Deep Urban Quotes

We are all susceptible to the pull of viral ideas. Like mass hysteria. Or a tune that gets into your head that you keep humming all day until you spread it to someone else. Jokes. Urban legends. Crackpot religions. Marxism. No matter how smart we get, there is always this deep irrational part that makes us potential hosts for self-replicating information.

Melody exploded. "THIS ISN'T LIKE GETTING A FISH TO SEE IF I COULD BE RESPONSIBLE ENOUGH FOR A PUPPY!" She took a deep breath, calmed herself and lowered her voice. She then repeated the statement as if doing so removed the stink of the outburst. "I'm well aware of that," said Lonnie. "And not to poke it with a stick, but you don't see any puppies sniffing around that empty fish bowl, do you?

Put your mouth on mine, Little Raven. I’m ready for a taste of lemon cake,” he said in a deep and tumbling voice. “Maybe I’m not so sweet,” I whispered, wetting my lower lip with a sweep of my tongue. Logan’s eyes followed every movement, and he licked his lips in response. “I want your mouth… on my mouth. Do it, or else I’ll have to find something else to kiss.

My dad liked to say that magic itself is never black; only the uses to which it is put, but mind magic is already tinted a deep, dark gray.

Soft sun shone down on a misty cathedral at the opposite end of a football-field length courtyard. The cathedral had a long pointed tower with beautiful rose and ivory stained glass windows. Pink-petal flowers and deep green ivy climbed the stones from the ground to it’s roof. A large fountain stood in the middle of the courtyard with water falling from several lion’s heads. Between the misty air and rolling slope of the earth, the grounds reminded me of a long lost fairy tale.

Situations produce vibrations. Negative, potentially harmful situations emit slow vibrations. Positive, potentially life-enhancing situations emit quick vibrations. As these vibrations impact on your energy field they produce either resonance or dissonance in your lower and middle tantiens (psychic power stations) depending on your own vibratory rate at the time. When you psychic field force is strong and your vibratory rate is fast, therefore, you will draw only positive situations to you. When you mind is quiet enough and your attention is on the moment, you will literally hear the dissonance in your belly and chest like an alarm bell going off, urging you from deep within your body to move in such and such a direction. Always follow it. At times these urges may come to you in the form of internally spoken dialogue with your higher self, spirit guide, guardian angel, alien intelligence, however you see the owner of the “still, small voice within.” This form of dialogue can be entertaining and reassuring but is best not overindulged in as, in the extreme; it tends to lead to the loony bin. At times you may receive your messages from “Indian signs”, such as slogans on passing trucks or cloud formations in the sky. This is also best kept in moderation, to avoid seeing signs in everything and becoming terribly confused. Just let it happen when it happens and don’t try looking for it.

Jem gazed up into the proper deep blue he knew well from Dorsetshire, coupled with the vivid green of the roadside grass and shrubs, and found himself smiling at these colors that were so natural and yet shouted louder than any London ribbon or dress.

Even a deep chick like me needed to have a shallow spot somewhere inside.

For a few moments, attune your mind to the idea of harmony and peaceful coexistence flowing among all peoples and nations. The source of this idea is deep within your heart. As you calmly breathe in and out, picture it radiating from you like a fine, colored vapor gradually covering the face of the earth. See it enter the hearts of everyone, especially those stuck in the mad zones. Feel it circulate everywhere until it comes all the way round and back to you. This is love in action. The source of this love is the Tao. Savor this.

You got secrets you better keep Take flight before she cuts you deep - Sam's song

You know how it is -- you get older, you get wiser, you start to ask yourself 'is it any use being able to summon creatures of the nether deeps when I could be watching BBC 4?

While my chosen form of story-writing is obviously a special and perhaps a narrow one, it is none the less a persistent and permanent type of expression, as old as literature itself. There will always be a certain small percentage of persons who feel a burning curiosity about unknown outer space, and a burning desire to escape from the prison-house of the known and the real into those enchanted lands of incredible adventure and infinite possibilities which dreams open up to us, and which things like deep woods, fantastic urban towers, and flaming sunsets momentarily suggest.

He clenched his teeth and muttered, "I can't get deep enough." .... Putting her mouth to his ear, she whispered, "Try.

Urban Indians feel at home walking in the shadow of a downtown building. We came to know the downtown Oakland skyline better than we did any sacred mountain range, the redwoods in the Oakland hills better than any other deep wild forest.

His deep voice rumbled. "You are all that ever mattered to me.

People go on and on about boobs and butts and teeny waists, but the clavicle is the true benchmark of female desirability. It is a fetish item. Without visible clavicles you might as well be a meatloaf in the sexual marketplace. And I don't mean Meatloaf the person, who has probably gotten laid lotsa times despite the fact that his clavicle is buried so deep as to be mere urban legend, because our culture does not have a creepy sexual fascination on the bones of meaty men. Only women. Show us your bones, they say. If only you were nothing but bones.

Ty had never even hinted at this before. It was something Zane had simply considered off-limits. But Ty didn’t waste any time now; he took Zane into his mouth, pushing his head forward to drive Zane’s cock deep into the warmth.

Make me howl, make me scream, Things are never what they seem. Lay me out, end the pain, Now I'll never be the same. Deep inside, there I cry, Yet you still just pass me by. Can't you see, this is me, And I'm Howling! I'm Howling! I'm Howling!

My heart seemed to stop. Garret paused, as if gathering his thoughts, or his courage, then took a deep breath. “I know I’ve made mistakes,” he continued, shaking his head. “But there’s still the chance for me to fix them. I shouldn’t have walked out that night.” His brow creased, a flicker of pain and regret going through his eyes. “Ember, I know you can’t feel what I do,” he said. “I get that. But…I want to be with you. And if that’s not possible, I’ll be content just to be close. Fighting Talon with you and Riley, helping people, saving other dragons from the Order-there is nothing I want more. And nowhere else I want to be.

He appears close to my age. The left half of his face stands out beneath the hood: one side of plump lips, one squared angle of a chin. Two coppery-colored eyes look back at me – bright and metallic. The sight makes me do a double take. As far as he is from the car, I shouldn’t be able to make out the color, yet they glimmer in the shadow of his cape, like pennies catching a flashlight’s glare in a deep well.

I swore as the knife I’d been using to dice our dinner bit into my finger. I dropped it on the floor, blood spattering the counter and cupboard doors a furious red. I watched, mesmerised, as the blood welled up and began to seep down my hand; I tried to catalogue the amount of pain I was in. Surprisingly little, I concluded, pushing at the edges of the wound to see how deep it went. Deep enough. I was starting to feel it now, but it didn’t hurt so much. I’d endured far worse. If it came to it, I could do it. There was comfort in that knowledge.

Releasing her wrist, he raised his shaking hand and brushed disheveled auburn hair back from her face. Her features were relaxed in sleep. Dirt-smudged. Damp with the tears she had shed for him. At his touch, she made a sound somewhere in the back of her throat and snuggled closer with a sigh. He didn't know who she was. He didn't know who he was. But in that moment, he loved her for freeing him. The dog voiced a plaintive whine. Speech still eluding him, he sent feelings of calm to the loyal animal. Then, taking the woman's small, pale hand in his, he tucked it against his chest, pressed his forehead to hers, and succumbed to a deep healing sleep.

If we can give to urban people the peasant's love of nature and their deep understanding on the matter of nature's importance, the salvation of our Earth will be easier!

Miss Amaranthe Illingworth was a deep treasure whose beauties revealed themselves subtly, quietly, with each new observation.

I can think of a few ways I wouldn't mind you taking control." He dropped his voice a few octaves, making his already deep voice even more delicious.

Even now, I don't really understand most of what you're saying but I feel it, deep down, that everything you're saying is true and that I can trust you.

The rapid rise of drug use, which had its beginning in this country about twenty years ago, was not, however, a consequence of the discovery of LSD, as superficial observers often declared. Rather it had deep-seated sociological causes: materialism, alienation from nature through industrialization and increasing urbanization, lack of satisfaction in professional employment in a mechanized, lifeless working world, ennui and purposelessness in a wealthy, saturated society, and lack of a religious, nurturing, and meaningful philosophical foundation of life.

There will always be a small percentage of persons who feel a burning curiosity about unknown outer space, and a burning desire to escape from the prison-house of the known and the real into those enchanted lands of incredible adventure and infinite possibilities which dreams open up to us, and which things like deep woods, fantastic urban towers, and flaming sunsets momentarily suggest.

You have a caller.” “Leah from Little Gifts?” “Yes.” “She came to see me?” “Why does she want to see me?” David’s deep brown eyes danced with suppressed laughter. “Perhaps because she likes your big hands.

When I ask Kim what a capitalist is, he tells me it is someone who is from the city. He says the Khmer Rouge government views science, technology, and anything mechanical as evil and therefore must be destroyed. The Angkar says the ownership of cars and electronics such as watches, clocks, and televisions created a deep class division between the rich and the poor. This allowed the urban rich to flaunt their wealth while the rural poor struggled to feed and clothe their families. These devices have been imported from foreign countries and thus are contaminated. Imports are defined as evil because they allowed foreign countries a way to invade Cambodia, not just physically but also culturally. So now these goods are abolished. Only trucks are allowed to operate, to relocate people and carry weapons to silence any voices of dissent against the Angkar.

I stared up at him, trying to memorize this moment. Every sensation. Making love on a mountain in the moonlight, under the galaxy of tiny lights. Wild and free. And deep inside me my wolf howled, claiming her one true mate.

This is one of the prices that the biological tribesman must pay for becoming an artificial super-tribesman. The only solution is to find a brilliant, rational, balanced, deep-thinking brain housed in a glamorous, flamboyant, self-assertive, colourful personality. Contradictory? Yes. Impossible? Perhaps; but there is a glimmer of hope in the fact that the very size of the super-tribe, which causes the problem in the first place, also offers literally millions of potential candidates.

Take me away to a Deep-wood cabin; Hide me from these Carbon skies. Bring me back my Paper boats; Save me from these Virtual highs. Show me all the Hippie trails; Rid me of these Dollar-sign eyes. Help me recall my Childhood laugh; Make me forget these Urban lies.

Many of the people who regularly feed and cultivate relationships with pigeons are themselves on the fringes of society. They are disconnected from other people due to poverty, limited language skills, or mental illness, but they form deep emotional connections with the birds.

Most citizens of Leo Mega consider the ARK rebels an urban legend—the fable of a community beyond the walls, deep in the jungle, it has been told for the last sixty to eighty years. However, with a recent increase in gossip on the subject, more citizens have been enticed to escape.

Now, I’ve learned over the years that racism exists nationwide—yes, even outside the deep South. But socioeconomic structures in Northern urban areas maintain the ghettos and white supremacy in a mechanical way, so Northern whites have never had to be open, active racists as was true in the South.

Quote from BEAUTIFULLY BROKEN – pgs. 86 -87 “A Kiss”: I went to snatch my hand away, but Trent caught my hand in his, startling me. I looked up to see warmth on his face. His smile held the promise of happiness. He scooted closer and held my gaze for a breath, glanced down. He leaned forward, as if he had no control over his actions. I inhaled his nice, soapy-clean scent, and all coherent thought left my head. His hands gripped my waist and Trent yanked me against him, his mouth covering mine in a deep kiss. The caress of his lips was softer than I’d imagined. An unfamiliar rush of excitement engulfed my senses. My hands wrapped around his neck, fingering his silky tousled hair. His moist lips seared a path from my lips to my neck, igniting a blaze of desire that flooded my skin everywhere his lips and roaming hands touched. Boys had kissed me before, but not like this. Never like this...

Nikolas.” The man’s voice was deep, rough, and familiar. Nikolas’s flare of aggression subsided as he realized the approaching figure was Rhys. “When you weren’t here to greet us, we got worried.” “I ran into a pack of Hounds,” Nikolas replied tersely. Rhys hesitated. “Is everything ok? “They’re dead. I’m not. Situation handled.

He was confronted at an early age with adult-strength realizations about powerlessness, desperation, and distrust, taking his dose right alongside the overwhelmed adults. This steady stream of shocks and realizations leaves so many boys raised in poor, urban areas stumbling toward manhood with a hardened exterior masking deep insecurities.

Look at me, Regina.” She glanced up at him, appearing tiny. He stood almost a foot taller than her in his boots while she wore flats, which looked like ballet shoes. His palms heated and his heartbeat raced. Her scent that had teased him from afar now tormented him up close. God, he wanted to wrap himself in that scent, bury himself deep inside her.

Their space has absolutely nothing in common with that of a stage. When experts pretend that they can see here ‘the beginnings of perspective’, they are falling into a deep, anachronistic trap. Pictorial systems of perspective are architectural and urban – depending upon the window and the door. Nomadic ‘perspective’ is about coexistence, not about distance.

We are all susceptible to the pull of viral ideas. Like mass hysteria. Or a tune that gets into your head that you keep on humming all day until you spread it to someone else. Jokes. Urban legends. Crackpot religions. Marxism. No matter how smart we get, there is always this deep irrational part that makes us potential hosts for self-replicating information.

Aidan ducked his head, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “Damn, you feel good,” he whispered, his deep voice hoarse with need. It only excited her more. “What do you say we forget dinner and the movie?” she whispered, her breath shortening. “How you tempt me,” he rumbled, tightening his hold. “If I tempted you as much as you tempt me,” she pronounced boldly, “we would both be naked right now.

I have spent most of my life outside, but for the last three years, I have been walking five miles a day, minimum, wherever I am, urban or rural, and can attest to the magnitude of the natural beauty that is left. Beauty worth seeing, worth singing, worth saving, whatever that word can mean now. There is beauty in a desert, even one that is expanding. There is beauty in the ocean, even one that is on the rise.

I stared at the spot where [the ghost of] Warwick's nephew had warned me never to tell anyone what I could do, and then I slid my hand into Jacob's and pulled him close. He slipped his other arm around me and held me. I kissed him, and tried to clear my mind of everything but him and me. I looked deep into his eyes, and tried to determine if I was ready to let him in on the one thing I'd been carrying with me since my first round of psychic testing. He started back at me like a man who'd fallen for me, hard. And that part inside, the one that usually tells me to run, or to shut up, or to play along and myself invisible and hopefully whatever I'm dealing with will just go away? That part of me said, /Yes. Tell him./ "I've got more talent than everyone on their payroll put together," I said. Jacob squeezed me tighter. His eyes never moved from mine. "I'm so far beyond level five it's not even funny

A fundamental step in this challenging of structures is to think about new ways for all education stakeholders—particularly those who are not from the communities in which they teach—to engage with urban youth of color. What new lenses or frameworks can we use to bring white folks who teach in the hood to consider that urban education is more complex than saving students and being a hero? I suggest a way forward by making deep connections between the indigenous and urban youth of color.

As the kiss deepened, his tongue brushed against mine. Images blazed in my mind—of a night sky over a desert, the moon hanging like a jewel, and the rush of wind over my body. The feel of his soft lips was transporting me. With a nip of my lower lip, he let out a low noise from deep in his throat—a sound of pleasure and agony in one. Then, he pulled away from the kiss, his black eyes piercing me. I stared at him, catching my breath. “Tell me. Do angels have a weakness?” Specifically, how did an angel end up murdered in a river? “Of course we do. Everyone has a weakness.” He leaned down, his mouth close to my ear as he whispered, “mortal women.

Landsman is a tough guy, in his way, given to the taking of wild chances. He has been called hard-boiled and foolhardy, a momzer, a crazy son of a bitch. He has faced down shtarkers and psychopaths, he has been shot at, beaten, frozen, burned. He has pursued suspects between the flashing walls of urban firefights and deep into bear country. Heights, crowds, snakes, burning houses, dogs schooled to hate the smell of a policeman, he has shrugged them all off or functioned in spite of them. But when he finds himself in lightless or confined spaces, something in the animal core of Meyer Landsman convulses. No one but his ex-wife knows it, but Detective Meyer Landsman is afraid of the dark.

The specialized sciences (sociology, political economy, history, human geography) have proposed a number of ways to characterize “our” society, its reality and deep-seated trends, its actuality and virtuality. Terms such as “industrial and postindustrial society,” “the technological society,” “the society of abundance,” “the leisure society,” “consumer society,” and so on have been used. Each of these names contains an element of empirical or conceptual truth, as well as an element of exaggeration and extrapolation. Instead of the term “postindustrial society”—the society that is born of industrialization and succeeds it—I will use “urban society,” a term that refers to tendencies, orientations, and virtualities, rather than any preordained reality.

The temperature was in the nineties, and on hot nights Chicagoans feel the city body and soul. The stockyards are gone, Chicago is no longer slaughter-city, but the old smells revive in the night heat. Miles of railroad siding along the streets once were filled with red cattle cars, the animals waiting to enter the yards lowing and reeking. The old stink still haunts the place. It returns at times, suspiring from the vacated soil, to remind us all that Chicago had once led the world in butcher-technology and that billions of animals had died here. And that night the windows were open wide and the familiar depressing multilayered stink of meat, tallow, blood-meal, pulverized bones, hides, soap, smoked slabs, and burnt hair came back. Old Chicago breathed again through leaves and screens. I heard fire trucks and the gulp and whoop of ambulances, bowel-deep and hysterical. In the surrounding black slums incendiarism shoots up in summer, an index, some say, of psychopathology. Although the love of flames is also religious. However, Denise was sitting nude on the bed rapidly and strongly brushing her hair. Over the lake, steel mills twinkled. Lamplight showed the soot already fallen on the leaves of the wall ivy. We had an early drought that year. Chicago, this night, was panting, the big urban engines going, tenements blazing in Oakwood with great shawls of flame, the sirens weirdly yelping, the fire engines, ambulances, and police cars – mad-dog, gashing-knife weather, a rape and murder night, thousands of hydrants open, spraying water from both breasts.

I was debating what I might have in my deep glassy lake to use—Barrons had slurped down my crimson runes like truffles—when Ryodan called down, “Let her up.” I tipped my head back. The urbane owner of the largest den of sex, drugs, and exotic thrills in the city stood behind the chrome balustrade, big hands closed on the chrome railing, thick wrists cuffed by silver, features darkened by a convenient shadow. He looked like a scarred Gucci model. Whatever kind of life these men had lived before they’d become whatever they were, it had been violent and hard. Like them. “Why?” Lor demanded. “I said so.” “Not time for the meeting yet.” “She wants to see her parents. She’s going to insist.” “So?” “She thinks she has something to prove. She’s feeling pushy.” “Gee, this is nice. I don’t even have to talk,” I purred.

How rude of me, we haven’t even introduced ourselves. We’re the Andersons. I’m Evan, the lovely size-zero lass in the floppy sun hat is my wife Amy, and these are our best friends/children, Evan and Amy Jr. As you can see, we’re very fit and active. You know what our family’s average percentage of body fat is? Three. Yes, really. We got it tested last year when we all became organ donors. You may have noticed that I’m carrying Amy on my back. We do that a lot. At least once a day, and not just when we’re in fields like this; we do it on beaches and in urban environments as well. That’s what happens when your love is deep and playful like ours. You should also know that we also dab frosting on each other’s noses every single time we eat cupcakes, which is both mischievous and very us. Do you guys even eat cupcakes?

That's my little piece of heaven. Go ahead." Ciro followed Remo through the open door to a small enclosed garden. Terra-cotta pots positioned along the top of the stone wall spilled over with red geraniums and orange impatiens. An elm tree with a wide trunk and deep roots filled the center of the garden. Its green leaves and thick branches reached past the roof of Remo's building, creating a canopy over the garden. There was a small white marble birdbath, gray with soot, flanked by two deep wicker armchairs. Remo fished a cigarette out of his pocket, offering another to Ciro as both men took a seat. "This is where I come to think." "Va bene," Ciro said as he looked up into the tree. He remembered the thousands of trees that blanketed the Alps; here on Mulberry Street, one tree with peeling gray bark and holes in its leaves was cause for celebration.

By the 1950s, most Republicans had accommodated themselves to New Deal–era health and safety regulations, and the Northeast and the Midwest produced scores of Republicans who were on the liberal end of the spectrum when it came to issues like conservation and civil rights. Southerners, meanwhile, constituted one of the Democratic Party’s most powerful blocs, combining a deep-rooted cultural conservatism with an adamant refusal to recognize the rights of African Americans, who made up a big share of their constituency. With America’s global economic dominance unchallenged, its foreign policy defined by the unifying threat of communism, and its social policy marked by a bipartisan confidence that women and people of color knew their place, both Democrats and Republicans felt free to cross party lines when required to get a bill passed. They observed customary courtesies when it came time to offer amendments or bring nominations to a vote and kept partisan attacks and hardball tactics within tolerable bounds. The story of how this postwar consensus broke down—starting with LBJ’s signing of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and his prediction that it would lead to the South’s wholesale abandonment of the Democratic Party—has been told many times before. The realignment Johnson foresaw ended up taking longer than he had expected. But steadily, year by year—through Vietnam, riots, feminism, and Nixon’s southern strategy; through busing, Roe v. Wade, urban crime, and white flight; through affirmative action, the Moral Majority, union busting, and Robert Bork; through assault weapons bans and the rise of Newt Gingrich, gay rights and the Clinton impeachment—America’s voters and their representatives became more and more polarized.

We are all susceptible to the pull of viral ideas. Like mass hysteria. Or a tune that gets into your head that you keep on humming all day until you spread it to someone else. Jokes. Urban legends. Crackpot religions. Marxism. No matter how smart we get, there is always this deep irrational part that makes us potential hosts for self-replicating information. But being physically infected with a virulent strain of the Asherah virus makes you a whole lot more susceptible. The only thing that keeps these things from taking over the world is the Babel factor - the walls of mutual incomprehension that compartmentalize the human race and stop the spread of viruses. Babel led to an explosion in the number of languages. That was part of Enki's plan. Monocultures, like a field of corn, are susceptible to infections, but genetically diverse cultures, like a prairie, are extremely robust.

Deep underground, microbes turn half a century's worth of city waste into methane. The gases and leachate are extracted through an extensive network of subterranean pipes and then used to power 22,000 nearby homes. While 150 million tons of garbage gradually decomposes unseen below the surface, above ground, the former dump reverts to meadows, woodland and saltwater marshes, providing a haven for wildlife and a massive park for the people of New York. This is Fresh Kills in the 2020s. In 2001, the infamous landfill received its last, and saddest, consignments - the charred debris of the World Trade Center. Since then, it has been transformed into a 2,315-acre public park. Three times bigger than Central Park, it is the largest new green public space created within New York City for over a century, a mixture of wildlife habitats, bike trails, sports fields, art exhibits and playgrounds. This is poisoned land: fifty years' worth of landfill has killed for ever one of the city's most productive wetland ecosystems. Restoration is impossible. Instead, a brand new ecosystem is emerging on top of the toxic garbage

The river twists and turns to face the city. It looms suddenly, massive, stamped on the landscape. Its light wells up around the surrounds, the rock hills, like bruise-blood. Its dirty towers glow. I am debased. I am compelled to worship this extraordinary presence that has silted into existence at the conjunction of two rivers. It is a vast pollutant, a stench, a klaxon sounding. Fat chimneys retch dirt into the sky even now in the deep night. It is not the current which pulls us but the city itself, its weight sucks us in. Faint shouts, here and there the calls of beasts, the obscene clash and pounding from the factories as huge machines rut. Railways trace urban anatomy like protruding veins. Red brick and dark walls, squat churches like troglodytic things, ragged awnings flickering, cobbled mazes in the old town, culs-de-sac, sewers riddling the earth like secular sepulchres, a new landscape of wasteground, crushed stone, libraries fat with forgotten volumes, old hospitals, towerblocks, ships and metal claws that lift cargoes from the water. How could we not see this approaching? What trick of topography is this, that lets the sprawling monster hide behind corners to leap out at the traveller? It is too late to flee.

He collapsed half on top of her, too wrung out to move, his lungs working like bellows, his heart thundering, pounding. Gradually, it slowed. Sensation, muted awareness returned, enough to register the gentle stroking of her hand, the soothing touch calming, strangely claiming. He wanted to find his sophisticated armor and put it back on-before he faced her, before she saw... Before he could move, she did; turning her head to his, pushing back the damp hair from the side of his face, she touched her lips to his jaw, then, her lips curving sleepily, touched those swollen lips to the corner of his. "Thank you." The words were a sigh, the softest of feminine exhalations. "That was...thrilling. And...so very fine." He nearly humphed. Fine? The intensity had damned hear killed him, and she labeled the moment "fine?" She fell back, fully relaxed on her back in the bed. After a moment, he turned his head and looked at her. Studied the madonnalike expression that had claimed her face, the bliss that infused her features. He filled his lungs, then managed to summon sufficient strength to disengage and lift from her. Slumping on his back alongside her, he stared up at the ceiling, but there were no hints or clues written there. For the first time in his extensive career, he didn't feel, even now, in control. He felt...exposed. Uncertain. Not his usual polished, urbane, somewhat boredly smug self. Yet he was the one who was supposedly used to this, accustomed to all the nuances. Who knew all the appropriate moves to make, and when to make them. She...he glanced at her again, at her face. Hesitated, then gave into impulse and reached for her. Drawing her to him, he pulled the covers over them, then settled her against them, cradled within his arm, her head pillowed on his chest. She made a humming sound, then her limbs eased against him. He dipped his head, placed a kiss on her forehead. "Sleep." He felt her lips curve, but she didn't reply. Instead she slid her hand up, curling her fingers against the side of his throat, and relaxed into his arms. Inexplicably satisfied now as well as sated, he closed his eyes. And found slumber waiting, dreamless and deep.

Oh, my," said Nerissa, when she could speak. Juliet, smiling, murmured, "Would you just look at her." "I don't think we can help but look at her," murmured an urbane voice, and gasping, all three women turned to see Lucien standing in the doorway, arms crossed and his black eyes gleaming in the candlelight. He lifted his hand.  "Turn around, my dear," he said, giving a negligent little wave.  Her eyes huge, Amy slowly did as he asked, staring down at herself in awe and disbelief.  The gown, an open-robed saque of watered silk, shimmered with every movement, a vibrant purplish-blue in this light, a vivid emerald-green in that.  Its robed bodice open to show a stomacher of bright yellow satin worked with turquoise and green embroidery, it had tight sleeves ending in treble flounces just behind the elbow, which, combined with the chemise's triple tiers of lace, made Amy feel as though she had wings.  She smoothed her palms over the flounced and scalloped petticoats of royal blue silk, and then, with impulsive delight, threw back her head on a little laugh, extended her arms and spun on her toe, making gauzy sleeves, shining hair, and yards upon yards of shimmering fabric float in the air around her. Hannah, who did not think such behavior was quite appropriate, especially in front of a duke, frowned, but Lucien was trying hard to contain his amusement.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd made anyone so happy, and it touched something deep inside him that he'd long thought dead.  He exchanged a look of furtive triumph with Nerissa. "Oh!  Is it really me?" Amy breathed, reverently touching her sleeve and then raising wide, suddenly misty eyes to her small audience. "It is really you," Juliet said, smiling. "Only someone with your coloring could wear such bold shades and make them work for instead of against you," said Nerissa, coming forward to tie a black ribbon around Amy's neck.  "Lud, if I tried to wear those colors, I daresay they would overwhelm me!" "Speaking of overwhelmed . . ."  Amy turned to face the man who still lounged negligently in the doorway, his fingers trying, quite unsuccessfully, to rub away the little smile that tugged at his mouth.  "Your Grace, I don't know how to thank you," she whispered, dabbing away one tear, then another.  "No one has ever done anything like this for me before and I . . . I feel like a princess." "My dear girl.  Don't you know?"  His smile deepened and she saw what was almost a cunning gleam come into his enigmatic black eyes.  "You are a princess.  Now dry those tears and if you must thank me, do so by enjoying yourself tonight." "I will, Your Grace." "Yes," he said, on a note of finality.  "You will." And

Mister, I understand why you hate Indians and Tories so.” “Well now, you’re a fair-minded duchess. Just been led astray, I reckon.” “But Rising Hawk was only a baby when those terrible things happened. You can’t blame him.” “A Indian’s a Indian, sis. I seen firsthand what they’re capable of. Don’t try and fool yourself. It comes natural to them. That fella’s done plenty of evil.” “No, he hasn’t. He’s probably the kindest human being I’ve ever known, excepting Polly Gunn.” Lawson’s face softened a little at the mention of Polly. Nonetheless, he took her arm in silence and made her walk on. “Please, please let me go. Even if he isn’t bleeding now, he’s sick and weak, and what happens if a bear or a panther finds him there?” “Then that’ll be one less savage to worry about.” “Let me go! You have no rights over me. You’re probably breaking the law. You broke the law shooting Rising Hawk. That was no accident, was it? You shot him on purpose.” She twisted suddenly and bit the filthy hand holding her. She ran and was off the road and deep into a pine grove before he caught up and knocked her to the ground. He had his foot on her back before she knew she was down. “I oughta knock your teeth out for that. I will, if you try that again, you little hellcat. And don’t talk to me about no damn law. I know all about rights. Here’s rights for you. I’m bigger than you, I run faster than you, and I got a gun. Them’s my rights.” Despite her pain and fatigue, Livy struggled furiously to get up. But he held her down until the rage passed out of her and she lay still. Then he let her up and tied her hands again, preaching all the while. “What you do not understand, child, is that a white woman who lives with savages of her own volition is lower than one of them Indian girls. And a white woman who breeds with them is lower than a whore even. You are a nice little girl and too young to know the damage you are doing. I am saving you from yourself.

Do you think he’s married, Gideon?” Trembling, she took a long drink from the jug before handing it back. “No. Even if he didn’t love you, which he does, he’s young. Seneca don’t marry young.” He stared into the fire, looking solemn. Livy lifted her hand for the pipe, and he passed it without a word. “How do you know he loves me?” It was strange how easily she could ask that question. Up to now, just using the word love had made her feel as if she’d gone naked to church. It was probably the darkness that made her bold. “I know my brother. He never stays here for more than a month. He’s always afraid I’ll ask him to help me with the farming. Something had to be keeping him. I never thought it might be you.” Livy stared into the fire a long while. He passed her the jug. “I blame myself,” he said. “For what?” “For everything. All of it. For you and Rising Hawk, for this,” he pointed to his eye patch. “For…Polly. I shouldn’t have beaten Eph. That’s what started the trouble. I wasn’t raised to it, and it felt wrong from start to finish. When it comes to figuring the right path, I’m a blind bear in the woods. Sometimes I think being educated by Father Clairemont was a curse. When all I knew was the Seneca way, I never had to make so many decisions. Now, looking at both sides of everything has got to be a habit, and it slows me down. The only good that came of it was Polly.” He took the jug from her hand and gulped. “Never, never, never do anything that goes against your gut, Deliverance.” “That doesn’t work. If I’d gone with inclination, I wouldn’t have stepped into that canoe. It was my head made me do it, to spite you.” She lifted her hand for a drink, but he shook his head. “You’ve had enough, child. You’re getting philosophical.” “T’aint fair. You’re just mad ’cause I’m right. When I first met you, I thought you were the lowest creature I ever saw, and I was sure Rising Hawk was evil incarnate. That was trained into me, but it felt like gut, and it turned out to be wrong.” “You were scared of everything then.” “Yes, I was,” she said, taking a deep draw on the pipe. “Only one thing scares me now.” “What’s that?” “That I’m crazy and will never get these thoughts of Rising Hawk out of my head.

Just a moon ago, at dawn, I was drunk. Very drunk. I wasn’t thinking of you. You were the last thing on my mind. I was trying to get up from where I lay on the riverbank without falling in. I couldn’t tell the water from the sky. I was seeing two skies and two rivers and knew that if I took a wrong step I would probably drown, and I was deciding whether or not that would be a bad thing. The next thing I knew I was in the center of the river on that flat rock you used to sit on, and I looked up into the sky, and suddenly my vision cleared. I knew that you wanted me back. I knew, at that moment, we were both seeing into your heart.” She didn’t tell him that was probably the morning the baby came, but he saw her struggle and her resignation and her surprise. There’s no real reason for this, she thought. There’s no good reason. I can’t believe such nonsense, but it happened. I don’t know my own mind even now when he’s standing right in front of me, so dear, so beautiful, and much too good. Much too good. Why can’t I have his faith? Rising Hawk watched her face, and he began to believe that if he could just touch her, kiss her the way he had on the trail, she would give in. But then she said, “Rising Hawk. Would you do something for me?” Her voice suggested some new torment. His vulnerable expression fled. He wasn’t going to be made to look like a fool. Not even by Livy, no matter how dear she was to him. He thought about the winter. She made him laugh. Most of the time, she made him happy. They all believed she still had him bewitched. Maybe she did. Against his better judgment and his gut feeling, he felt himself nod yes. She took a deep breath. “Turn around and walk away.” “What?” “Turn around and walk away.” She had done all the thinking she could. By itself it held no answers. This was her last chance. “That’s what you want?” “Yes.” His next words had to fight their way out. His teeth were set like a bear trap. “I don’t know why I love you. It never makes any sense to me. Nothing about you does.” He turned. Livy watched him walk away. His familiar stride, the way he held his head, and the slight limp helped her remember the trail, their strange journey, and the gunshot. It’s not fair, she told herself as the pain of seeing him walk away one last time took hold of her. “It’s not enough,” she said aloud in an angry sob that rose in her throat and nearly choked her next words. “But I can’t help it. I can’t, and I don’t care anymore. I don’t care. Rising Hawk, wait!” she called, and broke into a run. He slowed at the sound of her voice and looked over his shoulder. The old smile returned to his face, gentle, mocking, assured. He didn’t wait for her to reach him, but turned to meet her halfway.

Rising Hawk. Would you do something for me?” Her voice suggested some new torment. His vulnerable expression fled. He wasn’t going to be made to look like a fool. Not even by Livy, no matter how dear she was to him. He thought about the winter. She made him laugh. Most of the time, she made him happy. They all believed she still had him bewitched. Maybe she did. Against his better judgment and his gut feeling, he felt himself nod yes. She took a deep breath. “Turn around and walk away.” “What?” “Turn around and walk away.” She had done all the thinking she could. By itself it held no answers. This was her last chance. “That’s what you want?” “Yes.” His next words had to fight their way out. His teeth were set like a bear trap. “I don’t know why I love you. It never makes any sense to me. Nothing about you does.” He turned. Livy watched him walk away. His familiar stride, the way he held his head, and the slight limp helped her remember the trail, their strange journey, and the gunshot. It’s not fair, she told herself as the pain of seeing him walk away one last time took hold of her. “It’s not enough,” she said aloud in an angry sob that rose in her throat and nearly choked her next words. “But I can’t help it. I can’t, and I don’t care anymore. I don’t care. Rising Hawk, wait!” she called, and broke into a run. He slowed at the sound of her voice and looked over his shoulder. The old smile returned to his face, gentle, mocking, assured. He didn’t wait for her to reach him, but turned to meet her halfway.

Then comes September and the sun tilts to the south. Yes, autumn in New York: the great song of the city and the great season. Not just for the relief from the brutal extremes of winter or summer, but for that glorious slant of the light, that feeling that in certain moments lances in on that tilt—that you had been thinking you were living in a room and suddenly with a view between buildings out to the rivers, a dappled sky overhead, you are struck by the fact that you live on the side of a planet—that the great city is also a great bay on a great world. In those golden moments even the most hard-bitten citizen, the most oblivious urban creature, perhaps only pausing for a WALK sign to turn green, will be pierced by that light and take a deep breath and see the place as if for the first time, and feel, briefly but deeply, what it means to live in a place so strange and gorgeous.

Carol built her cabin in the wilderness for many of the same reasons as Thoreau, who went to the woods “to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could learn what it had to teach, and not, when I come to die, discover that I had not lived.” Like Thoreau, Carol was a student of nature and a geographical extension of the wilderness that surrounded her. Both explored a life stripped down to its essentials. They wanted “to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.” Thoreau believed wilderness provided a necessary counterbalance to the materialism and urbanization of industrialized America. It was a place of self-renewal and contact with the raw material of life. “In wildness is the preservation of the world,” he famously wrote. Thoreau was among the first to advocate for protecting America’s vanishing wildlands, proposing that the nation formally preserve “a certain sample of wild nature . . . a network of national preserves in which the bear and the panther may still exist and not be civilized off the face of the earth.” Wilderness preserves could provide a perpetual frontier to keep overindustrialized Americans in contact with the primitive honesty of the woods. In 1872—the same year that Tom and Andy founded Carnegie Steel—America designated its first national park: over two million acres in northwest Wyoming were set aside as Yellowstone National Park. A second national park soon followed, thanks to the inspiration of Sierra Club founder John Muir. He so loved the Sierra that he proposed a fifteen-hundred-square-mile park around Yosemite Valley and spent decades fighting for it. When Yosemite National Park was finally signed into law in 1890, Muir

Her thoughts drifted to Fintan. His voice was deep and so captivating that she wondered if he used it on purpose. Almost like a weapon, but one of silk and seduction instead of steel and blood.

Once outside, the man stopped, lifted his head, took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, as if the air smelled wonderful to him. Then he turned to Jimmy, his expression hard and serious. "We will need an army." "Uh, I don't exactly have one of those handy.

The contrasts between traditional multigenerational cultures and today's North American society are striking. In modern urbanized North America — and in other industrialized countries where the American way of life has become the norm — children find themselves in attachment voids everywhere, situations in which they lack consistent and deep connection with nurturing adults. There are many factors promoting this trend. One result of economic changes since the Second World War is that children are placed early, sometimes soon after birth, in situations where they spend much of the day in one another's company. Most of their contact is with other children, not with the significant adults in their lives. They spend much less time bonding with parents and adults. As they grow older, the process only accelerates. Society has generated economic pressure for both parents to work outside the home when children are very young, but it has made little provision for the satisfaction of children's needs for emotional nourishment. Surprising though it may seem, early childhood educators, teachers, and psychologists — to say nothing of physicians and psychiatrists—are seldom taught about attachment.

Sit down,” she ordered, nodding toward her bed. He cast it an uncertain look. “I can’t. I’ll stain the covers.” She stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?” He sported deep wounds that bled profusely and he was concerned about staining her bedding? “Perhaps if I cleaned up a wee bit—” “Sit your ass down,” she ordered, pointing at the queen-sized bed. Eyebrows flying up, he sat so swiftly she almost laughed.

My cheeks burned, and the creature in front of me laughed, a deep, dark sound, filled with mirth and a touch of madness. This one was dangerous. My fae part told me to get as far away from it as possible, for this was what fae were before. This one was ancient, and he was playing with me.

I was more interested in going deep than in going wide.

James Aka, a Mississauga resident, adores the city's architecture, from the sleek lines of its modern buildings to the historical charm of its landmarks. Passionate about urban design, James explores Mississauga's diverse architectural landscape with enthusiasm, finding beauty and inspiration in every structure. As an avid photographer, he captures the city's skyline from different angles, showcasing its dynamic evolution. James actively engages in discussions about urban planning and preservation, advocating for sustainable development while honoring the city's heritage. With a deep appreciation for the unique character of Mississauga's built environment, James celebrates its architectural diversity and contributes to shaping its future with his keen eye and passionate advocacy.

People go on and on about boobs and butts and teeny waists, but the clavicle is the true benchmark of female desirability. It is a fetish item. Without visible clavicles you might as well be a meatloaf in the sexual marketplace. And I don’t mean Meatloaf the person, who has probably gotten laid lotsa times despite the fact that his clavicle is buried so deep as to be mere urban legend, because our culture does not have a creepy sexual fixation on the bones of meaty men. Only women. Show us your bones, they say. If only you were nothing but bones. America’s monomaniacal fixation on female thinness isn’t a distant abstraction, something to be pulled apart by academics in women’s studies classrooms or leveraged for traffic in shallow “body-positive” listicles (“Check Out These Eleven Fat Chicks Who You Somehow Still Kind of Want to Bang—Number Seven Is Almost Like a Regular Woman!”)—it is a constant, pervasive taint that warps every single woman’s life. And, by extension, it is in the amniotic fluid of every major cultural shift.

Cowboy's Neon Dream"** Stompin' through the city with my boots and hat, Got that country soul, no denying that. The skyline's bright but it can't outshine, The cowboy spirit that's min [Verse] Stompin' through the city with my boots and hat, Got that country soul, no denying that. The skyline's bright but it can't outshine, The cowboy spirit that's mine, all mine. [Verse 2] In the honky-tonk, I found my scene, Where neon lights ignite my cowboy dream. Steel guitars and fiddles fill the air, A country heart in a world that’s rare. [Chorus] City lights try to take my joy, But they can't shake this cowboy's ploy. Underneath the urban gleam, I'm livin' a cowboy's neon dream. [Verse 3] From the high-rise windows to the crowded bars, I ride the concrete range, chasing stars. Through the winding streets where dreams collide, I wear my country pride, deep inside. [Bridge] Even when the city's loud, My spirit stays unbowed. With every step, I hold the line, This urban cowboy’s life is fine. [Chorus] City lights try to take my joy, But they can't shake this cowboy's ploy. Underneath the urban gleam, I'm livin' a cowboy's neon dream.

Author Marta Vannucci speculated that Demeter, with a different name, must have been a historical person who came to Attica in the seventh or sixth century BCE from the matriarchal cultures of southern India, carrying with her the secrets of hexaploid wheat, the grain from which bread is made. Vannucci’s article appeared in the Annals of the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute, a journal so obscure that when I found it, I wondered if it might be a Borgesian fiction implanted deep in JSTOR by mischievous scholars.

I could almost feel the distance between us pulling taut like bands meant to snap back together.

If you need to run, run. But we can fix things too.

Betrayal can make you do ridiculous things.

He'd seen me at my absolute worst. Yet here he was, staring at me like he never wanted to look anywhere else again. It made absolutely no sense.

Serial killers don't start out as one.

market research survey in Myanmar– AMT Market Research Myanmar, a nation in Southeast Asia that is rapidly developing, presents numerous business opportunities for both domestic and foreign businesses. However, it is essential to gain a comprehensive understanding of the environment before making strategic business decisions due to the unique socio-economic landscape, consumer behavior, and market conditions. AMT Market Research serves as a reliable partner in this regard, providing Myanmar market research surveys that are comprehensive and insightful. Why market research survey in Myanmar Is Important Myanmar's economic structure is undergoing significant change due to increased foreign investment, a growing middle class, and rapid urbanization. However, there are difficulties associated with this expansion. Businesses need to know a lot about the local market because of the country's diverse population, changing regulatory landscape, and changing consumer preferences. In Myanmar, crucial insights into customer requirements, preferences, and purchasing patterns can be gleaned from a well-conducted market research survey. It helps businesses navigate challenges unique to this region, comprehend market trends, and identify potential growth opportunities. When it comes to conducting surveys for market research survey in Myanmar, AMT Market Research stands out as a leading name. AMT is the ideal partner for businesses seeking actionable insights because it has a team of highly skilled professionals and years of experience and is well-versed in the complexities of the Myanmar market. Services Provided by AMT Market Research Consumer Behavior and Insights: AMT focuses on gaining an understanding of consumer behavior by collecting information about preferences, purchasing patterns, and the factors that influence decision-making processes. Companies that want to tailor their products or services to local demand need to know this. Methods for Entering the Market: AMT provides invaluable information regarding competitors, market size, and potential obstacles for businesses wishing to enter the Myanmar market. You can come up with a solid plan for entering and thriving in the local market thanks to their research. Specific Industry Research: AMT conducts industry-specific market research surveys in Myanmar for businesses in the manufacturing, healthcare, telecom, and retail sectors, among other industries. This aids businesses in comprehending the industry-specific opportunities and threats as well as the competitive landscape. Positioning and Perception of the Brand: It's important to know how your brand is seen in Myanmar. Businesses can use the insights gained from AMT surveys to improve their market positioning by increasing brand awareness, customer loyalty, and satisfaction. Solutions for Personalized Research: AMT provides individualized research solutions based on your particular requirements. AMT tailors its research methods to provide the most pertinent and actionable data, regardless of whether you're looking for qualitative insights, quantitative data, or a combination of the two. What Attracts You to AMT Market Research? Local Knowledge: AMT Market Research is well-equipped to provide insights that really matter because they have a deep understanding of Myanmar's particular market dynamics. Complete Information: Because their surveys aim to cover every facet of the market, you'll get a comprehensive picture of the opportunities and challenges. Relevant Insights: AMT's data is more than just numbers and figures; it also contains meaningful insights that can guide business strategies and decisions. Timely and dependable reports: AMT's reputation for timely, accurate, and comprehensive reports will keep you ahead of the competition in the Myanmar market. Businesses looking to establish or expand their presence in Myanmar's emerging market must conduct a market research survey. Y

I want to eat you alive, he wanted to say. I want to sink into you and stay. God, how did this happen so fast? He was dizzy with it, with Jake's passion, his laugh, his growl, the deep brown eyes that darkened with hunger when they looked at him. Brandon shivered and wrapped his arms around Jake's neck to hold on tight.

Kiss me good." Jordan went on tiptoe and kissed him with everything she had. His mouth mashed against hers just as greedily, tongues tangling, hearts beating wildly against each other. The embrace of his arms tightened, and he lifted her. She didn't need a stupid floor with him near. Together they could fly. "Bow chicks wow wow," said another voice.

The nightmare was shaped like a goddess - a beauty with a body curved to incite reckless sinning. She wore an angry pout that he knew would burn his mouth. She had hair like snow and eyes as cold and fathomless as the deepest reaches of space. How like a nightmare to seduce and terrify at the same time.

Who the fuck is the Sandman?" Still ludicrous. A fairy tale. Mirren crossed her legs and shifted in her seat. Elvis winked at him from her breasts. "It's not like I've met Him. My father never invited Him over to dinner. He's ---" she took a deep breath and did a lazy little wave of her hand, as if searching for the right words "-- the power that dominates Darkside. Pure creation.

Laughter gurgled up from inside her. She'd just mugged a mugger. Look out, world.

It can't be more than a quarter of a mile to the finish, but it seems to go on forever. Do I really have to do this? My legs are entirely dead. Would it really matter if I stopped here? But I know I'd regret it if I did, so I plod leadenly on, distracting myself...with the thought that, whatever troubles I may have been carrying around in my head before the race, I have now entirely forgotten what they were. This thought is rather refreshing. Whatever physical pains it has involved, this ordeal has utterly absorbed me, forcing my brain to focus on the kind of concerns for which it evolved - navigation, survival, balance, digging deep - rather than on the fretful urban anxieties to which it has become habituated. Reconnecting with your inner animal, I suppose you could call it; and it feels good. Especially when, blissfully, I catch sight of the finish.

Blue fabric was draped along the walls, and although there were no windows, tiny spheres of light were suspended to illuminate intricately embroidered flowers and trees. The effect was like a summer day, even though we were deep in the hillside.

None of us asked for this life. I, of all people should know that our paths were chosen for us and we were just along for the ride, doing what was necessary and expected. There were far greater forces at work here. He was playing my heartstrings, which sang a sad melody I felt deep in my soul. For the first time, I could see him for who and what he was now. Even the worst incarnations of evil could change, and from this point forward, I would try to honor that. He was willing to put his life back in the line of fire to help me, and at the very least, he deserved my respect for that. Maybe even a second chance.

The fact that ghosts are real doesn't surprise me-I've always been a believer in that area. It's the realization that there may be something out there, something most can't see, that is able to kill.

It's okay to be afraid, Jo. It's what keeps us alive. But falling to that fear is what will get you killed.

It's evil, Jo. It exists in all forms of life and death.

Safe? What can be classified as safe? Everything we do in life has a risk. Just getting out of bed each morning can be dangerous. It's not a matter of what is safe, Cooper, it's a matter of what are you going to allow to hold you back." I look down at him over my shoulder and smile. "You going to let some squeaking metal hold you back?

Herbs, vials, and crap," I grumble. "Where are the massive weapons and spirit fighting spears?" "So impatient," Cooper says, mocking, and goes to pick up a tube filled with powder. "You know, these herbs and vials and crap are important." "Yes, because crap always sounds necessary.

So much for a great opening speech, that sucker done tucked tail and is hiding in the deepest part of my brain, sucking its thumb.

Mrs. Fritz is wearing her favorite purple, floral dress today. Her deep-set eyes are offset, as usual, by her purple eyeglasses and her almost-explosive frizzy hair. “Those are good examples. Do you all want to hear what my favorite urban legend is?” We nod. “It’s the one about the grandchildren who actually call to say thanks when you send them birthday presents.” We stare at her.

contrast, people living right on the edge of farmland are understandably eager to see the end of farming that is noisy, smelly and messy, even if it’s all an essential part of a farmer’s livelihood — and even if the farm was there long before their subdivisions were. But deep in the public gut is a feeling that farmland is a community resource, not just a commodity, and one day we all might have to depend on our own local farms to supply a lot more of our food. Fields used for export crops and animals today are our insurance against food insecurity tomorrow. It’s a primal, practical instinct to protect ourselves against food shortages, however disconnected that might be from the reality of what’s being produced on farms on the edges of our cities. That might be horses, Christmas trees, ornamental shrubs, flowers, or produce and livestock for export — all completely unrelated to what we are eating today, but grown on land that could feed us tomorrow if we really needed it.

Sixth, show a deep acquaintance with the same books, magazines, blogs, movies, and plays — as well as the daily life experiences — that your audience knows. Mention them and interpret them in light of Scripture. But be sure to read and experience urban life across a spectrum of opinion. There is nothing more truly urban than showing you know, appreciate, and digest a great diversity of human opinion. During my first years in New York, I regularly read The New Yorker (sophisticated secular), The Atlantic (eclectic), The Nation (older, left-wing secular), The Weekly Standard (conservative but erudite), The New Republic (eclectic and erudite), Utne Reader (New Age alternative), Wired (Silicon Valley libertarian), First Things (conservative Catholic). As I read, I imagine dialogues about Christianity with the writers. I almost never read a magazine without getting a scrap of a preaching idea.

The heady scent of him filled her nostrils, that particular blend of salt and sea and musk that was his alone. Just the smell of him made the blood rush to her core; the feel of his strong arms, the sweet taste of his mouth made her whole body pulse with need and longing. Marcus made a groaning noise deep in his throat and started to pull away. "Don't you dare," she breathed in his ear. "If you stop kissing me, I'll... I'll bite you.

When we wake, it’s officially Christmas Eve.” “Good. Because I have something special to give you.” She turned over her shoulder and cocked an eyebrow. “Thought you just did.” He chuckled, a deep and throaty sound. “Something else.