Darkness Envelops Me Quotes

Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there-on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves. The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand. It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.

Take it from me, there's nothing like a job well done. Except the quiet enveloping darkness at the bottom of a bottle of Jim Beam after a job done any way at all.

The earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that in glory and in triumph they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of the dot on scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner of the dot. How frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity -- in all this vastness -- there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves. It is up to us. It's been said that astronomy is a humbling, and I might add, a character-building experience. To my mind, there is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly and compassionately with one another and to preserve and cherish that pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.

But as soon as darkness enveloped the room, my sobs hit in full—great, gasping pants that shuddered through me, flowing out the open windows, and into the starry, snow-kissed night.

Take it from me, there's nothing like a job well done. Except the quiet enveloping darkness at the bottom of a bottle of Jim Beam after a job done any way at all.

I discover that absence has a consistency, like the dark water of a river, like oil, some kind of sticky dirty liquid that you can struggle and perhaps drown in. It has a thickness like night, an indefinite space with no landmarks, nothing to bang against, where you search for a light, some small glimmer, something to hang on to and guide you. But absence is, first and foremost, silence. A vast, enveloping silence that weighs you down and puts you in a state where any unforeseeable, identifiable sound can make you jump.

From this distant vantage point, the Earth might not seem of particular interest. But for us, it's different. Consider again that dot. That's here, that's home, that's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves. The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand. It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.

The guns reminded me that this was just an attempt to punch holes in the darkness that enveloped us now.

Lovers' language, give me an exact and poetic comparison to say what those eyes of Capitu were like. No image comes to mind that doesn't offend against the rules of good style, to say what they were and what they did to me. Undertow eyes? Why not? Undertow. That's the notion that the new expression put in my head. They held some kind of mysterious, active fluid, a force that dragged one in, like the undertow of a wave retreating from the shore on stormy days. So as not to be dragged in, I held onto anything around them, her ears, her arms, her hair spread about her shoulders; but as soon as I returned to the pupils of her eyes again, the wave emerging from them grew towards me, deep and dark, threatening to envelop me, draw me in and swallow me up.

Anderson sent me to give you this he said. I believe the subtext was kiss and makeup. This time I was sure I made a face. "I rather kiss a copperhead." I grabbed the envelop from his hand. He laughed and held up his hands in surrender. Don't worry. It was only a figure of speech.

I couldn't believe I let him see me like this, unable to fend for myself. I fumed in disgust at my vulnerability. I didn't want Evan to think I needed protecting. I pulled back my torment and let the numb blanket envelop me, pushing away the stirred memories, the noise of the crowd, and the trembling that still lay beneath the surface. I stared at the flames licking at the darkness and everything was lost as I sank deeper into nothingness.

I was caged within a four dimensional cube that eclipsed the world around me in an icy mist. I screamed; begging someone, anyone to hear my pleas, but my voice had been extinguished and left me with a slight wheeze from what little oxygen I had. I could glimpse the field of energy as it shrank through the safety of my circle to envelop me in a blazing grip. I was alone; unbearably separated from my haven.

As I turned over the last page, a wave of sorrow enveloped me. Where had they all gone, these people who had seemed so real? To distract myself, I walked out into the night; instinctively, I lit a cigarette. In the dark, the cigarette glowed, like a fire lit by a survivor. But who would see this light, this small dot among infinite stars? I stood awhile in the dark, the cigarette glowing and growing small, each breath patiently destroying me. How small it was, how brief. Brief, brief, but inside me now, which the stars could never be.

Thus it transpired that even Berlin could be mysterious. Within the linden's bloom the streetlight winks. A dark and honeyed hush envelops us. Across the curb one's passing shadow slinks: across a stump a sable ripples thus. The night sky melts to peach beyond that gate. There water gleams, there Venice vaguely shows. Look at that street--it runs to China straight, and yonder star above the Volga glows! Oh, swear to me to put in dreams your trust, and to believe in fantasy alone, and never let your soul in prison rust, nor stretch your arm and say: a wall of stone.

After ripping through The Hobbit, I read The Lord of the Rings, and the darkness of that story enveloped me in a way that is impossible to explain. I was THERE, in a very real sense. The fear was palpable in the presence of the black-cloaked Ringwraiths, and I could taste the sulfurous fumes of Mt. Doom. I could smell the sweat of horses and hot leather and hear the clash of battle as I rode with the Rohan on the fields of the Pelennor. I bled and died with the sun-king, Theoden. I rose again with Eowyn’s defiance of the Witch King. I soared with the Eagles as they swept the broken and bloody body of Frodo and his companion Samwise the Brave from the smoking crags of the fiery mountain. There has never been such a story, and I don’t think there ever shall be again.

Uncompromising trust in the love of God inspires us to thank God for the spiritual darkness that envelops us, for the loss of income, for the nagging arthritis that is so painful, and to pray from the heart, “Abba, into your hands I entrust my body, mind, and spirit and this entire day—morning, afternoon, evening, and night. Whatever you want of me, I want of me, falling into you and trusting in you in the midst of my life. Into your heart I entrust my heart, feeble, distracted, insecure, uncertain. Abba, unto you I abandon myself in Jesus our Lord. Amen.

Ty, I’ve thought so many times about what I would say to you if you reappeared suddenly. If I was walking along the street and you popped out of thin air, walking along beside me like you always used to, with your hands in your pockets and your head tilted back. Mom used to say you walked celestially, looking upat the sky as if you were scanning the clouds for angels. Do you remember that? In your world I am ashes, I am ancestors, my memories and hopes and dreams have gone to build the City of Bones. In your world, I am lucky, because I do not have to live in a world without you. But in this world, I am you. I am the twinless twin. So I can tell you this: When your twin leaves the earth you live on, it never turns the same way again: the weight of their soul is gone, and everything is off balance. The world rocks under your feet like an unquiet sea. I can’t tell you it gets easier. But it does get steadier; you learn how to live with the new rocking of the new earth, the way sailors gain sea legs. You learn. I promise. I know you’re not exactly the Ty I had in this world, my brilliant, beautiful brother. But I know from Julian that you are beautiful and brilliant too. I know that you are loved. I hope that you are happy. Please be happy. You deserve it so much. I want to ask if you remember the way we used to whisper words to each other in the dark: star, twin, glass. But I’ll never know your answer. So I’ll whisper to myself as I fold this letter up and slide it into the envelope, hoping against hope it will somehow reach you. I whisper your name, Ty. I whisper the most important thing: I love you. I love you. I love you. Livvy

When I was young, women were raped on the campus of a great university and the authorities responded by telling all the women students not to go out alone after dark or not to be out at all. Get in the house. (For women, confinement is always waiting to envelope you.) Some pranksters put up a poster announcing another remedy, that all men be excluded from campus after dark. It was an equally logical solution, but men were shocked at being asked to disappear, to lose their freedom to move and participate, all because of the violence of one man.

They hate people and their stories; they have hated for so long and with such intensity that in the end the darkness enveloped their whole bodies until their shapes were no longer discernible. That is also why they are so difficult to defeat, because they can disappear into walls or into the ground or float up. They're ferocious and bloodthirsty, and if you're bitten by one you don't just die; a far more serious and terrible fate lies in store: you lose your imagination. (talking about shadows)

We succeeded in taking that picture from [deep space], and, if you look at it, you see a dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever lived, lived out their lives. The aggregate of all our joys and sufferings, thousands of confident religions, ideaologies and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilizations, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every hopeful child, every mother and father, every inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every superstar, every supreme leader, every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there on a mote of dust, suspended in a sunbeam. The earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that in glory and in triumph they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of the dot on scarcely distinguishable inhabitands of some other corner of the dot. How frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity--in all this vastness-- there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves. It is up to us... To my mind, there is perhaps no better demostration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly and compassionately with one another and to preserve and cherish that pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.

Do you want to know the first time I ever saw you?" he said with his lips at my ear. I knew the story,but I nodded anyway, frantically. "Your family had just moved in. You were...how old were you,Becks?" I shrugged,and he ran his fingers over my head, calming me.He knew the answer. "You were eleven," he said. "I was twelve.I remember Joey Velasquez talking about the pretty new girl in the neighborhood.Actually his exact words were 'the hot chick.' But I didn't think a thing about it until I saw you at the baseball field. We were having practice at the park and your family showed up for a picnic.You had so much dark hair,and it was hiding your face.Remember?" I nodded. "I know what you're trying to do." He ignored me. "I had to see if Joey was right,about the hot chick part, and I kept trying to get a good look at your face, but you never looked over our way.I hit home run after home run trying to get your attention, but you couldn't be bothered with my record-shattering, supherhuman performance." I smiled,and breathed in slowly. I'd heard this story so many times before.The familiarity of it enveloped me with warmth. "So what did you do?" I asked, fully aware of the answer. "I did the only thing I could think of. I went up to the bat,lined my feet up in the direction of your head,and swung away." "Hitting the foulest foul ball anyone had ever seen," I continued the story. I felt him chuckle next to me. "Yep. I figured in order to return the ball,you'd have to get really close to me, because..." He waited for me to fill in the blank. "Because someone made the mistake of assuming I would throw like a girl," I said softly. He pressed his lips against my head before he went on. "Which,of course, was stupid of me to think. You stood right where you were and chucked the ball farther than I'd ever seen a girl, or even any guy,chuck it." "It was all those years of Bonnet Ball my parents forced on me." "The entire team went nuts. You gave a little tiny shrug, like it was no big deal, and sat back down with your family. Completely ignoring me again. So my plan totally backfired. Not only did you get the attention of every boy on the field-which was not my intention-but I got reamed by the coach, who couldn't understand why I suddenly decided to stand perpendicular to home plate.

In that slowly descending darkness as the moon ascended and a gentle breeze blew, I found myself enveloped in that stillness and a strange sort of bliss. I let lay the existential dilemmas somewhere within me for the moment and allowed myself to be immersed in that beyond.

When he catches me, and we roll on our backs toward the star-filled sky, I do not see the diamonds, the glittering shards that have shone there for billions of years, but the blue-black canopy between them. I see it and think of my watercolors, of carving Bristol from linoleum, of Polaris-with a twang, of Camie's hand in them all, of the thousand ways she'll never see her touch unfold-and somehow recognize it's this very darkness, the cutouts, the envelope of holes that makes the stars so sharp and beautiful. All that absence isn't negative space.

I lingered a bit longer. The tug of kinship held me there, bound me to the place and to a man I had never known, but without whom I would never have been. I conjured up his image one more time, and then laid back to rest. The late summer darkness drifted down from the sky like a warm mist, enveloping me and the graves before me,uniting us in its soft embrace. The world spun eastward beneath me, and the darkness deepened and spread over Hinckley, over Minnesota, over the American countryside, covering all of us in the same black shroud, tenants in common, tenants of time.

Isaiah pushes off his car and invades my personal space. His dark scent envelops me and my heart literally trips several times as it tries to continue to beat. Even though he doesn’t touch me, it’s like Isaiah is everywhere. Only centimeters separate us, but his warmth surrounds me like a bubble. I have to force myself to lift my chin to look at him. His gray eyes soften, and there’s this playful aura to him, accompanied by a devious tilt of his mouth.

Once again, I found myself alone. The darkness enveloped me like a menacing blanket, and I felt helpless. But when I looked up at the sky, the moon shone brightly, a constant presence in the night sky, watching over me. I wished I could go up there to be with the moon. Perhaps then, I would no longer feel alone.

He went on talking to me in the darkness, while I retraced the steps of my past with the sound of his voice as a charm with which to open the doors of the years and months and finally of my days, wondering where I could have run into this man. But I found nothing. No answer. You can lose your way groping among the shadows of the past. It's frightening how many people and things there are in a man's past that have stopped moving. The living people we've lost in the crypts of time sleep so soundly side by side with the dead that the same darkness envelops them all. As we grow older, we no longer know whom to awaken, the living or the dead.

confinement is always waiting to envelope you.) Some pranksters put up a poster announcing another remedy, that all men be excluded from campus after dark. It was an equally logical solution, but men were shocked at being asked to disappear, to lose their freedom to move and participate, all because of the violence of one man. It is easy to name the disappearances of the Dirty War as crimes,

Powerless, I could go nowhere; sadness itself would envelope me in deep darkness until the tears came. I felt less that I was crying than that the tears were simply oozing out of me like perspiration.

I raised an eyebrow, a boyish grin on my lips, and started walking toward her without breaking my gaze. “You are beautiful and smart,” I said. “Breathtaking, hot, intelligent, sexy, whatever you want to call it, baby. And no one is taking you away from me.” With that last sentence, I stopped in front of her, my body heat enveloping her. “A little mouthy here and there,” I paused briefly, then continued, “but that can be fixed.

Peeta would lose it if he knew I was thinking any of this, so I only say, "So what should we do with our last few days?" "I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you," Peeta replies. "Come on then," I say, pulling him into my room. It feels like suck a luxury, sleeping with Peeta again. I didn't realize until now how starved I've been for human closeness. For the feel of him beside me in the darkness. I wish I hadn't wasted the last couple nights shutting him out. I sink down into sleep, enveloped in his warmth, and when I open my eyes again, daylight's streaming through the windows. "No nightmares," he says. "No nightmares," I confirm. "You?" "None. I'd forgotten what a real night's sleep felt like," he says.

I discover that absence has a consistency, like the dark water of a river, like oil, some kind of sticky dirty liquid that you can struggle and perhaps drown in. It has a thickness like night, an indefinite space with no landmarks, nothing to bang against, where you search for a light, some small glimmer, something to hang on to and guide you. But absence is, first and foremost, silence. A vast, enveloping silence that weighs you down and puts you in a state where any unforeseeable, unidentifiable sounds can make you jump.

Another time we were at work in a trench. The dawn was grey around us; grey was the sky above; grey the snow in the pale light of dawn; grey the rags in which my fellow prisoners were clad, and grey ther faces. I was again conversing silently with my wife, or perhaps I was struggling to find the reason for my sufferings, my slow dying. In a last violent protest against the hopelessness of imminent death, I sensed my spirit piercing through the enveloping gloom. I felt it transcend that hopeless, meaningless world, and from somewhere I heard a victorious 'Yes' in answer to my question of the existence of an ultimate purpose. At that moment a light was lit in a distant farmhouse, which stood on the horizon as if painted there, in the midst of the miserable grey of dawning morning in Bavaria. 'Et lux in tenebris lucet' - and the light shineth in the darkness. For hours I stood hacking at the icy ground. The guard passed by, insulting me, and once again I communed with my beloved. More and more I felt that she was present, that she was with me; I had the feeling that I was able to touch her, able to stretch out my hand and grasp hers. The feeling was very strong: she was there. Then, at that very moment, a bird flew down silently and perched just in front of me, on the heap of soil which I had dug up from the ditch, and looked steadily at me.

Sunday night is my personal weekly Halloween. I walk along slowly and drag my fingertips along the bars of chocolate. Goddamn, you sexy little squares. Dark, milk, white, I do not discriminate. I eat it all. Those fluorescent sour candies that only obnoxious little boys like. I suck candy apples clean. If an envelope seal is sweet, I’ll lick it twice. Growing up, I was that kid who would easily get lured into a van with the promise of a lollipop. Sometimes, I let the retail seduction last for twenty minutes, ignoring Marco and feeling up the merchandise, but I’m so tired of male voices. “Five bags of marshmallows,” Marco says in a resigned tone. “Wine. And a can of cat food.” “Cat food is low carb.” He makes no move to scan anything, so I scan each item myself and unroll a few notes from my tips. “Your job involves selling things. Sell them. Change, please.” “I just don’t know why you do this to yourself.” Marco looks at the register with a moral dilemma in his eyes. “Every week you come and do this.” He hesitates and looks over his shoulder where his sugar book sits under a layer of dust. He knows not to try to slip it into my bag with my purchases. “I don’t know why you care, dude. Just serve me. I don’t need your help.” He’s not entirely wrong about my being an addict. I would lick a line of icing sugar off this counter right now if no one were around. I would walk into a cane plantation and bite right in... “Give me my change or I swear to God …” I squeeze my eyes shut and try to tamp down my temper. “Just treat me like any other customer.” He gives me a few coins’ change and bags my sweet, spongy drugs.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves. The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand. It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.

I turned the final page. RATHANAEL THE SCORNED, read the lettering. Above it hung a skeleton twined in a ragged shroud, with two pairs of tattered, crowlike wings. Its fleshless skull grinned out at me, the eye sockets bound behind dark wrappings. It held an iron torch clasped in front of its rib cage, the top spiked like a crown, the flames roaring up, enveloping its body and wings in fire. The silver of its form had a dark, tarnished look like an old mirror, but I couldn’t tell if that was intentional or a result of the gilt flaking with age. Some powerful spirits held objects, like riveners did swords. It represented something important about their nature, but I had no idea what a torch might signify and doubted the revenant did either—only how ironic it was that I’d ended up with the revenant associated with fire. I absorbed its deadly visage, trying and failing to match it with the voice in my head. The revenant had devoured the populations of entire cities; it was also the entity who ordered me to eat my pottage. “I’ll have you know that I’m very good-looking by undead standards,” the revenant remarked.

I released a breath I didn’t remember holding. Turned to Ben. Found him looking at me, face inches from mine on Sewee’s deck. Panic flared, white hot, paralyzing me as I lay beside him. Our gazes met. I saw fear in his dark brown eyes. Indecision. Doubt. Ben went rigid, his chest rising and falling like a bellows. Then something changed. His face relaxed, a small smile playing on his lips. Before I could blink, his mouth covered mine. We shared a breath. A tingle ran my spine. Then I pulled back, breathing hard, unsure what either my mind or body were doing. Ben’s unsure look returned. Then vanished. He pulled me near again, his lips melting into mine. Strong, calloused fingers stroked the side of my face. His smell enveloped me. Earthy. Masculine. Ben. Fire rolled through my body. So this is what it’s like. I broke away again, gasping slightly for breath. Reality crashed home. I sat up and scooted a few feet away, rubbing my face with both hands. What was I doing? “Ben, I—” His hand rose to cut me off. He leaned against the bench, face suddenly serious. “I’m not going to pretend anymore. One way or another, I’m going to say how I feel.” Ben snorted softly. “Make my case.” We sat still in the darkness, Sewee rocking gently, the scene dream-like and surreal. “You don’t have to make a case.” I stared at my shoes, had no idea where I wanted this conversation to go. “It’s just, things are—” “YO!” Our heads whipped in the voice’s direction. Ben scrambled to a crouch, scanning the silent bulk of Tern Point, as if just now recalling we were adrift at sea. The voice called down again, suddenly familiar. “What, are you guys paddling around the island? I don’t have a boat license, but that seems dumb.” “Shut up, Hi!” Ben shouted, with more heat than was necessary. Scowling, he slid behind the controls and fired the engine. I scurried to the bow, as far from the captain’s chair as I could manage and stay dry. You’ve done it now, Tory Brennan. Better hope there’s a life preserver somewhere. A glance back. Ben was watching me, looking for all the world like he had more to say. I quickly turned away. Nope. Nope nope nope. I needed some time to think about this one. Perhaps a decade? “Where are we?” I asked, changing the subject. Ben must’ve sensed that my “personal” shop was closed for business.

Tipping confounds me because it is not a reward but a travel tax, one of the many, one of the more insulting. No one is spared. It does not matter that you are paying thousands to stay in the presidential suite in the best hotel: the uniformed man seeing you to the elevator, inquiring about your trip, giving you a weather report, and carrying your bags to the suite expects money for this unasked-for attention. Out front, the doorman, gasconading in gold braid, wants a tip for snatching open a cab door, the bartender wants a proportion of your bill, so does the waiter, and chambermaids sometimes leave unambiguous messages, with an accompanying envelope, demanding cash. It is bad enough that people expect something extra for just doing their jobs; it is an even more dismal thought that every smile has a price.

It began to darken. Not the darkness that was already within the yateveo but an enveloping darkness, even blacker than the night but without depth or time. this was it. And as far as reporting what death was like, I can use only one word: colorless. But oddly, that wasn't quite it. After what could have been anything between a couple of seconds and a century, I saw a dim sliver of light open up in front of me, and I believed, for a moment, that I was about to be reborn.

I discover that absence has a consistency, like the dark water of a river, like oil, some kind of sticky dirty liquid that you can struggle and perhaps drown in. It has a thickness like night, an indefinite space with no landmarks, nothing to bang against, where you search for a light, some small glimmer, something to hang on to and guide you. But absence is, first and foremost, silence. A vast, enveloping silence that weighs you down and puts you in a state where any unforeseeable, unidentifiable sound can make you jump.

Raven felt his power right down to her toes. Her body went boneless, liquid, aching. She was so close to him that she felt a part of him, surrounded by him, enveloped by him. "I'm not going to sleep with someone I don't know because I'm lonely." He laughed softly, low and amused. "Is that what you think? That you would be sleeping with me because you are lonely?" His hand was at her throat again, stroking, caressing, heating her blood. "This is why you will make love with me. This." His mouth fastened on hers. -Raven & Mikhail

Chapter 15 Bloom hallucinates that he is in court charged with sexual harassment: THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: This plebeian Don Juan observed me from behind a hackney car and sent me in double envelopes an obscene photograph, such as are sold after dark on Paris boulevards, insulting to any lady. I have it still...He implored me to soil his letter in an unspeakable manner, to chastise him as he richly deserves, to bestride and ride him, to give him a most vicious horsewhipping. MRS BELLINGHAM: Me too. MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Me too

Your body is good at telling you stuff to do and most times you should listen. It tells you when to eat. It tells you when you should go to sleep. It tells you when you’re doing something painful and to quit it. It tells you when you’re afraid and you should run like hell. My body was telling me—screaming at me—to shut down and hope whatever unfortunate thing was going on would pass me by. I felt a dark cloud enveloping me. But it was a good cloud. It took away the pain and made me feel warm and pleasant. No. I didn’t want to feel warm and pleasant. I didn’t want to forget what was happening. I wanted to be neck deep in it. I’m too stupid to lie down. You’re going to have to make me!

Under Stars The sleep of this night deepens because I have walked coatless from the house carrying the white envelope. All night it will say one name in its little tin house by the roadside. I have raised the metal flag so its shadow under the roadlamp leaves an imprint on the rain-heavy bushes. Now I will walk back thinking of the few lights still on in the town a mile away. In the yellowed light of a kitchen the millworker has finished his coffee, his wife has laid out the white slices of bread on the counter. Now while the bed they have left is still warm, I will think of you, you who are so far away you have caused me to look up at the stars. Tonight they have not moved from childhood, those games played after dark. Again I walk into the wet grass toward the starry voices. Again, I am the found one, intimate, returned by all I touch on the way.

I am afraid. I am oppressed by the darkness of every sultry night. It is so quiet and I am smothered by the heavy splendor of the silence. Why? Why are you not here? I have trifled, I know - forgive. I trifled with my luck - it broke asunder - forgive. It is so painful being alone. We will laugh us into new happiness, believe me and return, there is so much laughter yet. Look at me. Is my image still in your far-off glance? I want you as the grape wants, when ripe, to be plucked. My hair is waiting. My mouth wants you to play with it again. See, my hands beg you to envelop them in yours. They long for your hair and they long for your skin Just like a child yearns for the dream that she only sighted once. Look, it is spring. Yet it is blind, it weeps for evermore As long as we are not together, and weeps as long as the wind weeps when its dearest forest has withered. See, everything waits for us: all the lanes, all the benches All the flowers are just waiting to be plucked by me and offered to you.

When did my heart turn away from its willingness to die if need be in order to kill d’Albret? Perhaps once I escaped, once I was no longer in his orbit or infected with the bleak despair that enveloped me while I was in his household. Or mayhap my short time away from him has reminded me that there are things worth living for. There are good people in this world, in this duchy. Those who mean to do all they can to stop d’Albret. Living inside his walls, it was all too easy to forget that. There is the thrill of a fast horse, and the sun and wind in your face. The rare—and all the more precious for it—moments of laughter to be had. The excitement of seeing Mortain’s marque and knowing the hunt is about to begin. The look in someone’s eye when he truly see you—not just your face and hair, but the very essence of your soul. It is a raw and uncomfortable realization that Beast is partly behind this newfound will to live. Not for him, but because he reminded me of what life has to offer. He lives life so joyously—it is impossible not to want that joy for oneself.

MAY 20 WHEN YOUR SINS WEIGH HEAVILY upon you, come to Me. Confess your wrongdoing, which I know all about before you say a word. Stay in the Light of My Presence, receiving forgiveness, cleansing, and healing. Remember that I have clothed you in My righteousness, so nothing can separate you from Me. Whenever you stumble or fall, I am there to help you up. Man’s tendency is to hide from his sin, seeking refuge in the darkness. There he indulges in self-pity, denial, self-righteousness, blaming, and hatred. But I am the Light of the world, and My illumination decimates the darkness. Come close to Me and let My Light envelop you, driving out darkness and permeating you with Peace. But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin. —1 JOHN 1:7 I delight greatly in the LORD; my soul rejoices in my God. For he has clothed me with garments of salvation and arrayed me in a robe of righteousness, as a bridegroom adorns his head like a priest, and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels. —ISAIAH 61:10 When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.” —JOHN 8:12

Then something terrible happened just as I got in the park. I dropped old Phoebe's record. It broke-into about fifty pieces. It was in a big envelope and all, but it broke anyway. I damn near cried, it made me feel so terrible, but all I did was, I took the pieces out of the envelope and put them in my coat pocket. They weren't any good for anything, but I didn't feel like just throwing them away. Then I went in the park. Boy, was it dark. И тогава, тъкмо стигнах до парка, се случи нещо ужасно. Изпуснах плочата на нашата Фийби. Разби се на хиляди парченца. Хем беше в голям плик и пак се разби. Едва не се разревах, дявол да го вземе, така ужасно ми стана, но все пак извадих парченцата от плика и ги сложих в джоба на палтото си. Не че нещо можеше да стане от тях, но просто ей така, не ми даваше сърце да ги хвърля. После влязох в парка. Братче, колко тъмно беше там… (Надя Сотирова) И тогава, тъкмо като влязох в парка, се случи нещо ужасно. Изтървах плочата на Фийбито и тя се начупи на петдесетина парчета. Беше в голям калъф, и въобще, обаче пак се натроши. Направо ми се приплака, толкова ужасно ми стана, обаче само извадих парчетата от калъфа и си ги напъхах в джоба на палтото. За нищо не ставаха вече, ама не ми се щеше да ги изхвърлям. После навлязох в парка. Мале, че тъмница. (Светлана Комогорова - Комата)

We were at work in a trench. The dawn was grey around us; grey was the sky above; grey the snow in the pale light of dawn; grey the rags in which my fellow prisoners were clad, and grey their faces. I was again conversing silently with my wife, or perhaps I was struggling to find the reason for my sufferings, my slow dying. In a last violent protest against the hopelessness of imminent death, I sensed my spirit piercing through the enveloping gloom. I felt it transcend that hopeless, meaningless world, and from somewhere I heard a victorious “Yes” in answer to my question of the existence of an ultimate purpose. At that moment a light was lit in a distant farmhouse, which stood on the horizon as if painted there, in the midst of the miserable grey of a dawning morning in Bavaria. “Et lux in tenebris lucet” — and the light shineth in the darkness. For hours I stood hacking at the icy ground. The guard passed by, insulting me, and once again I communed with my beloved. More and more I felt that she was present, that she was with me; I had the feeling that I was able to touch her, able to stretch out my hand and grasp hers. The feeling was very strong: she was there. Then, at that very moment, a bird flew down silently and perched just in front of me, on the heap of soil which I had dug up from the ditch, and looked steadily at me.

On Christmas Day her mother gave her an envelope with five hundred euro in it. There was no card; it was one of the small brown-paper envelopes she used for Lorraine’s wages. Marianne thanked her, and Denise said airily: I’m a bit concerned about you. Marianne fingered the envelope and tried to arrange her face into a suitable expression. What about me? she said. Well, said Denise, what are you going to do with your life? I don’t know. I think I still have a lot of options open. I’m just focusing on college at the moment. And then what? Marianne pressed her thumb on the envelope and smudged it until a faint dark smear appeared on the paper. As I said, she repeated, I don’t know. I’m worried the real world will come as a bit of a shock to you, said Denise. In what way? I don’t know if you realize that university is a very protective environment. It’s not like a workplace. Well, I doubt anyone in the workplace will spit at me over a disagreement, said Marianne. It would be pretty frowned upon, as I understand. Denise gave a tight-lipped smile. If you can’t handle a little sibling rivalry, I don’t know how you’re going to manage adult life, darling, she said. Let’s see how it goes. At this, Denise struck the kitchen table with her open palm. Marianne flinched, but didn’t look up, didn’t let go of the envelope. You think you’re special, do you? said Denise. Marianne let her eyes close. No, she said. I don’t.

When it begins it is like a light in a tunnel, a rush of steel and steam across a torn up life. It is a low rumble, an earthquake in the back of the mind. My spine is a track with cold black steel racing on it, a trail of steam and dust following behind, ghost like. It feels like my whole life is holding its breath. By the time she leaves the room I am surprised that she can’t see the train. It has jumped the track of my spine and landed in my mothers’ living room. A cold dark thing, black steel and redwood paneling. It is the old type, from the western movies I loved as a kid. He throws open the doors to the outside world, to the dark ocean. I feel a breeze tugging at me, a slender finger of wind that catches at my shirt. Pulling. Grabbing. I can feel the panic build in me, the need to scream or cry rising in my throat. And then I am out the door, running, tumbling down the steps falling out into the darkened world, falling out into the lifeless ocean. Out into the blackness. Out among the stars and shadows. And underneath my skin, in the back of my head and down the back of my spine I can feel the desperation and I can feel the noise. I can feel the deep and ancient ache of loudness that litters across my bones. It’s like an old lover, comfortable and well known, but unwelcome and inappropriate with her stories of our frolicking. And then she’s gone and the Conductor is closing the door. The darkness swells around us, enveloping us in a cocoon, pressing flat against the train like a storm. I wonder, what is this place? Those had been heady days, full and intense. It’s funny. I remember the problems, the confusions and the fears of life we all dealt with. But, that all seems to fade. It all seems to be replaced by images of the days when it was all just okay. We all had plans back then, patterns in which we expected the world to fit, how it was to be deciphered. Eventually you just can’t carry yourself any longer, can’t keep your eyelids open, and can’t focus on anything but the flickering light of the stars. Hours pass, at first slowly like a river and then all in a rush, a climax and I am home in the dorm, waking up to the ringing of the telephone. When she is gone the apartment is silent, empty, almost like a person sleeping, waiting to wake up. When she is gone, and I am alone, I curl up on the bed, wait for the house to eject me from its dying corpse. Crazy thoughts cross through my head, like slants of light in an attic. The Boston 395 rocks a bit, a creaking noise spilling in from the undercarriage. I have decided that whatever this place is, all these noises, sensations - all the train-ness of this place - is a fabrication. It lulls you into a sense of security, allows you to feel as if it’s a familiar place. But whatever it is, it’s not a train, or at least not just a train. The air, heightened, tense against the glass. I can hear the squeak of shoes on linoleum, I can hear the soft rattle of a dying man’s breathing. Men in white uniforms, sharp pressed lines, run past, rolling gurneys down florescent hallways.

Punishment cells were set up in the two-story cathedral ... Poles the thickness of an arm were set from wall to wall and prisoners were ordered to sit on these poles all day ... one's feet could not reach the ground. And it was not so easy to keep balance ... the prisoner spent the entire day just trying to maintain his perch. If he fell, the jailers jumped in and beat him ... Every little island and every little hillock of the Archipelago had to be encircled by a hostile, stormy Soviet seascape ... Escapes multiplied ... For half a year the sea was frozen over, but not solidly, and in places there was open water, and the snowstorms raged, and the frost bit hard, and things were enveloped in mists and darkness. And in the spring ... there were the long white nights with clear visibility over long distances for the patrolling cutters ... it was only when the nights began to lengthen, in the late summer and the autumn, that the time was right ... for those who were out in work parties, where a prisoner might have freedom of movement and time to build a boat or a raft near the shore ... and to cast off at night ... and strike out at random, hoping above all to encounter a foreign ship ... The whole long history of the Archipelago, about which it has fallen to me to write this home-grown, homemade book, has, in the course of half a century, found in the Soviet Union almost no expression whatever in the printed word. In this a role was played by that same unfortunate happenstance by which camp watchtowers never got into scenes in films nor into landscapes painted by our artists ...

He poured a splash of liquid into a second cup. “Come in and warm yerself by the fire.” Ariana walked deeper into the room, toward the glow of the hearth. It’s heat enveloped her skin and eased away the chill with such expediency, she almost sighed. Connor appeared beside her with a metal cup extended. “I canna sleep often myself.” She closed her fingers around the cool surface and glanced at the dark liquid within. A sharp scent hit her nostrils. “Whisky,” Connor said. He was perfection in the firelight. Shadows etched his jaw while the light softened his face, his lips. The powerful lines of his chest were visible at the neck of his leine, as well as a dark peppering of small curling black hairs. “Whisky,” Ariana said with a forced stare at the cup instead of him. “Of course. I drink this all the time.” “Aye, I knew that about ye. When I first saw ye, I thought, ‘Now there’s a lass who can handle her whisky.’” Connor winked at her with disarming playfulness. “It’ll do ye some good. Take off the chill and settle yer thoughts.” “Why do you assume my thoughts are unsettled?” she asked. He took a swallow from his cup. “Because sleep comes easily to those without weight on their minds.” Ariana took a careful sip from her own cup, the way she’d seen men at the card tables drink. The liquid burned like sin down her throat and caught in her chest. She gritted her teeth and swallowed hard several times to keep from sputtering. Though she’d hoped to keep her reaction discreet, the grin on Connor’s face told her he saw through her guise. “It’s good.” Her voice came out in a croak and Connor laughed. It was a warm, rich sound and she found it terribly pleasing. His eyes crinkled. “Now that we’ve discovered yer love of whisky, why dinna ye tell me what’s got yer thoughts heavy?

Very convenient. Anything else?’ ‘Not really. I’m sure, for instance, that you haven’t the slightest interest in a Berger International flight into the Isle of Man, carrying one Marco Rossi.’ Dillon laughed. ‘Well, imagine that.’ ‘If it’s a sea voyage he’s planning, he’s in for a rough ride. Tomorrow and tomorrow night, there’ll be rain squalls and high seas. You’ll know you’re out there!’ ‘Should be interesting.’ ‘Do you have a game plan, Sean?’ ‘Yeah, the game plan is to blow the hell out of the Mona Lisa and deposit two million quid’s worth of arms on the floor of the Irish Sea.’ ‘What about the crew? I’ve got a Captain Martino listed here and five others: Gomez, Fabio, Arturo somebody, an Enrico, a Sancho. You’re going to kill them all, Sean?’ ‘Why not? They’re a reasonable facsimile of scum. They’ve run everything from heroin to human beings, I’m told, and now arms. They shouldn’t have joined if they didn’t want the risk.’ ‘Fine by me. I’ll stay in touch. Speak to you tomorrow.’ ‘Good, but stay on the Berger case. I’m convinced Rossi was responsible for Sara Hesser’s death.’ ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Oban was enveloped in mist and rain. Beyond Kerrera, the waters looked disturbed in the Firth of Lorn, and clouds draped across the mountain tops. ‘I’ve said it before,’ Billy moaned. ‘What a bloody awful place. I mean, it rains all the bleeding time.’ ‘No, Billy, it rains six days a week.’ Dillon turned to Ferguson. ‘Am I right, General?’ ‘You usually are, Dillon.’ ‘Good. Please join me in the wheelhouse.’ There was a flap to one side of the instrument panel and he pressed a button. Inside was a fuse box and some clips screwed into place. He opened one of the weapons bags, took out a Browning with a twenty-round magazine protruding from its butt. He clipped it into place and added a Walther in the other clips. ‘Ace in the hole.’ He closed the flap. ‘My goodness, you do mean business,’ Ferguson said. ‘I always did, Charles. Now let’s go ashore and eat.’ The early darkness of the far north was against them

That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there — on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors, so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves. The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand. It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known

The knowledge of death came to me that night, from the dying that engulfs the world. I saw how we live toward death, how the swaying golden wheat sinks together under the scythe of the reaper, like a smooth wave on the sea-beach. He who abides in common life becomes aware of death with fear. Thus the fear of death drives him towards singleness. He does not live there, but he becomes aware of life and is happy, since in singleness he is one who becomes, and has overcome death. He overcomes death through overcoming common life. He does not live his individual being, since he is not what he is, but what he becomes. One who becomes grows aware of life, whereas one who simply exists never will, since he is in the midst of life. He needs the heights and singleness to become aware of life. But in life he becomes aware of death. And it is good that you become aware of collective death, since then you know why your singleness and your heights are good. Your heights are like the moon that luminously wanders alone and through the night looks eternally clear. Sometimes it covers itself and then your are totally in the darkness of the earth, but time and again it fills itself out with light. The death of the earth is foreign to it. Motionless and clear, it sees the life of the earth from afar, without enveloping haze and streaming oceans. Its unchanging form has been solid from eternity. It is the solitary clear light of the night, the individual being, and the near fragment of eternity. From there you look out, cold, motionless, and radiating. With otherworldly silvery light and green twilights, you pour out into the distant horror. You see it but your gaze is clear and cold. Your hands are red from living blood, but the moonlight of your gaze is motionless. It is the life blood of your brother, yes, it is your own blood, but your gaze remains luminous and embraces the entire horror and the earth’s round. Your gaze rests on silvery seas, on snowy peaks, on blue valleys, and you do not hear the groaning and howling of the human animal. The moon is dead. Your soul went to the moon, to the preserver of souls. Thus the soul moved toward death. I went into the inner death and saw that outer dying is better than inner death. And I decided to die outside and to live within. For that reason I turned away and sought the place of the inner life.

That night, she was neglecting her pen in favor of rereading one of the most-favored books in her library. It was a small volume that had appeared mysteriously when she was only fifteen. Josephine still had no idea who had gifted her the lovely horror of Carmilla, but she owed her nameless benefactor an enormous debt. Her personal guess was a briefly employed footman who had seen her reading her mother’s well-worn copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho and confessed his own forbidden love of Poe. The slim volume of Le Fanu’s Gothic horror stories had been hidden well into adulthood. As it wasn’t her father’s habit to investigate her reading choices, concealment might have been more for dramatic effect than real fear of discovery. Josephine read by lamplight, curled into an old chaise and basking in the sweet isolation of darkness as she mouthed well-loved passages from her favorite vampire tale. “For some nights I slept profoundly; but still every morning I felt the same lassitude, and a languor weighed upon me all day. I felt myself a changed girl. A strange melancholy was stealing over me, a melancholy that I would not have interrupted. Dim thoughts of death began to open, and an idea that I was slowly sinking took gentle, and, somehow, not unwelcome possession of me.” She slammed the book shut. How had she turned so morbid? For while Josephine had long known she would not live to old age, she thought she had resigned herself to it. She made a point of fighting the melancholy that threatened her. If she had any regret, it was that she would not live long enough to write all the stories she wanted. Sometimes she felt a longing to shout them into the night, offering them up to any wandering soul that they might be heard so they could live. So many voices beating in her chest. So many tales to write and whisper and shout. Her eyes fell to the book she’d slammed shut. ‘“You are afraid to die?” “Yes, everyone is.” Josephine stood and pushed her way out of the glass house, into the garden where the mist enveloped her. She lifted her face to the moon and felt the tears cold on her cheeks. “‘ Girls are caterpillars,” she whispered, “‘ when they live in the world, to be finally butterflies when the summer comes; but in the meantime there are grubs and larvae, don’t you see?’” But the summer would never come for Josephine. She beat back the despair that threatened to envelop her. You are afraid to die? Yes, everyone is. She lifted her face and opened her eyes to the starry night, speaking her secret longing into the night. “‘ But to die as lovers may— to die together, so that they may live together.’” How she longed for love! For passion. How she ached to be seen. To be cherished. To be known. She could pour her soul onto the page and still find loneliness in the dark. She strangled her heart to keep it alive, knowing it was only a matter of time until the palest lover took her to his bosom. Already, she could feel the tightness in her chest. Tomorrow would not be a good day.

I learned to take very little. I learned to want nothing more. I learned something else during those nights. When all the world slept, a new silence settled into the forest. With candle in hand and dressed in gowns of gossamer, I would slip out into the night and dance to the sound of silence. Barefoot, I would spin then lay in the cool grass in a strip of moonlight. I would lie there all night and gaze up at the stars, so silent, so clear there in the wood, and so, so far away. I lived between worlds. The war, my reality, my hell and this world in the forest of fantasy. And I’m stuck. I can’t go back. I forever toggle between two worlds and one is ever so much more real to me than yours.At night, beneath the moon, I didn’t need my worlds to escape. I only needed to open my eyes and see the world as it was. Quiet and calm and at peace, just as I still see it. I escaped through my music and wrote poetry to ease the pain…and letters. I poured so much of my heart into the letters I wrote to Erik, who I could see so easily on the other side. I still have them. Every letter I ever wrote him. During those times, when the world was dark, Erik became more real to me than anything else. He was quiet. He listened. He held me in the silence. He played his violin for me. And he loved me. When I cried, I closed my eyes and felt him envelope me. Only Erik and the cats ever came. No matter how long and loud I cried, my parents, no one ever came. I was fourteen. I was alone and all I wanted was for someone to love me.

I wish you could relax and trust me,” he murmured as a rush of tingles enveloped me. “I would never harm you.” “You’re harming me now,” I pointed out as he sucked and licked the inner bend of my elbow, making my nipples harden painfully and sending a rush of heat to the tender V between my thighs. “You’re embarrassing me and touching me against my will.” “Do you really dislike it so much?” He kissed my inner arm gently, sending warm sparks of pleasure through my entire body. “Do you find my touch repulsive, Addison?” “You know I don’t,” I said reluctantly.

I was about to leave when my flashlight caught something. A bright white envelope tacked on the board among the yellowed and faded detritus. It had my name on it in the child’s printed hand, which was now familiar to me. I walked over quickly and grabbed it down. Instead of ripping it open, I stuck it inside my jacket. I suddenly had a strong urge to get the hell out of there. But as I moved toward the door, I saw a large dark form pass in front of the side window. There was someone outside.

Martin: I write again because I must. A black foreboding has taken possession of me. I wrote Griselle as soon as I knew she was in Berlin and she answered briefly. Rehearsals were going brilliantly; the play would open shortly. My second letter was more encouragement than warning, and it has been returned to me, the envelope unopened, marked only addressee unknown, (Adressant Unbekannt). What a darkness those words carry! How can she be unknown? It is surely a message that she has come to harm. They know what has happened to her, those stamped letters say,

He shrugged. “You know I was in the dark about all that as much as you were. This time it’s straightforward. And sanctioned.” “Sanctioned by whom?” He looked at me. “By the proper authorities.” “All right,” I said, taking a sip from the porcelain demitasse. “Tell me.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “After nine-eleven, Congress took the shackles off the Agency. There’s a new spirit in the place. We’re pushing the envelope again, going after the bad guys—” “The few, the proud?” He frowned. “Look, we’re really making a difference now—” “Be all that you can be?” His jaw clenched. “Do you just enjoy pissing me off?” “A bit, yes.” “It’s petty.” I took another sip of espresso. “What’s your point?” “I wish you’d just listen.” “So far I’ve listened to five clichés, including something about shackled envelopes. I’m waiting for you to actually say something.” He flushed, but then nodded and even managed a chuckle. I smiled at his composure. He had matured since I had last seen him.

She looked at me for a long time and then pulled an old envelope out of the trash and drew a pear on it. “This is how your body is shaped. See? Teeny tiny on top and not so tiny on the bottom.” Then she explained the illusion created by wearing dark colors on the bottom and bright colors on top. When I see other women with this color combination I check to see if they’re a pear too and they always are—two pears can’t fool each other.

The night transfixed me; the night took possession of me, enveloped and penetrated me, impalpable, insubstantial. Turned to stone.

Why? Why would God hold me in His arms? Why save me? If there was anyone, He could’ve rightfully left there on that cliff to die, it would’ve been me. I had always been a prodigal, one ruled by darkness, one who wandered, drawn in by wickedness and controlled by corruption. Yet, in the same way the father ran to enrapture the prodigal son in his loving embrace, God was now enveloping me.

My classmates were looking down at me, and their eyes were glittering like those of animals in a dark forest. Then they started blinking, and one by one they disappeared, until all that was left was Reiko’s eye, staring down at me and emitting this laser beam of light, only it was the opposite of light, because it was cold and black and empty. It grew bigger and bigger, pressing down, enveloping me and the whole world and everything in it, and the only way I could save the world was to plunge my little kitchen knife right into the pupil, and so I did. I closed my eyes and stuck the knife into the dark hole, over and over again, until I felt something tear.

Whatever was going on within me, said Austerlitz, the panic I felt on facing the start of any sentence that must be written, not knowing how I could begin it or indeed any other sentence, soon extended to what is in itself the simpler business of reading, until if I attempted to read a whole page I inevitably fell into a state of the greatest confusion. If language may be regarded as an old city full of streets and squares, nooks and crannies, with some quarters dating from far back in time while others have been torn down, cleaned up, and rebuilt, and with suburbs reaching further and further into the surrounding country, then I was like a man who has been abroad a long time and cannot find his way through this urban sprawl anymore, no longer knows what a bus stop is for, or what a back yard is, or a street junction, an avenue or a bridge. The entire structure of language, the syntactical arrangement of parts of speech, punctuation, conjunctions, and finally even the nouns denoting ordinary objects were all enveloped in impenetrable fog. I could not even understand what I myself had written in the past—perhaps I could understand that least of all. All I could think was that such a sentence only appears to mean something, but in truth is at best a makeshift expedient, a kind of unhealthy growth issuing from our ignorance, something which we use, in the same way as many sea plants and animals use their tentacles, to grope blindly through the darkness enveloping us.

The last room left standing.” The stone chamber—enveloped by moss and vines—stood tall at the edge of the mist. How strange it looked, alone in the ruins, unmarked but for one dark window situated on its southernmost wall. The Nightmare’s tail whipped through my mind, the chamber fixed in our shared vision. Go in, he said. Go in where? My eyes caught on the ivy-laden room. There? Yes. Why? I want to see it. There is no door. Only— A window. His voice swarmed in my ears, near and far at once, slick with oil. That’s all she ever required. Who? The Spirit of the Wood. The hair at my spine prickled. You’ve been here before? He laughed. But there was no joy in it. It was an empty laugh, ominous—like falling down a well. Like being eaten by darkness. It stole something from me, leaving me terrified of the place—the doorless chamber—he so desperately wanted me to take him.

have been as she looked at the vampires surrounding her. No hope, no reprieve, nowhere to run. And she was right. That blistering rage cascaded through Mencheres again, demanding another solution aside from violating Kira’s mortality. But he knew what the only other solution was, and it could condemn his co-ruler for a crime he had no part in. Mencheres cast a single glare at Radjedef. “Before this, you might have won our war without a battle from me,” he said, again in their long-dead dialect. “But now, I will not go quietly into my grave. Instead, by the blood of Cain, I will drag you down to yours.” Radjedef gave him a measuring look. “I never wanted you to seek your own end. Why do you think I’ve been following you? After our last conversation, I feared you might kill yourself before you gave me what I wanted. And you will give it to me, Menkaure. Soon.” Mencheres knew what Radje wanted from him. The Law Guardian’s slip at his house the other week was enough to betray his motivation, yet Mencheres had no intention of allowing him to obtain his goal. He thought of the dark void ahead of him. He had no idea how long he had until it enveloped him, but in that remaining time, he’d discover the means to finish Radjedef. Kira’s mortality would be avenged.

The last thing I saw before darkness enveloped me was a stain on my DCU pants from the vanilla latte I’d spilled on my leg after I’d stopped at the coffee shop next to the DFAC on my way to the chapel. Nice, I thought, I’m flying into battle smelling of Starbucks. Very GI Joe. No wonder the Army guys make fun of us

"Derek?" I called. No answer. I took a few more steps, then called a little louder, "Derek? Are you out here?" A branch snapped in the woods. I pictured Derek, in the middle of a Change, unable to respond, and hurried toward the forest's edge. The noise stopped and I paused at the end of the path leading in, peering into the dark woods, listening. Another snap. Something like a groan. "Derek? It's me." I stepped in. It took only a few paces for the morning light to fade and darkness to envelop me. "Derek?" I jumped as he rounded a corner down the path. I didn't need full daylight to see the expression on his face at all to know I was in trouble, just the set of his shoulders and he long strides as he bore down on me. "I—" I began. "What the hell are you doing, Chloe? I said we'd come out here later and try to contact that ghost. Key word? We. If you're here—" I lifted my hands. "Okay, you caught me. I was sneaking out on my own, hoping no one would notice. That's why I've been calling your name."

Gram placed the box on the table in front of Carly. On top of the box there was an envelope addressed to her, and she could tell it was Grampa's handwriting. The box looked to be about 12" x 12", and maybe 8" high, and was made out of a dark brown piece of wood. On the envelope beneath her name was written, 'Only to be opened if something happens to me.

I’d like to share with you a parable: the parable of Bob the Angel. A girl was walking down a darkly lit city street late at night. A man jumped out from the shadows and attacked her, suddenly she was suffocating and disoriented as hands clasped around her neck and the force of his attack started to push her down. She tried to yell as she struggled to pull his arms from her neck while she crumpled backwards to the ground, “God . . . help me!” The next thing she remembers—just as the fear consumed her, and right as she disappeared into the misery and despair of helplessness—was a loud crash and an explosion of glass which rained down upon her and her attacker. The assailant’s lifeless body was suspended above her, held from collapsing on her by an unknown force, and then pulled away from hovering over her and dropped onto the pavement beside her. She opened her eyes in the faint shadowy light, to see black matted hair and a long, black beard framing the eyes of a man. The smell of alcohol on his breath would have knocked her out if the adrenaline was not still trilling through her veins. There he stood, God’s angel, off-kilter and drunk, with a broken whiskey bottle in his hand. “You probably shouldn’t be walking through here this late at night,” was all he said as he turned away. “Wait! What’s your name?” she asked, still stunned half sitting up on the ground. All she heard as he walked away was his trailing voice calling, “Bob’s as good as any. . . .” An angel is a messenger, and sometimes we only want letters sent in white envelopes with beautiful gold print, when sometimes a simple “no” on the back of a gum wrapper is what we are offered. Every postcard from heaven does not come with a picture of the sunset there, nor should it. If it is an answer we want, an answer we will get. As far as pretty postcards, there are many others willing to send us that. If not harps and gold-tipped wings, what then is the mark of an angel? An answer which pierces your soul, and which inspires a question that invites you to look outside of yourself and up to God.

Is there a problem? I mean, I wasn't expecting you, or anyone, tonight." Drew held out a hand to help her from the car, snatching it back when she got out on her own. "There is a problem." "What?" He tensed. "Did M.J. come back? Is he giving you trouble?" "I can handle my brother." Tyler moved closer. Drew stepped back, his eyes suddenly wary. Sighing she grabbed the front of his t-shirt, the fingers of her other hand threading through his thick, dark hair. Soft. She remembered the feel like it was yesterday. Her hope had been that he would as eager as she was. The attraction was still there, it was time to do something about it. Apparently he wasn't going to make this easy. So she did what she had all those years ago when he wouldn't make the first move—she kissed him first. Prime rib to a starving man. Ten years without even a taste, Drew couldn't help but devour her. The kiss was primal, out of control. Mouths seeking the angle after angle, tongues duelings. And the way Tyler tasted. Sweet and spicy and utterly delicious. In his dreams, he imagined this differently. Slower. He would show her how a man kissed as opposed to the boy he had been. One touch of her lips on his and all those grand plans flew out the window along with any common sense he ever possessed. Tyler was in his arms. Familiar yet new. He needed her and he was never letting go. Drew's hands went under the hem of her shirt slowly sliding up her smooth, hot skin. He could feel the erotic combination of vulnerability and strength in the subtle muscles of her back. She had filled out, they both had. He wanted to spend days discovering all the differences then start all over again, just in case he missed something the first time. The kiss was neverending though the desperation, instead of lessening, scaled higher. He could lift her into his arms, carry her into the house, rip every scrap of clothing from her delicious body and fuck for hours. Fuck. Well, fuck. The word wasn't exactly a bucket of cold water, the desperate heat running through his veins needed more than that. But it did lift the haze. If he didn't stop this right now, there would be no turning back. "Tyler." The word sounded foreign, all guttural. His voice was hoarse with passion and his body was calling every swear word known to man. Why are you stopping? Beautiful woman. Willing. Her hands all over you. Right now she was reaching between his legs. The first caress was almost his undoing. It felt so good, so right. No could touch him like Tyler. The sexual haze enveloped him again. Don't fight it, his body urged. Feel her lips on your jaw, your neck. God. Her teeth biting your earlobe. That alone brought him close to going over the top. Damn his good intentions. Talking was way overrated. Pulling her in until their bodies were flush and he could feel every long, luscious inch of her—plastered against him. Drew was going in for another kiss when her words did what his own reasoning couldn't. It wasn't a bucket of cold water, it was a fire hose—turned on full blast. "Fuck me, Drew. Right here, up against my car. Let's get this thing done, once and for all.

—but not to you. That makes me the only person here who can talk to everybody. How . . . nice. Do tell me about the drains, dear Pym. Don’t tell me they backed up again.” Ekaterin slipped the envelope into the inside pocket of her bolero, leaned her elbow on her chair arm and her chin on her hand, and sat listening with her dark eyebrows crinkling. Pym nodded. “I’m afraid so, Miss Martya. Late last night, Dr. Borgos”—Pym’s lips compressed at the name—“being in a great hurry to return to the search for his missing queen, took two days’ harvest of bug butter—about forty or fifty kilos, we estimated later—which was starting to overflow the hutches on account of Miss Kareen not being there to take care of things properly, and flushed it all down the laboratory drain. Where it encountered some chemical conditions which caused it to . . . set. Like soft plaster. Entirely blocking the main drain, which, in a household with over fifty people in it—all the Viceroy and Vicereine’s staff having arrived yesterday, and my fellow armsmen and their families—caused a pretty immediate and pressing crisis.” Martya had the bad taste to giggle. Pym merely looked prim.

He was trying to sleep. Could one fall asleep here? Wasn’t it dangerous to lower one’s guard, even for a moment, when death could strike at any time? Those were my thoughts when I heard the sound of a violin. A violin in a dark barrack where the dead were piled on top of the living? Who was this madman who played the violin here, at the edge of his own grave? Or was it a hallucination? It had to be Juliek. He was playing a fragment of a Beethoven concerto. Never before had I heard such a beautiful sound. In such silence. How had he succeeded in disengaging himself? To slip out from under my body without my feeling it? The darkness enveloped us. All I could hear was the violin, and it was as if Juliek’s soul had become his bow. He was playing his life. His whole being was gliding over the strings. His unfulfilled hopes. His charred past, his extinguished future. He played that which he would never play again. I shall never forget Juliek. How could I forget this concert given before an audience of the dead and dying? Even today, when I hear that particular piece by Beethoven, my eyes close and out of the darkness emerges the pale and melancholy face of my Polish comrade bidding farewell to an audience of dying men. I don’t know how long he played. I was overcome by sleep. When I awoke at daybreak, I saw Juliek facing me, hunched over, dead. Next to him lay his violin, trampled, an eerily poignant little corpse.

There was no outlet, my fear was so deep and tangible I couldn't scream. It felt like an actual substance that enveloped my body, my brain, my very being, I receded further and further within myself, a dark hole, my entire body a taut muscle.

As I savored the meal, I struggled against the dark force that kept tugging at me, telling me I was never going to leave; adhering to my consciousness like sap, or tar, or glue; enveloping me in a sticky sickness that drained my vitality. I felt myself growing old as I sat there, the joints stiffening, the bones aching, the sense of identity melting away like a forgotten candle left to burn itself out. As I settled back into my cot for the evening hibernation, I understood I had been captured. I realized my spirit was ensnared. I knew what must be done. Whatever the cost, I told myself, I would be back on the road at dawn.

I’d like to share with you a parable: the parable of Bob the Angel. A girl was walking down a darkly lit city street late at night. A man jumped out from the shadows and attacked her, suddenly she was suffocating and disoriented as hands clasped around her neck and the force of his attack started to push her down. She tried to yell as she struggled to pull his arms from her neck while she crumpled backwards to the ground, “God . . . help me!” The next thing she remembers—just as the fear consumed her, and right as she disappeared into the misery and despair of helplessness—was a loud crash and an explosion of glass which rained down upon her and her attacker. The assailant’s lifeless body was suspended above her, held from collapsing on her by an unknown force, and then pulled away from hovering over her and dropped onto the pavement beside her. She opened her eyes in the faint shadowy light, to see black matted hair and a long, black beard framing the eyes of a man. The smell of alcohol on his breath would have knocked her out if the adrenaline was not still trilling through her veins. There he stood, God’s angel, off-kilter and drunk, with a broken whiskey bottle in his hand. “You probably shouldn’t be walking through here this late at night,” was all he said as he turned away. “Wait! What’s your name?” she asked, still stunned half sitting up on the ground. All she heard as he walked away was his trailing voice calling, “Bob’s as good as any. . . .” An angel is a messenger, and sometimes we only want letters sent in white envelopes with beautiful gold print, when sometimes a simple “no” on the back of a gum wrapper is what we are offered. Every postcard from heaven does not come with a picture of the sunset there, nor should it. If it is an answer we want, an answer we will get. As far as pretty postcards, there are many others willing to send us that. If not harps and gold-tipped wings, what then is the mark of an angel? An answer which pierces your soul, and which inspires a question that invites you to look outside of yourself and up to God. God is very objective; He wants to make us think, to engage the faculties we have been given, and to learn from the messengers he sends us. He wants us in the ark before the flood; he could come himself—or send a Noah—but most of the time he sends Bob. Bob is in you, Bob is in me, Bob is in the emotionalized, sarcastic, mocking, patronizing, proud or foolish person which points out meaningful things to us in the worst possible moments, or in the worst possible way.

Powerless, I could go nowhere; sorrow itself would envelop me in deep darkness until the tears came. I felt less that I was crying than that the tears were simply oozing out of me like perspiration.

Bryan and Finn pounced on me the moment I stepped inside, enveloping me in a group hug.

You know, I’ve heard my parents, throughout most of time, begging and crying about freedom. It’s pathetic. Asking for freedom is admitting that you don’t have any. And if you complain about not having it, then you’re shouting, ‘I will never be free,’ to the world. Even if you’re tied up and thrown into a dark room, you’re still free.” He paused for a short while to consider what she had said, reclining somewhat and staring at her face, which looked as though it were lit by a flashlight below. “No, I don’t understand. What you’re saying doesn’t make sense, not about any freedom worth caring about. Freedom is more than a choice between drowning and immolation. More than some cogs turning behind my mind.” “That’s a very silly way to think about it,” Sielle said. Enveloped in shadows, she inspired a chill down his spine. As if she were, in that moment, the avatar of some cosmic Pythia. “Using words like ‘more free’ and ‘less free.’ The measurements of something are not that something. And you can’t even measure how free someone is because everyone is always equally free, at all times, in all situations. There will always be different and infinite and better or worse options to choose from. The choice between water or soda, between this memory to recall or that, between extinguishing a star or not. Each requires the same freedom, not more or less. And if I thought the way you did, I’d say all those choices make me unfree, since I am forced to choose.” “So I’m free just for existing?” he asked. “Yes, in a way. All castles are made out of the playground’s sand. The only real castles are the monarchs who built them. You are free for existing with me.” He stayed silent and stared again beyond her dimmed face, which was becoming slightly damp with sweat.

Daniel? Daniel...of what use are the bones of saints? Of what great interest to me are their dusted stories of day?” I stand at a dreadful distance. He speaks, “Silent stones of granite hue; enveloped now in sacred dew. Speak somber words of restless hope... of resurrection.” I hear the hushings of the wind in a rhythmic silence, and turn to see a friar’s lantern on a distant ridge.

I experienced a deep depression, grappling with panic attacks and the onset of agoraphobia. In this phase of my condition, an indelible aspect was how my dearly held home of three years assumed a profoundly eerie character whenever my morale hit its lowest. The diminishing evening light, once a herald of autumn's charm, now enveloped me in a stifling darkness. It puzzled me how a place so filled with recollections of laughter, capability, and sighs could suddenly feel so unwelcoming and ominous. Though I wasn't alone in a physical sense, the isolation was palpable.

My body is enveloped in dirt so is my soul oh my beloved master but I have my heart only for you; sole. You have remove the darkness of my heart, now take my heart to fulfill its goal. When my awakened soul hears your call, it dances in ecstasy losing his senses all. Your name makes loud moments in my heart, it longs for you like a wounded heart. Since I worn the cloak of Faqr, sipped the wine of your love, I cry not but in happiness for accepting me even knowing all my faults. You gave me his zikr to chant and remember, but my heart chanted your name there after. This love of yours Oh Saiyeedi, O Murshidi, Oh Master is rapturous, do not efface Ayaz slowly, efface him once for all.

I am Gregori. The dark one. Perhaps he has told you of me." He is the most knowledgeable, the most powerful of all our kind, Aidan confirmed. He was very near. He is the greatest healer our kind has ever known and my teacher. He is also a master of destruction and bodyguard to our Prince. He terrifies me. He terrifies everyone. Only Mikhail, the Prince of our people, knows him well. "I trust Aidan has good things to say about me." He was facing her, those brilliant eyes seeing right into her soul, but Alexandria had the feeling his attention was elsewhere. His voice was so pure, so perfect, she wanted him to go on speaking. A rush of wind stirred up a whirling eddy of sand that spun and swirled until it enveloped Alexandria, driving her backward. When she finally regained her balance and uncovered her eyes, Aidan was directly in front of her. "Very impressive, Aidan," the stranger said with a trace of satisfaction. "I have not seen one of my own people for many years," Aidan said softly. "I am pleased it is you, Gregori.

You are justified and redeemed (already)—Romans 3:24. • Your old self was killed (crucified)—Romans 6:6. • You are not condemned. (My performance is condemned when I don’t trust in His life through me, but God does not condemn the performer, just the performance.)—Romans 8:1. • You are free from the law of sin and death—Romans 8:2. • You are accepted. (All my life I’ve sought to be accepted. Now I am!)—Romans 15:7. • You are sanctified (holy, set apart)—1 Corinthians 1:2. • You have wisdom, righteousness, sanctification, redemption (I am ransomed—restored to favor)—1 Corinthians 1:30. • You are always led in His triumph (whether it appears so or not)—2 Corinthians 2:14. • Your hardened mind has been removed—2 Corinthians 3:14. • You are a new creature. (Even though I don’t always feel or act like it.)—2 Corinthians 5:17. • You are the righteousness of God. (You can’t get more righteous than this.)—2 Corinthians 5:21. • You are liberated—Galatians 2:4. • You are joined with all believers (not inferior to anyone)—Galatians 3:28. • You are a son and an heir—Galatians 4:7. • You are blessed with every spiritual blessing in heaven—Ephesians 1:3. • You are chosen, holy, and blameless before God—Ephesians 1:4. • You are redeemed, forgiven—Ephesians 1:7. • You have obtained an inheritance—Ephesians 1:10,11. • You are sealed with the Spirit. (Imagine the real you sealed up in the envelope of God Himself.)—Ephesians 1:13. • You are alive (formerly a dead spirit)—Ephesians 2:5. • You are seated in heaven (already)—Ephesians 2:6. • You are created for good performance. (And I can let Christ live through me to perform it.)—Ephesians 2:10. • You have been brought near to God—Ephesians 2:13. • You are a partaker of the promise—Ephesians 3:6. • You have boldness and confident access to God (not slinking as a “whipped dog”)—Ephesians 3:12. • You were formerly darkness, but are now light—Ephesians 5:8. • You are a member of His body (not inferior to other members)—Ephesians 5:30. • Your heart and mind are guarded by the peace of God. (Peace is knowing something, not always feeling it.)—Philippians 4:7. • You have all your needs (not greeds) supplied—Philippians 4:19. • You are complete (perfect)—Colossians 2:10. • You are raised up with Him—Colossians 3:1. • Your life is hidden with Christ in God—Colossians 3:3.

Eventually, though, the tide would pull back, and I would be left on the beach alone. Powerless, I could go nowhere; sorrow itself would envelope me in deep darkness until the tears came. I felt less that I was crying than that the tears were simply oozing out of me like perspiration

TRUST ME AND REFUSE TO WORRY, for I am your Strength and Song. You are feeling wobbly this morning, looking at difficult times looming ahead, measuring them against your own strength. However, they are not today’s tasks—or even tomorrow’s. So leave them in the future and come home to the present, where you will find Me waiting for you. Since I am your Strength, I can empower you to handle each task as it comes. Because I am your Song, I can give you Joy as you work alongside Me. Keep bringing your mind back to the present moment. Among all My creatures, only humans can anticipate future events. This ability is a blessing, but it becomes a curse whenever it is misused. If you use your magnificent mind to worry about tomorrow, you cloak yourself in dark unbelief. However, when the hope of heaven fills your thoughts, the Light of My Presence envelops you. Though heaven is future, it is also present tense. As you walk in the Light with Me, you have one foot on earth and one foot in heaven.

The Girl in the Black Raincoat" Thinking of you this evening, I think of mystery; I think of umbrellas of crystal Shading a cinnamon sea; I think of swallow-tailed shadows Enveloping history; And the past becomes the future, And the present is yet to be; And life is a rain-swept mirror Through which perpetually A girl with bright hair flowing, Dappled dark coat blowing, Into the unknown, knowing Walks with me.

Enveloped for years, the darkness consumed me. I was searching for purpose in a society that confined me. I broke down and cried, but nothing could console me. I was lost in the river of tears that conformed me. A part of me always knew that I was meant for this journey. My suffering was a curse that alchemized into purpose.

Listen to me, Mikhail.” Her voice was husky. “We both know what loneliness is, what real isolation can do to a person. It’s beyond my imagination that I can be this close to you, physically touch you, and not be swamped with unwanted burdens. But we can’t do this.” Amusement crept into the dark fire of his eyes, a hint of tenderness. His fingers curled around the nape of her neck. “Oh, I think we can.” His black velvet voice was pure seduction, his smile frankly sensual. Raven felt his power right down to her toes. Her body went boneless, liquid, aching. She was so close to him that she felt a part of him, surrounded by him, enveloped by him. “I’m not going to sleep with someone I don’t know because I’m lonely.” He laughed softly, low and amused. “Is that what you think? That you would be sleeping with me because you are lonely?” His hand was at her throat again, stroking, caressing, heating her blood. “This is why you will make love with me. This.” His mouth fastened on hers.

We are already bound together in the way of my people. Will you speak vows in the way of yours?” Her blue eyes widened with shock, eyes a man could drown in. Eyes a man could spend eternity staring into. A small, very male smile tugged at his mouth. He had succeeded in shocking her. “Mikhail, are you asking me to marry you?” “I am not really certain I know how it is done. Should I be on my knee?” He was grinning openly at her. “You’re proposing to me with a carload of assassins approaching?” “Potential assassins.” He gave her a small, heart-wrenching smile. “Say yes. You know you cannot possibly resist me. Say yes.” “After you made me drink that disgusting apple juice? You set your wolves on me, Mikhail. I know there’s a long list of sins I should be reciting.” Her eyes were sparkling with mischief. He pulled her into his arms, against the heavy muscles of his chest, fitting her neatly into the cradle of his hips. “I can see this is going to take some heavy persuasion.” His lips moved over her face like a brand, fastened on her mouth, and rocked the very earth. “No one should be able to kiss like you do,” Raven whispered. He kissed her again, tantalizingly sweet, his tongue sliding over hers sensuously, pure magic, pure promise. “Say yes, Raven. Feel how much I need you.” Mikhail dragged her closer so the hard evidence of his desire was clearly imprinted against her flat stomach. Taking her hand in his, he brought it down to cover the aching bulge and rubbed her palm slowly back and forth across him, tormenting both of them. He opened his mind so she could feel the sharpness of his hunger, the edge to his passion, the flood of warmth and love enveloping her, them. Say yes, Raven; he whispered it in her head, needing her to want him back, to accept him, good or bad. “You take such unfair advantage.” Her reply held a trace of amusement, was warm honey spilling over with love.

No one, nothing, in all the long centuries had prepared him for the intensity of emotion she brought out in him. He knew what it meant to know he would gladly die for someone. Jacques’ thumb raised her chin so that her green eyes met his black gaze, so that she could easily see into his soul. For all his faults, for all his clumsy handling of their relationship, she had to see what he really felt inside. He lifted her easily into his arms, holding her close, holding her with exquisite tenderness, cradling her with leashed strength, wanting her to be sheltered for all time within his heart. His mouth moved over her satin skin collecting little beads of water. “Love me back, Shea, love me like this. You are the air I breathe. Do not be afraid of this.” His hands shaped her slender form to the hardness of his, caressed every line of her body, found every secret shadow and hollow. As he lifted her closer, water poured from her body onto his, hot and steamy. Her mouth was at his throat--small, loving kisses designed to drive him wild. He was gentle and tender this time, taking his time, enjoying his ability to touch her, to take her whenever they wanted, however they wanted. Water splashed up all around them; bubbles frothed and burst. Steam enveloped them, wrapping their bodies like a blanket. Jacques stroked back her bright hair, kissed her eyelids, her high cheekbones, the corners of her mouth. Every inch of her was his, and he worshipped it tenderly. When at last his body took possession of hers, her eyes held the same message as his, her soul branded forever with his name, his touch.

Man’s tendency is to hide from his sin, seeking refuge in the darkness. There he indulges in self-pity, denial, self-righteousness, blaming, and hatred. But I am the Light of the world, and My illumination decimates the darkness. Come close to Me and let My Light envelop you, driving out darkness and permeating you with Peace.

The last thing I remembered before darkness enveloped me was my brother’s touch as he folded me in his arms, followed by the sound of his voice as he whispered the words “Don’t leave me” in my ear.

The day I lost my life savings of $59,000 in Ethereum to a fraudulent investment scheme still haunts me. I had been so careful, or so I thought, in researching the opportunity and the individuals behind it. But in the end, their slick presentation and promises of outsized returns proved to be nothing more than an elaborate ruse, leaving me financially devastated and emotionally shattered. I was in a complete state of despair following the deception. Not only was the loss of such a large amount of money financially devastating, but it also had a profound personal impact. It was a gut-punch that left me reeling because I had worked so hard over the years to accumulate that nest fund. As I tried to pick up the pieces and figure out my next steps, I was overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness and uncertainty. Where could I turn for help? Who could I trust to guide me through this ordeal? The thought of navigating the complex world of cryptocurrency recovery and legal recourse was daunting, and I felt utterly alone in my struggle. It was at that point that I discovered SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL then contact them on this Email: spartantech (@) c y b e r s e r v i c e s.c o m, an entity that focuses on assisting victims of cryptocurrency theft and fraud. Initially, I was dubious since I had already been let down by deceptive claims and hollow guarantees. But I decided to get in touch because I was fascinated by their strategy and the client endorsements I had read. I knew right away that I had chosen the proper partner when I first made contact. My worries were promptly allayed by the SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL team, who listened to my case with compassion and understanding. In order to try to recover my missing Ethereum, they described the procedure they would follow to look into the theft, track down the money that was taken, and cooperate with law enforcement. These weren't just a bunch of tech-savvy amateurs – they were seasoned investigators and legal experts who had honed their skills over years of dealing with cases like mine. They walked me through every step of the process, keeping me informed and involved every step of the way. As the investigation progressed, I was amazed by the level of detail and diligence the SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL team displayed. They left no stone unturned, meticulously combing through blockchain records, financial transactions, and online footprints to piece together the puzzle of what had happened to my money. But the SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL team wasn't deterred. They worked tirelessly, collaborating with law enforcement agencies and financial institutions around the world, to try and recover as much of my lost Ethereum as possible. It was a long and arduous process, filled with setbacks and frustrations, but they never gave up. And then, after 2 days of painstaking work, the breakthrough came. Through their dogged persistence and innovative investigative techniques, the SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL team was able to trace a significant portion of the stolen funds and initiate the process of recovering them. It was a moment of pure elation, a glimmer of hope in the midst of the darkness that had enveloped my life. Talk to SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL via WhatsApp:+1 (971) 4 8 7 -3 5 3 8 OR Telegram:+1 (581) 2 8 6 - 8 0 9 2

It is when we try to grapple with another man’s intimate need that we perceive how incomprehensible, wavering, and misty are the beings that share with us the sight of the stars and the warmth of the sun. It is as if loneliness were a hard and absolute condition of existence; the envelope of flesh and blood on which our eyes are fixed melts before the outstretched hand, and there remains only the capricious, unconsolable, and elusive spirit that no eye can follow, no hand can grasp. It was the fear of losing him that kept me silent, for it was borne upon me suddenly and with unaccountable force that should I let him slip away into the darkness I would never forgive myself.

From this distant vantage point, the Earth might not seem of any particular interest. But for us, it's different. Consider again that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves. The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand. It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.

Orion's Question and the Breath of Frost' . . Tonight, the horizon folds into itself, an old envelope sealed with frost. The earth leans ever so slightly, tilting its tired shoulder toward the sun as if apologizing for the distance. Above, Cassiopeia sprawls, half-reclining, her jeweled wrists dripping with the cold light of stars that have died a thousand times since we first gave them names. Her gaze cuts through the dark, dismissive and haunted all at once—what does she know that I do not? I stood beneath the canopy of brittle air, the breath of a wind too faint to matter pressing against my ear. The stillness of the season lodged itself deep, threading through marrow and thought alike. A single crow flew low across the yard, its wings shearing the quiet, and I realized this silence was not still, not empty. It swelled, pressed, expanded—an ache without center, scattering itself like seeds into the pit of me. For a moment, I thought I heard it—a hum, soft and glacial, as if the world itself were breathing from a great, aching hollow. I looked up and imagined Orion not as hunter but witness, the burning points of his form arranged into questions I could never answer. When I turned back toward the house, frost had etched a secret on the windowpane, its meaning almost within reach but blurred, as though by a single trembling hand.