Echo Stripes Quotes

He squinted up at the straining muscular backs of the stone men supporing the dome. "You'll have to take me to some museums," he said. He was being the young man on the road, following the sun because gray weather made him suicidal, writing his poetry in his mind in diners and gas station men's rooms across the country. "But I did see a show of Hopper once. And I like his light. It was kind of lonely or something. Or, "The world's a mess, it's in my kiss,' like John and Exene say," he mumbled. We were in a leather store on Market Street being punks on acid with skunk-striped hair and steel-toed boots.

Her laughter sounded like music. “What, you don’t hang out with missionaries in your downtime? When the rest of us go home and slip into sweatpants and T-shirts, you kick back in a polo shirt and khakis.” No one but Isaiah and Beth teased me. People ran from me. Yet this little nymph thoroughly enjoyed this game. “Keep it up, Echo. I’m all about foreplay.” She laughed so loudly, she slapped a hand over her mouth, yet the giggles escaped. “You are so full of yourself. You think because girls swoon over you and let you into their pants on the first try that I’ll follow suit. Think again. Besides, I have your number now. Every time you try to look all dark and dangerous, I’ll picture you wearing a pink striped polo, collar up, and a pair of pleated chinos.”

Then, with a horror of pitiful amazement, she saw a great cross marked in two cruel stripes on his back; and the thoughts that thereupon went coursing through her loving imagination, it would be hard to set forth. Could it be that the Lord was still, child and man, suffering for his race, to deliver his brothers and sisters from their sins? -- wandering, enduring, beaten, blessing still? accepting the evil, slaying it, and returning none? his patience the one rock where the evil word finds no echo; his heart the one gulf into which the dead-sea wave rushes with no recoil -- from which ever flows back only purest water, sweet and cool; the one abyss of destroying love, into which all wrong tumbles, and finding no reaction, is lost, ceases for evermore?

I love the way the rain melts the colors together, like a chalk drawing on the sidewalk. There is a moment, just after sunset, when the shops turn on their lights and steam starts to fog up the windows of the cafés. In French, this twilight time implies a hint of danger. It's called entre chien et loup, between the dog and the wolf. It was just beginning to get dark as we walked through the small garden of Palais Royal. We watched as carefully dressed children in toggled peacoats and striped woolen mittens finished the same game of improvised soccer we had seen in the Place Sainte Marthe. Behind the Palais Royal the wide avenues around the Louvre gave way to narrow streets, small boutiques, and bistros. It started to drizzle. Gwendal turned a corner, and tucked in between two storefronts, barely wider than a set of double doors, I found myself staring down a corridor of fairy lights. A series of arches stretched into the distance, topped with panes of glass, like a greenhouse, that echoed the plip-plop of the rain. It was as if we'd stepped through the witch's wardrobe, the phantom tollbooth, what have you, into another era. The Passage Vivienne was nineteenth-century Paris's answer to a shopping mall, a small interior street lined with boutiques and tearooms where ladies could browse at their leisure without wetting the bustles of their long dresses or the plumes of their new hats. It was certainly a far cry from the shopping malls of my youth, with their piped-in Muzak and neon food courts. Plaster reliefs of Greek goddesses in diaphanous tunics lined the walls. Three-pronged brass lamps hung from the ceiling on long chains. About halfway down, there was an antique store selling nothing but old kitchenware- ridged ceramic bowls for hot chocolate, burnished copper molds in the shape of fish, and a pewter mold for madeleines, so worn around the edges it might have belonged to Proust himself. At the end of the gallery, underneath a clock held aloft by two busty angels, was a bookstore. There were gold stencils on the glass door. Maison fondée en 1826.

Wait in the car." He opened the door and started to climb out. "Hold on! How long should I give you? What if you don't come back in a certain number of minutes? Should I call the cops?" "Don't do anything. Don't call anyone. I'll be fine." "But what if you're not?" "Then go home." And with that, he got out and jogged down the street, like if I heard screams or gunshots or whatever I would just drive on home like nothing happened. Well, good for you, I thought, watching him climb a short cement staircase and put a key in the door. You don't need anyone. Fine. I watched the clock. Three minutes went by, four. I thought about knocking on the door, having of course no idea what I would actually do once I got there. Maybe I'd have to break the door down, wrestle Cameron away from the bad men, and then carry him out the way you hear people when they get a huge burst of adrenaline. Except the person I pictured rescuing was little Cameron, in shorts and a striped T-shirt, his arms wrapped around my neck. Then there he was, bursting out of the apartment door and bounding down the steps, a big garbage bag in hand. He ran to the car, fast. I reached over and opened the passenger door and he jumped in. "Go." You can't exactly peel out in a '94 Escort, but I did my best. Cameron breathed hard, clutching the garbage bag to his chest. "What happened?" I drove a good fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit, convinced we were being chased by angry roommates with guns. "Nothing. You can slow down." I didn't. "Nothing? Nothing happened?" "They weren't even there." Then I did slow down. "No one was there? At all?" "Right." His breathing had returned to almost normal. "Then what's the deal with freaking me out like that?" My voice came out high and hysterical and I realized how nervous I'd been, imagining some dangerous scenario from which Cameron had barely escaped, an echo of that day at his house. "I don't know. I started to picture one of them pulling up and finding me there and...I panicked.

When wise old rat Nicodemus is talking to Mrs Frisby about how they live compared to humans, he says: ‘A rat civilisation would probably never have built skyscrapers, since rats prefer to live underground. But think of the endless subways-below-subways-below-subways they would have had.’ I read that huddled in the story corner of Mrs Pugh’s class, and it felt like fireworks going off in my head. It wasn’t just watermelons but the whole world that could be different. It wasn’t preordained, or immutable or, indeed, even anything special. Just ours. Built and organised for us, by us, developed to serve our needs. I closed the book gently, almost reverently, almost as awed by its power to provide me with such new, previously unthinkable thoughts as I was by the thought itself. Nicodemus, his subways and his skyscrapers are the reason this is still the book I hold up during the periodic rows that break out among adults of a certain stripe about the worthlessness of certain children’s books (and I write this in the full knowledge that I will be coming out, and coming out hard, against Gossip Girl and Stephenie Meyer, but, believe me, I would be going a lot further were it not for Mrs Frisby’s gently restraining paw on my psyche) and assure them that you simply never know what a child is going to find in a book (or a graphic novel, or a comic, or whatever) – what tiny, throwaway line might be the spark that lights the fuse that sets off an explosion in understanding whose force echoes down years. And it enables me to keep, at bottom, the faith that children should be allowed to read anything at any time. They will take out of it whatever they are ready for. And just occasionally, it will ready them for something else.

My energy runs out between one recess and another. as soon as i hear the bell ring i follow with the hubbub. i bounce off the walls. the tongue of an electric bell announcing the breaks between echoes. to know what you shouldn’t know. i stretch out along the stripe inside the bell at least the arc of a circle. but still a stripe on the walls. from the wall’s painted life. i’m getting thinner. no one tells me good night they all greet me good day. in the hallway on the third floor all are full of life maybe the students. saw some little light i’m still. gleaming. i gather fireflies in a plastic bag for phosphorescent paint against rheumatism. sometime in the past a bright light bulb like the stripe of sun. mister and missus parents look through me once i greeted a wall between the walls. in this human body, be. (in english by Diana Manole)

Kids started having their own cameras, en masse, in the 1960s. Kodak Instamatics, which came out in 1963, were inexpensive ($16) and easy to use, durable and small, the perfect size to fit in a child’s pocket or the upper tray of a footlocker on its way to summer camp. The Instagram logo, in a conscious nod, echoes the look of the early Instamatics—a dark stripe on top, metallic on the bottom, with a round flat lens and viewfinder in the middle. The

America, I’ve Given You All and Now I Have Nothing”: September 13, 2024, at 9:32 AM Verse 1: America, I’ve given you all and now I have nothing, Watched the stars and stripes fade, it’s a bitter sting. Once a land of dreams, now shadows in the night, Where did we lose our way, where’s the guiding light? Chorus: America, I’ve given you all and now I have nothing, You’ve lost your soul, but I’ll keep on fighting. I will do my best, to do my duty, To God and my country, for love and for beauty. Verse 2: From the amber waves of grain to the city streets, Echoes of the past, where freedom used to meet. Voices of the fallen, whisper in the wind, Remind us of the promise, where do we begin? Chorus: America, I’ve given you all and now I have nothing, You’ve lost your soul, but I’ll keep on fighting. I will do my best, to do my duty, To God and my country, for love and for beauty. Bridge: In the heartland, where the rivers flow, In the mountains high, where the eagles go. We’ll find our way back, to the land we knew, With faith and hope, we’ll see it through. Chorus: America, I’ve given you all and now I have nothing, You’ve lost your soul, but I’ll keep on fighting. I will do my best, to do my duty, To God and my country, for love and for beauty. Outro: America, I’ve given you all and now I have nothing, But in my heart, I’ll keep on loving. I will do my best, to do my duty, To God and my country, for love and for beauty.

Proud Americans outlaw country gritty defiant [Verse] Stompin' boots on dusty trails, where the thunder rolls, Stars and stripes hang high, in the heartland of our souls, Old-time whiskey in our veins, and the spirit of the free, Riding through the winds of change, it's where we wanna be. [Chorus] We're proud Americans, our hearts beat as one, The time has come, to heal and embrace, So let's stand united, let our voices be heard, Proud Americans, leading the way. [Verse 2] Front porches and pickup trucks, where stories still unfold, From sea to shining sea, we've got so much untold, Mending fences, crossing lines, together we are strong, In the land of milk and honey, where we all belong. [Chorus] We're proud Americans, our hearts beat as one, The time has come, to heal and embrace, So let's stand united, let our voices be heard, Proud Americans, leading the way. [Bridge] Through the trials and pain, we’ve always pulled through, In every small town and city, under skies of blue, With grit and love, in each verse we say, We're fighting for a brighter day. [Verse 3] Guitars strum like battle cries, in the twilight’s golden hue, From the shadows to the spotlight, we sing a country tune, Bonfires light the night, with hope and memories, Echoes of freedom, carried by the breeze.

Byte sighed, and a few clunks echoed from inside the box before its projector appeared. On the glass of the dome, and emitting out into the water, it showed the blonde woman it had before. "You remember her?" "Alys Fairweather, the woman you served before she disappeared." "This was her home." Mira felt her jaw drop open as the droid said that with such ease. "Excuse me?" "This was her home. It was built for her by her father, after she supposedly disappeared. My programming initiative was to tell everyone that she'd died, but we were not programmed to lie well. So I was sent into the ocean because I couldn't keep the secret about... him." Another click and a new image appeared, floating like he was just outside the window. A green finned undine, just like the legends always said. He wasn't nearly as different as Arges, but perhaps he was from a different clan. He certainly looked like he wasn't a deep sea creature. With tiger stripes of green scales that glimmered on his skin, and gills behind his long pointed ears, some along his ribs as well, he was just as massive as Arges but so much softer looking. This new undine pressed his fingers against the glass, and the love in his eyes hurt to look at. He loved her so much. She could see it in his eyes, in the way that he lingered at the window, draping his tail over it as the image of Alys danced through the room. She reached up for him, wiggling her fingers and laughing at the way he shook his head. They were so in love. So very in love. The images faded, and she found her throat had closed up with emotion. Licking her lips, she asked, "So you wanted me to come here? Why?" "I didn't know you would end up here. In her home. But I saw the way you two looked at each other and I couldn't let you go back home without realizing the truth." "What truth?" she croaked. Byte's projector crunched back into the box. "That it was possible for your two to be together. Because I have seen it happen, and I know that it can work. Alys and her undine were together until she was very old. They lived here, and no one bothered them. He was an outcast to his people but he... he loved her. Very much. And she loved him in return." It was possible. They weren't the first. She

The poor, stupid fool,' Williams said, cupping his face with his hands. 'What's that supposed to mean?' Fred asked, his voice defensive. 'What do I mean?' Williams exclaimed, his voice echoing off the rafters. 'What I mean is that you're about as useless as a drunken Frenchman with no thumbs. You're a walking bloody disaster and now you're being put in charge of the Lewis gun section.' 'Captain Elwyn said I was perfect for the role. He said I was just the man for the job,' Fred replied, puffing out his chest with pride. 'Bloody Taffy would be right for the job, why the hell has he given it to you?' 'Because, Taffy never went on that course at the Lewis gun school at Bouchon,' Fred said, smiling smugly. 'You spent half that course drunk and the other half locked up.' 'I still know more about it than, Taffy.' 'I don't want any stripes, you can keep them away from me,' Jones said. 'I should say something,' Williams exclaimed, his voice hesitant.

use this method of airframe shock testing in economic engineering, the prices of commodities are shocked, and the public consumer reaction is monitored. The resulting echoes of the economic shock are interpreted theoretically by computers and the psycho-economic structure of the economy is thus discovered. It is by this process that partial differential and difference matrices are discovered that define the family household and make possible its evaluation as an economic industry (dissipative consumer structure). Then the response of the household to future shocks can be predicted and manipulated, and society becomes a well-regulated animal with its reins under the control of a sophisticated computer-regulated social energy bookkeeping system. “Eventually every individual element of the structure comes under computer control through a knowledge of personal preferences, such know ledge guaranteed by computer association of consumer preferences (universal product code — UPC — zebra-stripe pricing codes on packages) with identified consumers (identified via association with the use of a credit card and later a permanent “tatooed” body number [WC emphasis] invisible under normal ambient illumination.… THE ECONOMIC MODEL “...The Harvard Economic Research Project (1948-) was an extension of World War II Operations Research. Its purpose was to discover the science of controlling an economy: at first the American economy, and then the world economy. It was felt that with sufficient mathematical foundation and data, it would be nearly as easy to predict and control the trend of an economy as to predict and control the trajectory of a projectile. Such has proven to be the case. Moreover, the economy has been transformed into a guided missile on target.