sing out in the thunderstorm, prove your yellow pride. Give me a reason for courage or a way to be brave. But nothing tangible comes to rescue my besieged sanity, and I cannot decipher the code of the eucalyptus thumping on my roof. I am unnerved by the opponents of God, and God is out of earshot. I must spin good ghosts out of my hope to oppose the hordes at my window. If those who look in see me condescend to barricade the door, they will know too much and crowd in to overcome me. The parchment philosopher has no traffic with the night, and no conception of the price of love. With smoky circles of thought he tries to combat the fog, and with anagrams to defeat anatomy. I posture in vain with his weapons, even though I am balmed with his nicotine herbs. Moon, moon, rise in the sky to be a reminder of comfort and the hour when I was brave.

I live entire lifetimes in my head. Sometimes simultaneously.

The same word anyone said when they didn’t understand something. Crazy was a way to shut people up, disregard them entirely.

Believe me, I ain't pretty enough to be called an Angel. -The Reaper

Papa Acevedo always used to say people don’t see what they’re not looking for.

The dead were so alive! They carried their whole lives with them in those tall, walking shadows, brought each second, each thrill and tragedy with them wherever they went.

But what was death to me, when it was my first act in life? Death looked like the house of the body opening, returning to a wider place: that place of confusion and strange beauty.

[W]ith a heavy heart, we are biding farewell to those entries that were written in rhyming slang, which utilized Atbash cyphering, and which assumed expert knowledge of American Sign Language and the inner intricacies of the I Ching from its readers.

We are entwined. I drew power from the spirits and spirit workers and I returned it to them tenfold. The true source of shadowshaper magic is in that connection, community, Sierra. We are interdependent.

I, to whom nature had denied the impromptu faculty; who, in public, was by nature a cypher; whose time of mental activity, even when alone, was not under the meridian sun; who needed the fresh silence of morning, or the recluse peace of evening, to win from the Creative Impulse one evidence of his presence, one proof of his force; I, with whom that Impulse was the most intractable, the most capricious, the most maddening of masters (him before me always excepted)--a deity, which sometimes, under circumstances apparently propitious, would not speak when questioned, would not hear when appealed to, would not, when sought, be found; but would stand, all cold, all indurated, all granite, a dark Baal with carven lips and blank eye-balls, and breast like the stone face of a tomb; and again, suddenly, at some turn, some sound, some long-trembling sob of the wind, at some rushing past of an unseen stream of electricity, the irrational demon would wake unsolicited, would stir strangely alive, would rush from its pedestral like a perturbed Dagon, calling to its votary for a sacrifice, whatever the hour--to its victim for some blood or some breath, whatever the circumstance or scene--rousing its priest, treacherously promising vaticanation, perhaps filling its temple with a strange hum of oracles, but sure to give half the significance to fateful winds, and grudging to the desperate listener even a miserable remnant--yielding it sordidly, as though each word had been a drop of the deathless ichor of its own dark veins.

My mama told me not to take freaky magic cards from strange white girls I meet in the woods.

I don't write romance. Read it? Yes. Write it? No.

I was thinking that we could spli —” “We’re not splitting up,” Bennie whispered hoarsely.

You could die this day, so you should strive to do your best while you still lived. - Richard Cypher Rahl

It never failed; even today, with paintings crying and strangers lurking, the scent of her mom’s chicken and rice eased her mind away from all that trouble, at least for a few seconds.

There is a part of this story that will always be, mostly, a love poem. But it's the kind sung in a key you and I know so well: adoration galvanized by futility. The sweet apricot that is impossible to catch, the beloved with a one-way flight offshore-each could be a stanza in our own personal ghazal.

Bennie's corner of Brooklyn looked different every time Sierra passed through it. She stopped at the corner of Washington Avenue and St. John's Place to take in the changing scenery. A half block from where she stood, she'd skinned her knee playing hopscotch while juiced up on iceys and sugar drinks. Bennie's brother, Vincent, had been killed by the cops on the adjacent corner, just a few steps from his own front door. Now her best friend's neighborhood felt like another planet. The place Sierra and Bennie used to get their hair done had turned into a fancy bakery of some kind, and yes, the coffee was good, but you couldn't get a cup for less than three dollars. Plus, every time Sierra went in, the hip, young white kid behind the counter gave her either the don't-cause-no-trouble look or the I-want-to-adopt-you look. The Takeover (as Bennie had dubbed it once) had been going on for a few years now, but tonight its pace seemed to have accelerated tenfold. Sierra couldn't find a single brown face on the block. It looked like a late-night frat party had just let out; she was getting funny stares from all sides--as if she was the out-of-place one, she thought. And then, sadly, she realized she was the out-of-place one.

All the old stories talk about the Road of No Return, the Road of Good Fortune, the Road of this and that, but I'm seeing that a woman is not fully in possession of herself until there is no road at all, and she must make her own way.

...A certain amount of clutter is expected. Hell, you find it everywhere. Cyphers on cereal boxes, fractals in sidewalk cracks, dead cats who don't understand why you're not paying attention to them-- Why are you looking at me like that?

Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes, That they turn from gazing up and down the road, And forthwith cypher and show me to a cent, Exactly the contents of one, and exactly the contents of two, and which is ahead?

Nothing is what it seams to be, a mystery can be always a revelation.

But it was hard work making suggestions and not blatant declarations with her ever-changing Puerto Rican body.

Apparently all Puerto Rican moms were the same, even if they weren’t your mom.

But I tell you, I recognize myself by death's mark, and for a time I imagined almost every day that it were different, that I could be anything other than impossibly blue.

The cornfield, slighted. All ears and no eyes. Then again, while not seeing the beauty, from two steps back it had become part of it. Persepctive... Even if you can't see it, you are the beautiful in somebody's world.

Do you know what it's like to be bewitched? Your mind bends. Your entire life shrinks to the size of a small room. The imagination is a fever. You can't stand it. Nobody can stand it-that's the point of falling in love.

But love is nothing if not a catastrophe, one that makes me second-guess gravity, history, the limits of my own person. Love is, might be, feels like, a kind of fairy tale too-one that can only begin once the story we thought we knew blows apart.

Sir Francis Bacon, believed by some to be the real author of the Shakespeare material as well as the person who masterminded and oversaw production of the King James Version (KJV) of the Bible. Bacon was in charge of forty-five scholars who translated and collated the KJV, making him the forty-sixth. For a coded clue as to Bacon’s contributions, see Psalms 46—count forty-six letters from the beginning to get the word “shake” and forty-six words from the end to get the word “spear.” The number forty-six was Bacon’s cypher.

The worst class of sum worked in the every-day world, is cyphered by the diseased arithmeticians who are always in the rule of Subtraction as to the merits and successes of others, and never in Addition as to their own. The habit, too, of seeking some sort of recompense in the discontented boast of being disappointed, is a habit fraught with degeneracy. A certain idle carelessness and recklessness of consistency soon comes of it. To bring deserving things down by setting undeserving things up, is one of its perverted delights ; and there is no playing fast and loose with the truth, in any game, without growing the the worst for it.

But once when she was chatting with some stupid boy online, she described herself as the color of coffee with not enough milk. There was a pause in the conversation, and the words glared back at her strangely, like the echo of a burp in an empty auditorium. She wondered if what she’d typed was burning holes in her chat partner too. Then he typed o thas hot yo and she’d quickly slammed her laptop shut. In the sudden darkness of her bedroom, the words had lingered as if imprinted in her forehead: not enough. The worst part about it, the part she couldn’t let go of, was that the thought came from her. Not from one of the teachers or guidance counselors whose eyes said it again and again over sticky-sweet smiles. Not from some cop on Marcy Avenue or Tía Rosa. It came from somewhere deep inside her. And that meant that for all the times she’d shrugged off one of those slurs, some little tentacle of them still crawled its way toward her heart. Not enough milk. Not light enough. Morena. Negra. No matter what she did, that little voice came creeping back, persistent and unsatisfied. Not enough.

The Takeover (as Bennie had dubbed it once) had been going on for a few years now, but tonight its pace seemed to have accelerated tenfold. Sierra couldn’t find a single brown face on the block. It looked like a late-night frat party had just let out; she was getting funny stares from all sides —as if she was the out-of-place one, she thought. And then, sadly, she realized she was the out-of-place one.

A VALEDICTION: OF THE BOOK I'll tell thee now (dear love) what thou shalt do To anger destiny, as she doth us; How I shall stay, though she eloign me thus, And how posterity shall know it too; How thine may out-endure Sibyl's glory, and obscure Her who from Pindar could allure, And her, through whose help Lucan is not lame, And her, whose book (they say) Homer did find, and name. Study our manuscripts, those myriads Of letters, which have past 'twixt thee and me; Thence write our annals, and in them will be To all whom love's subliming fire invades, Rule and example found; There the faith of any ground No schismatic will dare to wound, That sees, how Love this grace to us affords, To make, to keep, to use, to be these his records. This book, as long-lived as the elements, Or as the world's form, this all-graved tome In cypher writ, or new made idiom; We for Love's clergy only are instruments; When this book is made thus, Should again the ravenous Vandals and Goths invade us, Learning were safe; in this our universe, Schools might learn sciences, spheres music, angels verse. Here Love's divines—since all divinity Is love or wonder—may find all they seek, Whether abstract spiritual love they like, Their souls exhaled with what they do not see; Or, loth so to amuse Faith's infirmity, they choose Something which they may see and use; For, though mind be the heaven, where love doth sit, Beauty a convenient type may be to figure it. Here more than in their books may lawyers find, Both by what titles mistresses are ours, And how prerogative these states devours, Transferred from Love himself, to womankind; Who, though from heart and eyes, They exact great subsidies, Forsake him who on them relies; And for the cause, honour, or conscience give; Chimeras vain as they or their prerogative. Here statesmen, (or of them, they which can read) May of their occupation find the grounds; Love, and their art, alike it deadly wounds, If to consider what 'tis, one proceed. In both they do excel Who the present govern well, Whose weakness none doth, or dares tell; In this thy book, such will there something see, As in the Bible some can find out alchemy. Thus vent thy thoughts; abroad I'll study thee, As he removes far off, that great heights takes; How great love is, presence best trial makes, But absence tries how long this love will be; To take a latitude Sun, or stars, are fitliest viewed At their brightest, but to conclude Of longitudes, what other way have we, But to mark when and where the dark eclipses be?

Spirits flitted through the red-and-orange sky like leaves blown on the October wind. They dipped and darted over the brownstones and housing projects, swooped around the towering glass palaces, and dove into the crooked alleyways. Sierra smiled. The world had become so much more alive once she learned to see the dead. For a few moments, she just stood there, let herself be a spectator to the ever unfolding drama of city lights and spirits.

seemed relentless. ‘We can’t leave yet,’ Laura said reluctantly. ‘We have to try to disable this ship. H.I.V.E. has no chance while this thing is floating out here raining missiles down on the island.’ Wing knew that Laura was right, but at the same time he needed to find Cypher. He was not prone to letting his emotions control him but the burning anger he felt when he visualised that black glass mask was fierce and relentless. He had no idea what Cypher was hoping to achieve with his assault on the school, but he knew that he was going to stop him, or die trying. ‘We must return to the island,’ Wing replied. ‘Once the situation there is resolved we can worry about this ship.’ ‘I know you want to go after him, Wing,’ Laura said, ‘but we have to do this first.’ ‘Or we could just do both,’ Shelby said, knowing that if Wing and Laura started to argue it would just be a competition to see who could be most stubborn. A very long, very boring competition that they really didn’t have time for right now. ‘What do you propose?’ Wing asked. ‘Well, why don’t you take the boat back to the island and we’ll stay here and try to disable this thing,’ Shelby said. ‘Splitting up seems ill advised at this point,’ Wing said calmly. ‘Maybe, but what other choice do we have? And besides, what makes you think we’d need your help anyway?’ Shelby said with a grin.

I, to whom nature had denied the impromptu faculty; who, in public, was by nature a cypher; whose time of mental activity, even when alone, was not under the meridian sun; who needed the fresh silence of morning, or the recluse peace of evening, to win from the Creative Impulse one evidence of his presence, one proof of his force; I, with whom that Impulse was the most intractable, the most capricious, the most maddening of masters (him before me always excepted)—a deity which sometimes, under circumstances—apparently propitious, would not speak when questioned, would not hear when appealed to, would not, when sought, be found; but would stand, all cold, all indurated, all granite, a dark Baal with carven lips and blank eye-balls, and breast like the stone face of a tomb; and again, suddenly, at some turn, some sound, some long-trembling sob of the wind, at some rushing past of an unseen stream of electricity, the irrational demon would wake unsolicited, would stir strangely alive, would rush from its pedestal like a perturbed Dagon, calling to its votary for a sacrifice, whatever the hour—to its victim for some blood, or some breath, whatever the circumstance or scene—rousing its priest, treacherously promising vaticination, perhaps filling its temple with a strange hum of oracles, but sure to give half the significance to fateful winds, and grudging to the desperate listener even a miserable remnant—yielding it sordidly, as though each word had been a drop of the deathless ichor of its own dark veins.

Guardians Incorporated.

commorancy?

We’re good? You’re not mad?” “Oh no, I said I was furious.

The walls were cold to the touch, and the large polished bricks were made of obsidian. Yellow lichen grew out from the junctures of the bricks and over any surface it could.

their shoulder. Bolswaithe parked the

December 24th

By the side of her bed there was a card, embossed with the Queen’s cypher, giving the times of meals and table placements as well as a note saying how the various guests would be conveyed to the racecourse, either in open carriages or black Daimler saloons. Even though her family had rubbed shoulders with the royal family for years, Sarah was understandably nervous. She arrived promptly in the Green Drawing Room for pre-lunch drinks and then found herself seated next to Prince Andrew, who was on leave from his Royal Navy flying duties. They discovered an instant rapport. He teased her by trying to feed her chocolate profiteroles. She refused, playfully punching his shoulder and claiming one of her interminable diets as an excuse. “There are always humble beginnings; it’s got to start somewhere”, said Andrew at their engagement interview eight months later. While Diana has been billed as the matchmaker in this royal romance, the truth is that she never noticed the romantic spark between her brother-in-law and one of her best friends.

Cypher: "You know what I realized? [Takes a bite of steak], Ignorance is bliss" Agent Smith: "Do you hear that, Mr. Anderson? That is the sound of inevitability

Vincent had been killed by the cops three years back. His towering image stood tall against the cement wall, arms crossed over his chest, his name written in bubbly letters across the front of his favorite hoodie. The artist had painted him smiling that terrific Vincent cheeseball grin he’d flash after making a really stupid joke. Now, his eyebrows arched and his jaw jutted out with a sharp frown as he glared into the distance. Sierra

hipsters are basically yuppies with tighter pants and bigger glasses.

Dance with me, Death. I am ready. - Richard Cypher Rahl

Family history, breaking and entering, weird secrets locked up in a Ivy League fortress,” Neville said. “Sounds like my kinda mayhem. You got a plan?

Why’d everyone go running and security get all upset?” Sierra said. “Cuz a black man put a bag down and walked away.

She ran her hands through her fro. She loved it the way it was, free and undaunted. She imagined it as a force field, deflecting all Rosa’s stupid comments.

And now she needed to get dressed for her — date? — with Robbie, and she really wasn’t in the mood. He had completely shattered her whole boys-are-cute-until-they-open-their-mouths thing. Not only was he not stupid, he looked at her like she made sense, like they shared some secret language that no one else knew, and that they spoke it even when they weren’t speaking at all.

But once when she was chatting with some stupid boy online, she described herself as the color of coffee with not enough milk. There was a pause in the conversation, and the words glared back at her strangely, like the echo of a burp in an empty auditorium

Neville, can you be that cool godfather that does his goddaughter a solid without asking too many questions?” “Conspicuous and Ridiculous are my middle names.

But in 1936 a huge archive of Newton’s private manuscripts was put up for auction at Sotheby’s, in London. The papers had been kept from the public for over two centuries. One hundred lots of the manuscripts were bought by the famous British economist, John Maynard Keynes, who found that many of Newton’s papers were written in a secret cypher. And for six years, Keynes struggled to decipher them. He hoped they would reveal the private thoughts of the founder of modern science. But what the code really revealed was another, far darker, side to Newton’s work. For, in the manuscripts, Keynes found a Newton unknown to the rest of the world—a Newton obsessed with religion, and a purveyor of practices of heresy and the occult.

This Book is Dedicated to Black Girls Everywhere. You are Powerful. You are Beautiful. You are Loved.

Tee shook her head. “You know how like … but then sometimes … and you’re just … ya know? Without any kinda … whatsoever.

The only thing standing in the way of my restoring the full power of the Underrealm is Daphne herself. Part of me worries I’m not prepared for taking on this Cypher, but at the same time, I am glad for the challenge of a worthy opponent. It will make my victory all the more satisfying. “What is the best way to defeat her?” I ask Dax. “How do I take her down?” “Take her down?” he repeats, as if I’ve just said something distasteful. “You said it yourself. Daphe isn’t like other Boons. She’s a more formidable opponent than—” “Whoa,” Dax says. “You’re looking at this all wrong. First of all, you can’t think of her as an opponent. That’s you thinking like an Underlord warrior. You’re going to have to take a more human approach. You’re not here to defeat her; you’re here to get her to trust you. You need her to like you. Actually, more than that,” he says with a weird smile. “You’re going to have to get her to fall in love with you.” I stare at Dax, dumbfounded. He might as well have told me I needed to sprout wings and fly into the sun. “How am I supposed to get her to fall in love with me when I don’t know the first thing about . . . it? Love, I mean.” Dax sighs like he has no idea of how to explain it to me. And I thought he was supposed to be my guide.

...and night would be falling over the ocean and all the lights would find her in the midst of the darkening world and the words would spray off her tongue like their own beam of light, and they'd find Tee and remind her of their love. And everything would be all the hell right.

It’s not a mistake I’m an alien experiment, I was born and placed in a tube. When I fuck girls in the ass, I do it without lube. I don't even have to look at the page to write this dude. The spirit of God is how I move. This shit's too easy, especially when you live eternally. I'm a fucking Wolf, the Alpha, and I was locked in a zoo It's just beginning, I'm sinking my teeth deeper inside of you Into your soul Where we're going only I know Connecting all your dots Never-ending Driving the wrong way on the street Hydroplaning through 4 feet Of water, like Paul Walker, the fire's getting hotter And I can't get out

Danger Is Real, Fear Is A Choice" - Cypher Raige

Danger Is Real, Fear Is A Choice

I am sorry, Richard Cypher. I do not know the answers that would save you. If I did, please believe I would give them eagerly. But I know the good in you. I believe in you. I do know that you have within you what you must to succeed. There will be times when you doubt yourself. Do not give up. Remember then that I believe in you, that I know you can accomplish what you must. You are a rare person, Richard Cypher. Believe in yourself. And protect Kahlan.

The three of us were wearing flat caps, green jackets, plus fours, as if we played for the same sports team. (In a way, I suppose, we did.) Pa, driving us out into the fields, asked about Meg. Not with great interest, just casually. Still, he didn’t always ask, so I was pleased. She’s good, thanks. Does she want to carry on working? Say again? Does she want to keep on acting? Oh. I mean, I don’t know, I wouldn’t think so. I expect she’ll want to be with me, doing the job, you know, which would rule out Suits…since they film in…Toronto. Hmm. I see. Well, darling boy, you know there’s not enough money to go around. I stared. What was he banging on about? He explained. Or tried to. I can’t pay for anyone else. I’m already having to pay for your brother and Catherine. I flinched. Something about his use of the name Catherine. I remembered the time he and Camilla wanted Kate to change the spelling of her name, because there were already two royal cyphers with a C and a crown above: Charles and Camilla. It would be too confusing to have another. Make it Katherine with a K, they suggested. I wondered now what came of that suggestion. I turned to Willy, gave him a look that said: You listening to this? His face was blank. Pa didn’t financially support Willy and me, and our families, out of any largesse. That was his job. That was the whole deal. We agreed to serve the monarch, go wherever we were sent, do whatever we were told, surrender our autonomy, keep our hands and feet inside the gilded cage at all times, and in exchange the keepers of the cage agreed to feed and clothe us. Was Pa, with all his millions from the hugely lucrative Duchy of Cornwall, trying to say that our captivity was starting to cost him a bit too much? Besides which—how much could it possibly cost to house and feed Meg? I wanted to say, She doesn’t eat much, you know! And I’ll ask her to make her own clothes, if you like. It was suddenly clear to me that this wasn’t about money. Pa might have dreaded the rising cost of maintaining us, but what he really couldn’t stomach was someone new dominating the monarchy, grabbing the limelight, someone shiny and new coming in and overshadowing him. And Camilla. He’d lived through that before, and had no interest in living through it again. I couldn’t deal with any of that right now. I had no time for petty jealousies and Palace intrigue. I was still trying to work out exactly what to say to Granny, and the time had come.

I had the first inkling that some kinds of splendor were invisible to others. Were not wrong. And the solitude of this knowledge was wide and comfortable, a sort of imaginary palace.

During service in the armed forces in wartime, one is inevitably a mere cypher; a pawn that can be moved at any time by the powers that be; powers that are usually quite impersonal.

Maybe spies liked to be old-school too. Maybe some still practiced timeworn methods like the ones George Washington had used. Apparently, Washington developed a lot of spy craft techniques to help him fool the British. Secret code names, dead drops, invisible ink, cyphers, coded messages—all kind of things.

war, instead of finishing in 1945, would have ended in 1948 had the Government Code and Cypher School not been able to read the Enigma cyphers and produce the Ultra intelligence.” During this period of delay, additional lives would have been lost in Europe, and Hitler would have been able to make greater use of his V-weapons, inflicting damage throughout southern England. The historian David Kahn summarizes the impact of breaking Enigma: “It saved lives. Not only Allied and Russian lives but, by shortening the war, German, Italian, and Japanese lives as well. Some people alive after World War II might not have been but for these solutions. That is the debt that the world owes to the codebreakers; that is the crowning human value of their triumphs.

A Voraxglobum,

No matter what I or anyone else does to help you or bring you down, only you can decide your future. Success or failure is in your hands.

computer-majiggies,

For every human being who is born into this universe is like a child who has been given a key to an infinite Library, written in cyphers that are more or less obscure, arranged by a scheme — of which we can at first know nothing, other than that there does appear to be some scheme — pervaded by a vapor, a spirit, a fragrance that reminds us that it was the work of our Father. Which does us no good whatever, other than to remind us, when we despair, that there is an underlying logic about it, that was understood once and can be understood again.

If you take any longer,” Rutilio chortled, “Sierra here will be in the nursing home by the time you’re done. Anyway, your entire family tree is a sad weed that I pull from my garden and spit on before I feed it to the rats.

Queene Elizabeth is my true mother and I am the lawfull heire to the throne. Finde the cypher storie my bookes containe. It tells great secrets, every one of which, if imparted openly, would forfeit my life. —F. Bacon.

The more you resist, the more you sink

For every human being who is born into this universe is like a child who has been given a key to an infinite Library, written in cyphers that are more or less obscure, arranged by a scheme—of which we can at first know nothing, other than that there does appear to be some scheme—pervaded by a vapor, a spirit, a fragrance that reminds us that it was the work of our Father. Which does us no good whatever, other than to remind us, when we despair, that there is an underlying logic about it, that was understood once and can be understood again.

¿Ahora? Carajo. The blankness of void vacant estupid.” “If you don’t make a move soon,” Rutilio said, “I will make sure that that’s what they write on your gravestone.

doing. I’m just saying: Who gets to study and who gets studied, and why? Who makes the decisions, you know?

The Takeover (as Bennie had dubbed it once) had been going on for a few years now, but tonight its pace seemed to have accelerated tenfold. Sierra couldn’t find a single brown face on the block. It looked like a late-night frat party had just let out; she was getting funny stares from all sides — as if she was the out-of-place one, she thought.

I mean — it’s an exchange. You give them form, they work for you — with you, ideally, toward your goal. And they know that, so they show up ready to work.

Can other people see them? Like … regular people?” “If they look.” She took a step toward him. “They usually don’t look, do they?” “No.

What we now call good and evil is merely the whim of those who are powerful enough to enforce their views.

Far as I can tell,” Tee said, “hipsters are basically yuppies with tighter pants and bigger glasses. Whatever they are, they make a mean mochaccino.

The mass of life is controlled by a mass of weight. For ignorance is no excuse and the root to all evil.

I had to give up what God cursed, that which gives temptation and grows the most precious fruits. Supreme mathematics, it's a deep waters of numbers and letters, chemical elements breathed in, an asthmatic solution leaving you breathless to the findings of cyphered encryptions. A marksmen with this ink pen. Alpha-Beta Greek translated into modern speaking with 26 characteristics that create every compound of vocabulary. Infatuated with all plays of words, breaking this bread to the brain of birds. Give God reverence for understanding.

A Krakovian Conversion by Stewart Stafford Stone columns on my grave; Gravity no longer tethers me, Procession for a fallen saviour, Our charmed lives split apart. A cuckoo among darkest eagles, Faustian profiteer's bloody deal, Became a phoenix dove in flight, On the road home to my new form. An unbroken cypher laid to rest, A muttered debate behind prayers; Faux Messiah, who saved himself? Ransoms paid by a bankrupt sage? © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.