Exit Sign Quotes

I lost the plot for a while then. And I lost the subplot, the script, the soundtrack, the intermission, my popcorn, the credits, and the exit sign.

I'm a happy person. If you want to be around me, you can either choose to be happy too, or follow the signs to the nearest exit!

It’s true, and I was really hideous as a preteen. Tall and gawky. I used to bump my head into everything. Still do sometimes. (Kat) You are my daughter. (Acheron) Sure I am, I can’t imagine you ever being uncoordinated. (Kat) Oh, I assure you I’ve nailed quite a few signs with my forehead. It’s a wonder ‘Exit’ isn’t permanently imprinted right between my eyes. (Acheron)

I think a lot about killing myself, not like a point on a map but rather like a glowing exit sign at a show that’s never been quite bad enough to make me want to leave. See, when I’m up I don’t kill myself because, holy shit, there’s so much left to do. When I’m down I don’t kill myself because then the sadness would be over, and the sadness is my old paint under the new. The sadness is the house fire or the broken shoulder: I’d still be me without it but I’d be so boring.

In Case of Demonic Possession, Please Follow Illuminated Signs to the Nearest Exit

I raise my head and see a red illuminated EXIT sign and as my eyes adjust I see tigers, cavemen with long spears, cavewomen wearing strategically modest skins, wolfish dogs. My heart is racing and for a liquor-addled moment I think Holy shit, I've gone all the way back to the Stone Age until I realize that EXIT signs tend to congregate in the twentieth century.

No moon in sight, so I howled at the exit sign instead.

I think a lot about killing myself, not like a point on a map but rather like a glowing exit sign at a show that’s never been quite bad enough to make me want to leave.

A huge smile spread across Jen's face."Ahh that was a good one." She turned back to the crowed and yelled again."Rewind. We're going to party like it's 2009, New Year’s Eve. If you're curious as to how awesome a party that was, please see me, Jacque or Sally. Sally's version will be much more accurate, and also free of any important inappropriate details." Before she could say anything else, a large hand wrapped around the microphone and pulled it from Jen's grasp. Decebel handed it to Jacque as he growled at his mate and pulled her away.All the while Jen was telling him exactly how much she didn't appreciate him getting all up in her kool aide. She finished by telling him that, once again, she was going to shove her foot where an ‘Exit Only’ sign should be.

no was a bad word in my hone no was met with the lash erased from our vocabulary beaten out of our backs till we became well-behaved kids who obediently nodded to yes to everything when he climbed on top of me every part of my body wanted to reject it but i couldn't say no to save my life when i tried to scream all that escaped me was silence i heard no pounding her fist on the roof of my mouth begging to let her out but i had not put up the exit sign never built the emergency staircase there was no trapdoor for no to escape from i want to ask all the parents and guardians a question what use was obedience then when there were hands that were not mine inside me - how can i verbalize consent as an adult if i was never taught to as a child

Blitzen clapped my shoulder. "Good luck, kid. I'll be waiting at the exit to pull you out. Unless Hearth needs backup..." He glanced at the elf as if hoping for more details besides I have it covered. Hearthstone signed, I have it covered.

Are you saying the Sleeper left behind Horcruxes?" Aru demanded. "Yeah, I didn't sign up for a Horcrux hunt," said Rudy, looking for the exit.

But not everything is normal. After all, there's no indictation that religion exits here. Granted, I've only been at camp for a day, so maybe I just need to be patient. However, so far there have been no calls for prayer and no public sermons. I haven't seen anything that indicates which god — if any— these people believe in. The only signs of religion that I have seen are the few religious items that people wear on themselves. Other than that, it's as though God doesn't exist.

The amazing thing about a long journey is that you can miss exits, run Stop signs, head the wrong way down a one-way street, get lost, misplace your keys, find them, make a U-turn, and still, somehow, miraculously reach your proper destination.

They called you brave when you went limping through your life, as if the very difficulty of it were a sign of moral courage or valour. But there was nothing noble in suffering. There was nothing brilliant or good about the failed endeavour to exit one’s life.

A slime-mold enthusiast told me about a test he had performed. He frequently got lost in IKEA stores and would spend many minutes trying to find the exit. He decided to challenge his slime molds with the same problem and built a maze based on the floor plan of his local IKEA. Sure enough, without any signs or staff to direct them, the slime molds soon found the shortest path to the exit. “You see,” he said with a laugh, “they’re cleverer than me.

So you are tired of your life, young man! All the more reason have you to live. Anyone can die. A murderer has moral force enough to jeer at his hangman. It is very easy to draw the last breath. It can be accomplished successfully by a child or a warrior. One pang of far less anguish than the toothache, and all is over. There is nothing heroic about it, I assure you! It is as common as going to bed; it is almost prosy. Life is heroism, if you like; but death is a mere cessation of business. And to make a rapid and rude exit off the stage before the prompter gives the sign is always, to say the least of it, ungraceful. Act the part out, no matter how bad the play. What say you?

Someone has already taken out a Minolta cellular phone and called for a car, and then, when I'm not really listening, watching instead someone who looks remarkably like Marcus Halberstam paying a check, someone asks, simply, not in relation to anything, "Why? " and though I'm very proud that I have cold blood and that I can keep my nerve and do what I'm supposed to do, I catch something, then realize it: Why? and automatically answering, out of the blue, for no reason, just opening my mouth, words coming out, summarizing for the idiots: "Well, though I know I should have done that instead of not doing it, I'm twenty-seven for Christ sakes and this is, uh, how life presents itself in a bar or in a club in New York, maybe anywhere, at the end of the century and how people, you know, me, behave, and this is what being Pat rick means to me, I guess, so, well, yup, uh..." and this is followed by a sigh, then a slight shrug and another sigh, and above one of the doors covered by red velvet drapes in Harry's is a sign and on the sign in letters that match the drapes' color are the words THIS IS NOT AN EXIT.

...Our conversation with the supermarket manager had been about as helpful as a New Jersey road sign, and if you've ever been there, you know the signs don't tell you the exit you're coming up to, they only point out the exits you've just missed. It puts parents in very foul moods--and since you're probably there to visit relatives, their mood was pretty touch and go to begin with.

Sign I wrote on the inside of a brick wall: This is not an exit. This is a wall. Though if you get a long running start, and really throw your shoulder into it, I’m sure you could get out this way.

I turned to leave and was exiting the gates when I heard the sound of feet running quickly along the gravel behind me. I turned and saw Alexei, who showed no sign of slowing down, so I opened my arms and he ran into them, embracing me tightly, his arms wrapped around my neck as I lifted him off the ground. "I wanted you to know," he said, his voice choked up as if he was trying to stop himself from crying, "I wanted you to know that you can be my brother if you like. As long as you let me be yours.

Doc fell in to a car convoy, moving slowly, single lane through the fog. He figured if he missed the Gordita Beach exit, he'd take the first one whose sign he could read and work his way back on surface streets. He knew that at Rosecrans, the freeway began to dogleg east, and at some point, Hawthorne Boulevard or Artesia,he'd lose the fog, unless it was spreading tonight, and settled in region wide... Maybe then it would stay this way for days, maybe he'd have to just keep driving, down past Long Beach, down through Orange County, and San Diego and across a border where nobody could tell anymore in the fog who was Mexican, who was Anglo, who was anybody. Then again, he might run out of gas before that happened, and have to leave the caravan, and pull over on the shoulder, and wait. For whatever would happen. For a forgotten joint to materialize in his pocket. For the CHP to come by and choose not to hassle him. For a restless blonde in a Stingray to stop and offer him a ride. For the fog to burn off, and for something else this time, somehow, to be there instead.

neon sign in red letters EXIT TO HELL…A walks under the arch….she seems not to notice where she is going….Just as the angels are preparing to carry the arch away B makes a desperate dash at it and dives through. Everything blacks out… What happens when you start the downward trip?...Of course there isn’t a hope of ever getting out again into the light. Once you’re on your way down, the machinery takes charge of you, you’re caught, trapped, finished for good and all…you might just as well give in and pluck the cruel thorn of hope out of your heart.

It strikes me that EXIT signs would look to a native speaker of Latin like red-lit signs that say HE LEAVES.

I am sick with fear of people leaving, so I hold the door wide open. exit signs flashing. palms gesturing. see, I say. See, I knew you would walk away.

Well, not just that. I’m looking for the exit, but I can’t find any exit signs. I had to go back down. There was no choice. But bad shit happened.

In October, political advertisements bloom on all the signboards and at the interstate exits. If there is a space, there is a sign. They will stay there long after the elections, in fact until storms batter them down. Candidates are supposed to take them down the day after the election, but I have yet to see that happen. Half the candidates are too happy to bother; the others are too depressed.

Where was the “exit” sign? Why did they make it so difficult to get out of shopping center parking lots? You’d done your shopping—they weren’t going to get any more money out of you. What was their objective here?

They leave the insistent monotony of the interstate for more reasonable roads. While the former slices its path through entire states, peppering them with exit signs and mile markers, these lesser cousins of the grand highways keep their manners intact, clinging gently to the hemlines of all but the most obstinate geological points of interest. Charming and sometimes a bit frightening, their paths are as unpredictable and winding as a little boy's route home from school.

For Connor it’s not about stupidity, or even rebellion—it’s about feeling life. Sitting on this ledge, hidden behind an exit sign is where he feels most comfortable. Sure, one false step and he’s roadkill. Yet for Connor, life on the edge is home.

closed was one sign he could read by himself, along with Stop, Exit, Pizza, and a few others.

Above one of the doors covered by red velvet drapes in Harry's is a sign and on the sign in letters that match the drapes' color are the words THIS IS NOT AN EXIT.

But the engine started, eventually, after a bunch of popping and churning, and then it idled, wet and lumpy. The transmission was slower than the postal service. She rattled the selector into reverse, and all the mechanical parts inside called the roll and counted a quorum and set about deciding what to do. Which required a lengthy debate, apparently, because it was whole seconds before the truck lurched backward. She turned the wheel, which looked like hard work, and then she jammed the selector into a forward gear, and first of all the reversing committee wound up its business and approved its minutes and exited the room, and then the forward crew signed on and got comfortable, and a motion was tabled and seconded and discussed. More whole seconds passed, and then the truck slouched forward, slow and stuttering at first, before picking up its pace and rolling implacably toward the exit gate.

You’re not gonna believe what just happened to me,” Jase says the minute I flip my cell open, taking advantage of break at the B&T. I turn away from the picture window just in case Mr. Lennox, disregarding the break sign, will come dashing out to slap me with my first-ever demerit. “Try me.” His voice lowers. “You know how I put that lock on the door of my room? Well, Dad noticed it. Apparently. So today, I’m stocking the lawn section and he comes up and asks why it’s there.” “Uh-oh.” I catch the attention of a kid sneaking into the hot tub (there’s a strict no-one-under-sixteen policy) and shake my head sternly. He slinks away. Must be my impressive uniform. “So I say I need privacy sometimes and sometimes you and I are hanging out and we don’t want to be interrupted ten million times.” “Good answer.” “Right. I think this is going to be the end of it. But then he tells me he needs me in the back room to have a ‘talk.’” “Uh-oh again.” Jase starts to laugh. “I follow him back and he sits me down and asks if I’m being responsible. Um. With you.” Moving back into the shade of the bushes, I turn even further away from the possible gaze of Mr. Lennox. “Oh God.” “I say yeah, we’ve got it handled, it’s fine. But, seriously? I can’t believe he’s asking me this. I mean, Samantha. Jesus. My parents? Hard not to know the facts of life and all in this house. So I tell him that we’re moving slowly and—” “You told him that?” God, Jase! How am I ever going to look Mr. Garret in the eye again? Help. “He’s my dad, Samantha. Yeah. Not that I didn’t want to exit the conversation right away, but still . . .” “So what happened then?” “Well, I reminded him they’d covered that really thoroughly in school, not to mention at home, and we weren’t irresponsible people.” I close my eyes, trying to imagine having this conversation with my mother. Inconceivable. No pun intended. “So then . . . he goes on about”—Jase’s voice drops even lower—“um . . . being considerate and um . . . mutual pleasure.” “Oh my god! I would’ve died. What did you say?” I ask, wanting to know even while I’m completely distracted by the thought. Mutual pleasure, huh? What do I know about giving that? What if Shoplifting Lindy had tricks up her sleeve I know nothing about? It’s not like I can ask Mom. “State senator suffers heart attack during conversation with daughter.” “I said ‘Yes sir’ a lot. And he went on and on and on and all I could think was that any minute Tim was gonna come in and hear my dad saying things like, ‘Your mom and I find that . . . blah blah blah.’” I can’t stop laughing. “He didn’t. He did not mention your mother.” “I know!” Jase is laughing too. “I mean . . . you know how close I am to my parents, but . . . Jesus.

Where is this place our baby bodies sprinted towards even when we were holding still for as long as possible? Flight gave birth to birth. Fragment genius comes down to this                    heaven of ass thwack, the miracle of taking it the miracle of sweet good girl best girl good girl finally made it               made it home We don’t always know where this place is. We stumble looking for the light switch, the exit sign.

One is ejected into the world like a dirty little mummy; the roads are slippery with blood and no one knows why it should be so. Each one is traveling his own way and, though the earth be rotting with good things, there is no time to pluck the fruits; the procession scrambles toward the exit sign, and such a panic is there, such a sweat to escape, that the weak and the helpless are trampled into the mud and their cries are unheard.

It’s the only unique building on the isle, painted twenty different colors with topsy-turvy architecture and a sign that reads SLURPS AND BURPS: YOUR MERRY APOTHECARY. The door also belches when people enter or exit. And the inside of the store is a veritable maze of shelves filled with colorful vials in all different shapes and sizes, labeled with names like Fuzzy Fizz and Hush Slush. It also tends to smell of burning hair or dirty feet or some other strange byproduct of Kesler’s constant experiments—and all of this “quirkiness” is intentional. Kesler has made it abundantly clear that he designed the store specifically to make “the stuffy nobles” uncomfortable.

On September 16, in defiance of the cease-fire, Ariel Sharon’s army circled the refugee camps of Sabra and Shatila, where Fatima and Falasteen slept defenselessly without Yousef. Israeli soldiers set up checkpoints, barring the exit of refugees, and allowed their Lebanese Phalange allies into the camp. Israeli soldiers, perched on rooftops, watched through their binoculars during the day and at night lit the sky with flares to guide the path of the Phalange, who went from shelter to shelter in the refugee camps. Two days later, the first western journalists entered the camp and bore witness. Robert Fisk wrote of it in Pity the Nation: They were everywhere, in the road, the laneways, in the back yards and broken rooms, beneath crumpled masonry and across the top of garbage tips. When we had seen a hundred bodies, we stopped counting. Down every alleyway, there were corpses—women, young men, babies and grandparents—lying together in lazy and terrible profusion where they had been knifed or machine-gunned to death. Each corridor through the rubble produced more bodies. The patients at the Palestinian hospital had disappeared after gunmen ordered the doctors to leave. Everywhere, we found signs of hastily dug mass graves. Even while we were there, amid the evidence of such savagery, we could see the Israelis watching us. From the top of the tower block to the west, we could see them staring at us through field-glasses, scanning back and forth across the streets of corpses, the lenses of the binoculars sometimes flashing in the sun as their gaze ranged through the camp. Loren Jenkins [of the Washington Post] cursed a lot. Jenkins immediately realized that the Israeli defense minister would have to bear some responsibility for this horror. “Sharon!” he shouted. “That fucker [Ariel] Sharon! This is Deir Yassin all over again.

But Galen hasn’t been responsible in looking for road signs since this conversation first started. Even now, another exit-maybe theirs-zooms by them. He’s in a bit of awe of human drivers who seem to be able to conduct all sorts of business while driving. Apparently, Galen isn’t capable of carrying on simple conversations while watching for road signs. The worst part is, they should be reaching their exit any time now. But then again, Galen hasn’t been able to drive the speed limit. Every time he gets up to speed, Grom tenses up and scowls at him until he slows down. Old people. Abruptly, Galen sees their exit and takes it. He slows down to a crawl around the curve, which appears to irritate the driver behind him. But the driver behind him doesn’t have hundreds of years left to put up with Grom.

Just an exit, and here, wonderfully, a young man in an old man’s mustache, holding a sign lettered SR. ESS. Less raises his hand, and the man takes his luggage. Inside the sleek black car, Less finds his driver speaks no English. Fantastico, he thinks as he closes his eyes again.

In summer months, the concrete gets so blisteringly hot, instructors have to hose it down so the recruits won’t singe their hands doing push-ups. The Grinder is where SEAL graduations are held and where, like a constant taunt, the SEAL exit bell hangs. A famous sign is also there: THE ONLY EASY DAY WAS YESTERDAY.

Ass up is our best position No one could have told us              we never would’ve believed that someday we would kneel in this place, worshipped We use each other’s raw bodies to remind ourselves how to pray.   Where is this place our baby bodies sprinted towards even when we were holding still for as long as possible? Flight gave birth to birth. Fragment genius comes down to this                    heaven of ass thwack, the miracle of taking it the miracle of sweet good girl best girl good girl finally made it               made it home We don’t always know where this place is. We stumble looking for the light switch, the exit sign. Can we really just relax? When does this get pulled away? Did we finally make it home? Queer grief is a blueprint. We got this shit wired tight.

About five miles back I had a brush with the CHP. Not stopped or pulled over: nothing routine. I always drive properly. A bit fast, perhaps, but always with consummate skill and a natural feel for the road that even cops recognize. No cop was ever born who isn't a sucker for a finely-executed hi-speed Controlled Drift all the way around one of those cloverleaf freeway interchanges. Few people understand the psychology of dealing with a highway traffic cop. Your normal speeder will panic and immediately pull over to the side when he sees the big red light behind him ... and then he will start apologizing, begging for mercy. This is wrong. It arouses contempt in the cop-heart. The thing to do – when you're running along about 100 or so and you suddenly find a red-flashing CHP-tracker on your tail – what you want to do then is accelerate. Never pull over with the first siren-howl. Mash it down and make the bastard chase you at speeds up to 120 all the way to the next exit. He will follow. But he won't know what to make of your blinker-signal that says you're about to turn right. This is to let him know you're looking for a proper place to pull off and talk ... keep signaling and hope for an off-ramp, one of those uphill side-loops with a sign saying "Max Speed 25" ... and the trick, at this point, is to suddenly leave the freeway and take him into the chute at no less than 100 miles an hour. He will lock his brakes about the same time you lock yours, but it will take him a moment to realize that he's about to make a 180-degree turn at this speed ... but you will be ready for it, braced for the Gs and the fast heel-toe work, and with any luck at all you will have come to a complete stop off the road at the top of the turn and be standing beside your automobile by the time he catches up. He will not be reasonable at first ... but no matter. Let him calm down. He will want the first word. Let him have it. His brain will be in a turmoil: he may begin jabbering, or even pull his gun. Let him unwind; keep smiling. The idea is to show him that you were always in total control of yourself and your vehicle – while he lost control of everything.

As they headed to the exit, Jimmy kept his eyes peeled for the security guard but saw no one. He wondered if Weston had been faking the call, just to get rid of them. He thought about the classic signs of lying he remembered from his training: the long pauses, the throat clearing, the face rubbing. She’d displayed them all. ‘Did you believe her,’ he said, ‘that she’s just a colleague?’ ‘Did I fuck,’ Carrie said. Some people didn’t need the training.

Naming (“christening,” “deeming”) is more than a performative moral act; it is linguistic and aesthetic as well. Identifying the emergence and establishment of anti-sacrificial moral practices will take on a form distinctive to a particular social order; the consolidation of the originary “belief” or gesture should therefore be represented in ways that make it inseparable from the entirety of that order. Naming commemorates earlier establishments of practices of deferral, and by enhancing the self-referentiality of the social order as a whole makes it impossible to think outside of that order. It should be kept in mind that all social orders do this—orders in the liberal tradition simply deny they are doing so, and therefore do it haphazardly and in violent fits and starts. Every social order, however small or transient, develops its own “idiom,” because any exchange of signs involves the respective participants taking up the words, phrases and expressions of the others for both phatic purposes and as a “multiplier” of meanings—if I repeat what another has said with slight changes in wording and tone, I not only say what I have said, but create a complex relationship between what I have said and what the other has said (and whatever others he was responding to have said—and left unsaid), a relationship that remains largely tacit but all the more difficult to shake or exit for that very reason.

By becoming pregnant, I’d unsuspectingly signed up for a club that I couldn’t cancel the membership to. The rules of the club were that one must smile and nod politely while being force-fed graphic information about a billion little nasty things that would most definitely happen in the near future. Politely backing away from those conversations would’ve been nice, but I discovered no exit. Attempts to flee led to strangers following me, clutching at my arms. “No wait, no wait, let me tell you the worst part about what happened next…” they’d plead, with horrified joy in their eyes. So I learned to wait it out and take in the stories with a smile plastered across my face.

To be a software developer was to run the rest stops off the exits and to make sure that all the fast-food and gas station franchises accorded with each other and with user expectations; to be a hardware specialist was to lay the infrastructure, to grade and pave the roads themselves; while to be a network specialist was to be responsible for traffic control, manipulating signs and lights to safely route the time-crunched hordes to their proper destinations. To get into systems, however, was to be an urban planner, to take all of the components available and ensure their interaction to maximum effect. It was, pure and simple, like getting paid to play God, or at least a tinpot dictator.

driving through the park I notice men and women playing golf driving in their powered carts over billiard table lawns, they are my age but their bodies are fat their hair grey their faces waffle batter, and I remember being startled by my own face scarred, and mean as red ants looking at me from a department store mirror and the eyes mad mad mad I drive on and start singing making up the sound a war chant and there is the sun and the sun says, good, I know you, and the steering wheel is humorous and the dashboard laughs, see, the whole sky knows I have not lied to anything even death will have exits like a dark theatre. I stop at a stop sign and as fire burns the trees and the people and the city I know that there will be a place to go and a way to go and nothing need ever be lost.

You who came of age in the past decade have had eight years of a Black U.S. president, and that gloss looked good, and there were even a few inches gained on some issues such as health care, and maybe that can cause a person to relax a bit. But think of how exponentially drone attacks increased under Obama, how many Black people were shot by police under Obama, because the violence is systemic. How many of the people now hearteningly pledging to sign up for a Muslim registry signed up for a Black Lives Matter or protested the discriminatory immigration program NSEERS? The National Security Entry-Exit Registration System subjected my students from the Middle East to hours of interrogation and intimidation every time they reentered after going home to visit their families, arbitrarily barred tons of innocent people from entry, and was ineffective against terrorism anyway. It's systemic injustice we are after changing, and we should not ever be lulled.

To summarize my ORB Strategy: After I build my watchlist in the morning, I closely monitor the shortlisted stocks in the first five minutes after the Open. I identify their opening range and their price action. How many shares are being traded? Is the stock jumping up and down or does it have a directional upward or downward movement? Is it high volume with large orders only, or are there many orders going through? I prefer stocks that have high volume, but also with numerous different orders being traded. If the stock has traded 1 million shares, but those shares were only ten orders of 100,000 shares each, it is not a liquid stock to trade. Volume alone does not show the liquidity; the number of orders being sent to the exchange is as important. The opening range must be significantly smaller than the stock’s Average True Range (ATR). I have ATR as a column in my Trade Ideas scanner. After the close of the first five minutes of trading, the stock may continue to be traded in that opening range in the next five minutes. But, if I see the stock is breaking the opening range, I enter the trade according to the direction of the breakout: long for an upward breakout and short for a downward move. My stop loss is a close below VWAP for the long positions and a break above VWAP for the short positions. My profit target is the next important technical level, such as: (1) important intraday daily levels that I identify in the pre-market, (2) moving averages on a daily chart, and/or (3) previous day close. If there was no obvious technical level for the exit and profit target, I exit when a stock shows signs of weakness (if I am long) or strength (if I am short). For example, if the price makes a new 5-minute low, that means weakness, and I consider selling my position if I am long. If I am short and the stock makes a new 5-minute high, then it could be a sign of strength and I consider covering my short position. My strategy above was for a 5-minute ORB, but the same process will also work well for 15-minute or 30-minute ORBs.

He cannot will his entry into and exit from the activity on a daily basis. There is not, as there is for most workers, a brief interval of exemption at the end of the day when he is permitted to enact a wholly different set of gestures; the timing of his eventual exit will by determined not by his own will but by the end of the war, whether that comes in days, months, or years, and there is of course a very high probability that even when the war ends he will never exit from it. Although in all forms of work the worker mixes himself with and eventually becomes inseparable from the materials of his labor (an inseparability that has only its most immediate sign the residues which coat his body, the coal beneath the skin of his arm, the spray of grain in his hair, the ink on his fingers), the boy in war is, to an extent, found in almost no other form of work, inextricably bound up with the men and materials of his labor: he will learn to perceive himself as he will be perceived by others, as indistinguishable from the men of his unit, regiment, division, and above all national group (all of whom will share the same name: he is German) as he is also inextricably bound up with the qualities and conditions – berry laden or snow laden - of the ground over which he walks or runs or crawls and with which he craves and courts identification, as in the camouflage postures he adopts, now running bent over parallel with the ground it is his work to mime, now arching forward conforming the curve of his back to the curve of a companion boulder, now standing as upright and still and narrow as the slender tree behind which he hides; he is the elms and the mud, he is the one hundred and sixth, he is a small piece of German terrain broken off and floating dangerously through the woods of France. He is a fragment of American earth wedged into an open hillside in Korea and reworked by its unbearable sun and rain. He is dark blue like the sea. He is light grey like the air through which he flies. He is sodden in the green shadows of earth. He is a light brown vessel of red Australian blood that will soon be opened and emptied across the rocks and ridges of Gallipoli from which he can never again become distinguishable.

I turned and entered the airport with my escort. Suddenly, I had a horrible realization: in order to return to the flight line I needed to move through a modern international airport complete with metal detectors and X-ray machines and I had a loaded pistol in my fanny pack. And, because of the ongoing civil war, security was beefed up and the guards were extra wary. Before we reached the first checkpoint, I pretended that I needed to use the restroom and told my escort to go on ahead. I needed to think. One option was to drop my pistol in a trash can and exit the airport, later claiming I lost the gun somehow. The lost-gun option had serious flaws. I couldn’t ditch my pistol because I had signed it out by serial number. Police could easily trace the gun back to me. My personal interpretation of the, “no weapons” order would probably not be an effective defense at my court marshal. My other option was to try and sneak through the airport onto the flight line, somehow avoiding a gauntlet of security checkpoints. This was the ninja option. This daunting course of action was fraught with serious danger. If guards confronted me and caught me with a loaded pistol I knew I would not have a pleasant day. There was no telling where that situation would lead; there was a real possibility I could spend time in a Yemeni prison. Despite the risks I decided on the ninja option. I figured I might have one slim advantage. Maybe the guards would remember me coming through the airport from the flight-line side with the embassy official and not pay me much attention. I was sweating bullets as I approached the first checkpoint. I tried to act casual and confident, not furtive and suspicious like a criminal. I waited until the guard looked away, his attention elsewhere and boldly walked behind him past the checkpoint. When I approached the X-ray and metal detectors I strode right past the line of people, bypassing the machines. I had to play it that way. I could not hang out near the detectors waiting for guards to look the other way and then sneak past; there were just too many. As I brazenly strode around each checkpoint I feared to hear a sudden barked command, rushing feet behind me, and hands spinning me around to face angry guards with drawn weapons. The last part of my mission to get on the airfield was tricky and nerveracking. Imagine being at an American airport in the gate area where people board the airplanes. Then imagine trying to sneak out a Jetway or access door without being stopped. I remembered the door I had used to enter the terminal and luckily it was unlocked. I picked my moment and quickly slipped out the door onto the airfield. I boldly strode across the airfield, never looking behind me until I reached my plane. Finally, I turned and looked back the way I came and saw … nothing. No one was pursuing me. I was in the midst of an ongoing civil war, surrounded by fresh bomb craters and soldiers carrying soviet rifles, but as scary situations go, so far Tiger Rescue was a relaxing walk in the park compared to Operation Ninja Escape.

Windows of homes and office complexes left streaks of yellow in her peripheral vision as she sped past. Headlights glared and flickered from the opposite lane of the road, drivers warning her to stay on her side, to stop veering the pick-up, to stay awake, to stop at red lights. She ignored them. They did not understand that there were no signs on the freeway to help her as they helped them, no Ramp Exit sign navigating her with the words EXIT 3A: ANSWERS, 1/2 MILE. They did not understand that she talked to herself while she drove in order to set things straight just as much as to stay awake. They did not understand that the traffic lights were red with rage and not with warning. Brakes don't work along the road to Hell.

Ha! little honour to be much believed, And most pernicious purpose! Seeming, seeming! I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for't: Sign me a present pardon for my brother, Or with an outstretch'd throat I'll tell the world aloud What man thou art. ANGELO Who will believe thee, Isabel? My unsoil'd name, the austereness of my life, My vouch against you, and my place i' the state, Will so your accusation overweigh, That you shall stifle in your own report And smell of calumny. I have begun, And now I give my sensual race the rein: Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite; Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes, That banish what they sue for; redeem thy brother By yielding up thy body to my will; Or else he must not only die the death, But thy unkindness shall his death draw out To lingering sufferance. Answer me to-morrow, Or, by the affection that now guides me most, I'll prove a tyrant to him. As for you, Say what you can, my false o'erweighs your true. Exit ISABELLA To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, Who would believe me? O perilous mouths, That bear in them one and the self-same tongue, Either of condemnation or approof; Bidding the law make court'sy to their will: Hooking both right and wrong to the appetite, To follow as it draws! I'll to my brother: Though he hath fallen by prompture of the blood, Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour. That, had he twenty heads to tender down On twenty bloody blocks, he'ld yield them up, Before his sister should her body stoop To such abhorr'd pollution. Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die: More than our brother is our chastity. I'll tell him yet of Angelo's request, And fit his mind to death, for his soul's rest. Exit From Measure for Measure, Act II, Scene IV

Calvin, can I speak to my brother in private?" The Admiral looked at Steven, who nodded. He stood and bowed to them before exiting the room. "You need to show a little more respect, Mitch," Steven said. "He's an Admiral in-" "Frig that, Steve. And frig you, too. The Alliance set me up and sold me out, and yet I'm the one still desperately fighting to save our people? Me and a crew of incarcerated soldiers? Grab your crotch and make sure your balls are still there." "Mitch-" "Shut up, Steve. Look, I left out part of my story. When I was on Hell, I entered this virtual world the Tetron call a Construct. Origin left something for me in there. I don't know what it is, but according to it the other Tetron don't know it exists, and it's important enough that it can help us with the war effort." "You don't know what it is?" "No. But I know where it is. They etched the coordinates into my memory." "It altered your memory? Why didn't it implant the memory of what it was?" "Come on, Steve. This is advanced alien tech, how the frig do I know why it works the way it does? The point is, it's out there, and it will help. If Goliath doesn't show, that should be our next move." "Instead of trying to save what's left?" "Yes. If it makes you feel better, you can send a ship out into unexplored space with a few Adam and Eves on it. Let them find a nice planet to land on and frig like bunnies for a few thousand years. We're soldiers. We need to keep fighting. Your wife and daughter are out there." Steven's face twisted. "Don't you think I know that, Mitch? That they're out there, sitting on Earth wondering where I am and thinking that everything is going to be okay? This is bigger than both of us." "It's bigger than you. Not me. I have to be big enough to stop it. That's my fate, or destiny, or bad luck, or whatever the frig you want to call it. And I've never done it! I've never won this war. Humankind dies because of me, over and over again. No pressure, Mitch." Mitchell reached out and grabbed Steven by the shoulders. "I could use a lot of support in this. Especially from my big brother." Steven stared at Mitchell, his lip quivering. "Don't get all emotional on me," Mitchell said. "You're right. I know you're right. We'll fight, even if we die trying. You have my fleet, what little of it is left. We're beat up and out of ammo, but we make good targets." Mitchell laughed. "Thank you."  He gave Steven a short hug and backed away, turning his head to look out the viewport again. There was still no sign of the Goliath. Steven walked over to stand next to Mitchell. The two of them stared out into space. "How long do we wait?" Steven asked. "I don't know. A day?" "A day sounds good." Steven's eyes reached into the darkness.

I run as fast as I can. I make my way to the Employee Only exit and burst through, entering the main mall, gripping the backpack straps with both hands. I don’t see anyone else. Some light from the sun is still shining through the skylights, making long shadows out of everything—the signs, the benches, the railing above me. I run down the middle of the first-floor walkway, searching desperately for a way up to the second level.

So you are tired of your life, young man! All the more reason have you to live. Anyone can die. A murderer has moral force enough to jeer at his hangman. It is very easy to draw the last breath. It can be accomplished successfully by a child or a warrior. One pang of far less anguish than the toothache, and all is over. There is nothing heroic about it, I assure you! It is as common as going to bed; it is almost prosy. LIFE is heroism, if you like; but death is a mere cessation of business. And to make a rapid and rude exit off the stage before the prompter gives the sign is always, to say the least of it, ungraceful. Act the part out, no matter how bad the play. What say you?

You led Shenzhen Football / You saved Shenzhen Football. " Chinese pro football soccer league (second division) Shenzhen FC recently announced a number of poems like this one. It seems like a tribute to Sven Jerran Eriksson (69, photo), a world-renowned manager who has been assigned to the club this season. But looking back, the story was different. The club said, 'We call the legend again. Let's go on a new trip together. " 믿고 주문해주세요~저희는 제품판매를 고객님들과 신용과신뢰의 거래로 하고있습니다. 24시간 문의상담과 서울 경기지방은 퀵으로도 가능합니다 믿고 주문하시면좋은인연으로 vip고객님으로 모시겠습니다. 원하시는제품있으시면 추천상으로 구입문의 도와드릴수있습니다 깔끔한거래,안전거래,총알배송,고객님정보보호,100%정품,편한상담,신용신뢰의 거래,후불거래등 고객님들의 편의를 기본으로 운영하고있는 온라인 판매업체입니다 The poem was a clearing for Eriksson. He was tortured in the club with one side on the 14th. The poem 'You' was not his, but the former director of Wang Baoshan. The Shenzhen team first announced the city verses through its homepage, and then the local media asked whether it was a change of director. ◀경영항목▶텔레【KC98K】카톡【ACD5】라인【SPR331】 엑스터시,신의눈물,lsd,아이스,캔디,대마초,마리화나,프로포폴,에토미데이트,해피벌륜 등많은제품판매하고있습니다 Sweden coach Eriksson is one of the best players in the World Cup finals. In 2001, he became the first foreign coach in England's history. He led Beckham, Owen and others to advance to the quarter-finals in the 2002 Korea-Japan World Cup and the 2006 Germany World Cup. At the 2010 South African tournament he was promoted to coach Ivory Coast. Benfica, AS Roma and Manchester City also led the pros. It was in June 2013 that Eriksson, who became a world class soccer player, started his career in Chinese football. He was appointed to the first division of Guangzhou Puri in China with an annual salary of about 3.5 billion won. It was a bad condition for him to spend the last years of his life as a leader. After failing to sign a new contract, he became a manager of the Shanghai Sanggang, subject to an annual salary of 6 billion won by the end of 2014. After two years of hardship, he moved to China 2nd Division League Shenzhen FC. But here, the duration of the bust was shorter. Eriksson's lead has been in fourth place in the league since he lost five consecutive wins in the league in eight consecutive wins (five and three losses). The club, aiming at promoting the first division, has been pushing out Eriksson in six months because of the atmosphere. Early exits such as Eriksson can be found easily in Chinese football world that pours a lot of money into directing shopping. Only Lee Jang Soo (Changchun), Choi Yong Soo (Jangsu) and Hong Myung Bo (Hangzhou) have left the team during the season due to poor performance.

Culiacan” with a drawing of a Russian AK-47 gun on the sign. Dr. Maldona was shocked at the obvious display of Culiacan’s ruling authority: automatic weapons. He continued watching as they turned this way and that. The city grew poorer and denser with drearier slums the farther they drove. Finally they parked a block away from a beautiful church, the Cathedral de Culiacan. He was told to exit and he was pushed inside the courtyard of a small office complex. At the second office

In This Darkness by Stewart Stafford A limo drove through mansion gates, Rock star John saw her wait again, Hysterically begging for autographs, The gates closed behind the limo. John said stop, and exited the car, "I'll sign it for you tomorrow, 100%," "No," she said, "sign tonight... now," He strode towards his home gates. He rummaged in his coat pockets, Ripping a cigarette packet to sign, He found a tiny pencil in his pants, Trailing breath vapour in the night. "I can't see you in this darkness," A chilling laugh from the fan's side, Three muzzle flashes, John died, Contorted on a bloody driveway. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

THEY FOUND THE fire exit without turning on any lights. Despite the white flashes in front of their eyes they could see the soft glow from the electric signs.

He was ready to take a pothead, alcoholic, heroin-addicted, whoremonger, a bulimic, cigarette smoking womanizer, and form the deepest type of bond that could be made and had no exit clauses or reversals. He had pursued me when others would’ve given up a thousand times. He made a covenant with me, signed by a pen dipped in His own blood, a covenant forged by His love, in His love, and through His love. It is a love story written by the Author of the universe.

​“Many,” sighed Ashuri, “and from various faculties. A considerable number of them are not even registered at the university. They come to register, and I ignore the fact that they are not on the roster. This year, I closed registration after seventy-five students had signed up, but in reality over a hundred attended each lecture. For purely selfish reasons, because of my age, I suppose, I refused to accept any more. I have found lately that Kabbalah has shown signs of a resurgence of interest. As a result, many charlatans earn a fine living from it.” ​Elijah remembered that he was really on his way to the library. He parted from Prof. Ashuri in his normal awkward, hesitant and apologetic manner, thanking her profusely no less than three times; he would even have bowed down to her if that was what would have enabled him to expedite his exit. However, Prof. Ashuri had one more important observation to make. ​“I hope that your interest in the Kabbalah will not infect you with that dreaded disease...” she smiled. ​“What disease do you mean?” ​“Kabbalistic literature is generally divided into three major streams. The first and most important one is the cosmological, mission-oriented one. Here we find a direct line between ourselves and the Master of the Universes, by way of His influence on all the intermediate worlds. Note the term, ‘Master of the Universes’ in the plural. In this view, there are mutual influences, going from the upper worlds to us, and from us to the upper worlds. All the commandments and all the proper intentions and all the prayers are ultimately aimed at mending those spheres, which were damaged at the time of the Creation. In the language of the Kabbalah, this means repairing those vessels which were broken. ​“The second stream is Kabbalistic-prophetic. It is an attempt to attain what is known as cleaving to God and to achieve spiritual elevation. This can be accomplished by internal meditation, which includes reciting the Holy Names, internal and external purification, combining sacred letters and repeating them over and over, singing and moving the head, and breathing techniques. This can unite one with the higher worlds. One who does this properly can reach the level of prophecy. There are even books with detailed instructions on how to actually accomplish this and how to ascend to a higher spiritual level. I often hear of students who have embarked on such a course, and it is, indeed, a disease.” ​“Don’t worry about me. And what about the third stream?” ​“The third stream is the one which has elicited the most criticism. It is referred to as Practical Kabbalah. By that, we mean people who use the Kabbalah for their own personal purposes, as a way to exploit the secret knowledge to which they have access in order to control nature and man’s fate. Practical Kabbalah appeals directly to supernatural forces and sometimes even makes them solve the problems of the one calling upon them. These include attempts to foretell the future, to converse with the dead, to heal the sick, to banish evil spirits and the evil eye, and of course to acquire wealth, respect, and/or the love of a man or a woman. That, too, is a dangerous game to play.” Prof. Ashuri laughed, but Elijah could not tell whether or not she was serious.

You used to look out the window of your daddy's truck riding to the Towne House and imagine that somewhere from one of these tract houses amid the razor grass and the industrial-maze skyline of contorted steel, a boy riding to the dance might also be pretending that he was being ferried over snowy hills in a Russian sledge. Or perhaps in another truck cab, a girl your age was rethumbing Catcher in the Rye and half believing that in the Towne House Holden Caulfield would be waiting under the exit sign in all his wounded, cynical splendor. And that very evening conversation would be struck like a flint, and endless isolate dark illuminated. But how would such a person find you unless you hung it all out there?

Tap to return to the Home screen, where you'll find a list of books and other content stored on your Kindle. Back: Tap to retrace your steps. For example, you can follow a link from a book, then tap the Back button to return to your place in the book. Screen Light: Tap to access screen light controls. There are several ways to adjust screen brightness: Drag your finger along the slider until you reach the desired setting. Tap anywhere on the slider to select a specific setting. Tap the + sign to use a higher light setting, and tap the - sign to use a lower light setting. Press and hold the + sign to select the standard maximum brightness setting. Tap the Max. button to temporarily increase the screen brightness even further. Press the - sign to decrease the brightness setting. Press and hold the - sign to choose the minimum brightness setting. Kindle Store: Tap to go to the Kindle Store. Your Kindle must have an active Wi-Fi or 3G connection to use this feature. Search: Tap to bring up the search field. To exit search, tap the X on the right side of the search bar. Goodreads on Kindle: Tap to connect to the Goodreads community on your Kindle to see what your friends are reading, find book recommendations and keep track of what you’ve read and want to read. For more information, see Goodreads

airport exit onto NW 120th Street, Jack slowed and parked near the International Shipping Service cargo facility. A warehouse butted up against a large hanger, its front wall sporting a large sign that read ISS AIR CARGO. The rumble of distant

I look around. We are inside the incinerator, which would be completely dark if not for the lines of light glowing in the shape of a small door on the other side. The floor is solid metal in some places and metal grating in others. Everything smells like rotting garbage and fire. “Don’t say I never took you anywhere nice,” Peter says. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. Tobias drops to the floor, landing first on his feet and then tilting forward to his knees, wincing. I pull him to his feet and then draw close to his side. All the smells and sights and feelings of the world feel magnified. I was almost dead, but instead I am alive. Because of Peter. Of all people. Peter walks across the grate and opens the small door. Light streams into the incinerator. Tobias walks with me away from the fire smell, away from the metal furnace, into the cement-walled room that contains it. “Got that gun?” Peter says to Tobias. “No,” says Tobias. “I figured I would shoot the bullets out of my nostrils, so I left it upstairs.” “Oh, shut up.” Peter holds another gun in front of him and leaves the incinerator room. A dank hallway with exposes pipes in the ceiling greets us, but it’s only ten feet long. The sign next to the door at the end says EXIT. I am alive, and I am leaving.

Shit, that’s the exit,” Deborah said, swerving hard for the off-ramp and effectively killing the mood, as well as guaranteeing that I lost all sense of what I had been about to say. The sign that flashed by, seemingly just a few inches from my head, told me we were heading for North Miami Beach, into an area of modest houses and shops that had changed very little in the last twenty years. It seemed like a very odd neighborhood for a cannibal. Deborah

schedule. “I need to get back to work. You settling up today? I’ll get tomorrow?” he suggested. “Sure, buddy. Have a good one.” “Until tomorrow,” he said as he put on his hat then walked away toward the door. “Same bat-time. Same bat-channel,” he added as he made his exit behind my back. I shook my head, smiled, and chuckled at his foolishness. I then swiveled my position to look around the restaurant once again. At one table, I noticed a man and a woman that I assumed had entered while we were facing the brick wall behind the bar. I watched them sign to one another with such vigor and beauty. It was something that amazed me every time I witnessed it, always wishing that I had taken that American Sign Language class in college. They sat there, completely silent, but communicating with their hands more effectively than most hearing people could with their voices. No sound passed from one to the next, no sound passed between anyone in the restaurant. It was very quiet. My mind moved toward the metaphorical silence is deafening. I guiltily chuckled to myself when I realized how completely inappropriate that unintentional pun would have been had it been said aloud, or signed. My thoughts then brought me to the words of Mark Twain. “Kindness is

Ask away,” Furi said, realizing they were almost to his exit. “Are you in trouble?” Furi turned; looking sharply at Syn. Furi probably wasn’t expecting that to be his first question, but that was the most important issue as far as Syn was concerned. He knew Furi wasn't involved in Starman’s murder, so he didn’t need to ask about that. “Before I left the pub tonight, you asked me if someone had sent me and if I was working for him. Were you talking about your husband?” “Yes,” Furi said roughly. “He hasn’t seen or heard from me in almost a year. He might’ve thought I was dead.” He shrugged. “I finally had him served with divorce papers, which means he now knows my address. He and his brother will come for me, guaranteed. Even if it’s only to serve up one more ass whipping before he signs the papers.” Syn heard the squeaking sound his steering wheel was making as he tightened his fists and squeezed the leather. He was getting angry, angrier than he’d been in a long time. The thought of someone harming the man beside him; touching even one lock of gorgeous hair on his head made Syn want to shoot something. He took a deep breath and tried to follow the directions Furi was giving him. He pulled up to a small house on the corner in a quiet neighborhood. “This is your house?” Syn asked. “Um. No, I rent the small basement apartment. It’s clean and safe,” Furi said quietly. Syn discreetly looked around the street. He didn’t want to scare Furi, but Syn was at defcon 3 now that he knew some bastard might want to hurt his man. My man. Putting the cart before the horse again. He didn’t want to push Furi, didn’t want to make him feel inferior or weak, but the urge to protect was there, and it was powerful. Furi was strong, he’d experienced the man’s force a couple times, but everyone needed help sometimes. Syn was just the man to help. That’s what he was good at, damn good at.

All wrong signs in our minds lead us to a citadel. First we consider it is safe, finally, we recognize, we could only enter the citadel but couldn’t exit.

The only thing to see is the obligatory third-world Coke billboard, ironic in exact proportion to the distance from its proper American context. This one says COKE—MAKE IT REAL. Just after the Coke sign there is a contrary sign, an indication that irony is not a currency in Liberia. It is worn by a girl who leans against the exit in a T-shirt that says THE TRUTH MUST BE TOLD.

Fuck you," I said jokingly. "No, thanks. I'm not into that sort of thing. My asshole has a sign on it that says exit only." I laughed harder, rolling my eyes.

Berkeley was the Capital of the Hand Dryers?  I felt bad enough being locked out of the National Parks and Forests because of the Federal Shutdown, so the chance to salvage something uniquely interesting and culturally important as the hand dryer factory slipped by me.  Not one sign on any exit ramp.

Supersoaker" [Verse 1:] My motivation has gone too soon Good vibrations all over you Act like you mean it, you mean it You've got a story you never tell Down in the delta I'm ringing bells I've never seen it, seen it Back of my mind I'm on my way I see through smiles on every face I don't believe it, believe it [Pre-Chorus:] Cause I'm a supersoaker red, white, And blew em all away With the kisses unclean as the words that you say [Chorus:] I don't mind sentimental girls at times Mister walk away, walk away [Verse 2:] The flags are flying across the plains I've got a secret picking at my brain I wanna see you, see you The exit sign is on my face Don't know my home, I don't know my place I just wanna be there, be there [Pre-Chorus] [Chorus x2] I don't mind sentimental girls at times I just lay it on the line, on the line [Chorus x2]

Here all boundaries fade away and the world reveals itself for the mad slaughterhouse that it is. The treadmill stretches way to infinitude, the hatched are closed down tight, logic runs rampant, with bloody cleaver flashing. The air is chill and stagnant, the language apocalyptic. Not an exit sign anywhere; no issue save death. A blind alley at the end of which is a scaffold.

Each one is traveling his own way ad though the earth be rotting with good things, there is no time to pluck the fruits; the procession scrambles toward the exit sign, and such a panic is there, such a sweat to escape, that the weak and the helpless are trampled into the mud and their cries are unheard.

I missed my father driving us back from the Pomona State Fair, elbowing me awake, the Dodger postgame on the radio as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes just in time to see that sign, DICKENS-NEXT EXIT, and know I was home. Shit, I missed that sign. And what are cities really, besides signs and arbitrary boundaries?

All of the short-selling chart pattern set-ups that we use rely on a high-volume break off of the peak, and this is often the first sign of institutional money exiting a stock en masse as they begin “distributing” stock.

She wandered through the corridors, trying to find the exit. There were signs everywhere, arrows pointing, boldly colored lines on the floor that seemed to offer direction, but instead looped back and led nowhere.

Regret Roulette by Stewart Stafford Evening's breath caressed in, Across a mind's cracked land, On raven's wing in twilight air, A doused flame's colder hand. Dead-end gallery of exit signs, Contrition's dog whistle song, Eye of Horus in a looking glass, Blindfolds of a corrupted throng. Feral brunch on a sheepish plate, The curate's egg fried with shell, Bellini confession, in vino veritas, Burnt offerings to show-and-tell. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

The believers are described as people whose hearts are alive and full of light, while the scoffers are in darkness: Is one who was dead and then We revived [with faith] and made for him a light by which to walk among the people like one who is in darkness from which he cannot exit? (QURAN, 6:122). According to commentators of the Quran, the one who was dead refers to having a dead heart, which God revived with the light of guidance that one may walk straight and honorably among human beings. Also, the prophet Muhammad said, “The difference between the one who remembers God and one who does not is like the difference between the living and the dead.” In essence, the believer is someone whose heart is alive, while the disbeliever is someone whose heart is spiritually dead.

If we can identify in advance what the signals are that we should pay attention to and make a plan for how we will react to them, we can increase the chances that we’ll cut our losses when we ought to. Essentially, when you enter into an endeavor, you want to imagine what you could find out that would tell you it’s no longer worth pursuing. Ask yourself, “What are the signs that, if I see them in the future, will cause me to exit the road I’m on? What could I learn about the state of the world or the state of myself that would change my commitment to this decision?” That list offers you a set of kill criteria, literally criteria for killing a project or changing your mind or cutting your losses.

I’ll hiss at you all I fucking want, Mom.” Bared teeth sharpened as amber spread through Sophie’s pupils. “I went to her because of you. Because I don’t want you to live like a troll for the rest of your life. And you can’t-,” A growl ran over Sophie’s words as her upper lip split, the septum of her nose sliding down towards it. “Baby no! Don’t!” Gloria pleaded. Bones cracked as Sophie tore off her clothing. “Why not? She waaants to meeeeet you anywaay aaahhh.” The words strained against the background of popping bones. She kicked her skirt from around her ankles as fur raced up her spine, spreading from the base of her tail. “Huuurts,” She ground out as she fell down to the floor. “Always does during the new moon,” I said, raising myself up on tiptoes to watch the transformation. Gloria watched her daughter change, with wide eyes and a shaking head, but Taya had gone so pale, I feared she’d faint. “She will not hurt you. Right, Sophie? You just wanted to show them.” Sophie made a gargle of sounds that might have been a yes as her hips narrowed in a series of violent snaps, seeming to squeeze muscle up into her neck. Torso reshaped, the transformation continued down through her limbs, muscles swelling with the stretching of bones. Fingers bent backwards as they thickened to the fleshy digits of paws. The sickle-like claws folded back into the tips before a wave of tawny golden fur hid them away. That fur lightened to white on her chest and chin. With the change finished, she sank down onto the floor with a relieved sound somewhere between a meow and a human sigh. I recognized the signs of a shift forced by spending too long in human form. I’d be running into my own limit soon. If Sophie had been human since we exited that cave then the pressure to change had probably been immense

AMERICA IS DOING OKAY ONCE THESE WHITE RACIST BITCHES WHO ARE DOMESTIC TERRORIST TERRORIZING THE POPULACE THE WORLD THEIR FUCKED HEADS CANT CONTEND WITH ONCE THESE WHITE WOMEN MEN START TO DO SOMETHING SANE THEN YOU KNOW YOURE COMPLETELY FUCKED IN AMERICA UNTIL THEN FIGHT FOR MORE DEMOCRATIC HEALTHIER STANCES. WHEN THEY GO SANE DO AS THE AFGHAN PEOPLE DID AND ITS TIME TO RUN FOR THE EXIT SIGN

Coincidence or a trick of fate (Amalfitano remembered a time when he believed that nothing happened by chance, everything happened for some reason, but when was that time? he couldn't remember, all he could remember was that at some point this was what he believed), something that must hold some meaning, some larger truth, a sign of the terrible state of grace in which Padilla found himself, an emergency exit overlooked until now, or a message intended specifically for Amalfitano, a message perhaps signaling that he should have faith, that things that seemed to have come to a halt were still in motion, things that seemed like ruined statues were mending themselves and recovering.

Addressing Hester and the rest of the RBS board at the bank’s annual general meeting on 19 April 2011, shareholder and former SME customer Nigel Henderson said, ‘The jackboot culture is alive and kicking – literally as well as metaphorically – within your bank, despite your pious statements.’ Henderson alleges the bank misappropriated the Portree Hotel, on the Isle of Skye, and the £800,000 from the sale of the Park Hotel, in Montrose, from him. Henderson, having built a business worth £2 million making profits of £400,000, became an RBS customer in July 1997. He says, ‘Before signing two personal loan agreements for £400,000, I made it clear to the bank that we intended to redeem the proposed loans early. The bank assured us that this would be fine, that the maximum penalty would be three months’ interest, and that the loan documents would be drawn up accordingly. In November 1998 we deposited more than £800,000 with RBS, intimating we wished to exercise early redemption, as agreed. But they demanded £240,000, seized our cash and refused to allow us to exit the loans. They had embarked on a conscious process of deceit to engineer our total financial destruction.’ In early 2014, RBS headed off a Police Scotland inquiry into the matter by refusing to provide detectives with requested paperwork, and on 30 April 2014, an executive assistant of Sir Philip Hampton wrote to Henderson saying, ‘The bank’s position remains that it does not accept the allegations you continue to assert.

I prefer the sign NO ENTRY to the one that says NO EXIT.

he knocked him over. The slave picked himself up without any sign of resentment, and resumed. The same hand which had knocked over the slave closed on an enormous fee, and the barber took his exit with the same insolence and elegance as before. This was the type for whom race prejudice was more important than even the possession of slaves, of which they held few. The distinction between a white man and a man of colour was for them fundamental. It was their all. In defence of it they would bring down the whole of their world.

vehicles to the side. They exited the trucks to start their search for the elephants that Drago had found earlier. Their heavy black boots crushed all plant life in their path. Drago took a moment to glance up at the sky. The moon was full, a good sign, with the moon lighting their way to fortune. Drago turned to the others. “We’ll see them better tonight.” A chorus of agreements came. Drago nodded to the side of the road and the men took up watch for the creatures that would soon make them richer than their wildest dreams. The fact that they would be destroying precious life in the process meant absolutely nothing to them. Greed was now fueling every inch of their brains. They sat and waited.

The King: Until then, Carcosa will vanish; but my rule, I tell you now, is permanent, despite Aldebaran. Be warned. Also be promised: He who triumphs in this war shall be my inheritor, and so shall have the Dynasty back. But think: Already you own the world. Te great query is, can you rule it? Te query is the gift. The King in Yellow gives it into your hands, to hold…or to let loose. Choose, terrible Children. Noatalba: You are King, and are most gracious. We thank you. The King: You thank me? I am the living god! Bethink thyself, priest. There is a price; I have not as yet stated the half of it. (Everyone waits, petrified) The King: The price is the fixing of the Mask. (Silence) The King: Yhtill, you acceded to, and wore the Pallid Mask. That is the price. Henceforth, all in Yhtill shall wear the Mask, and by this sign be known. And war between the masked men and the naked shall be perpetual and bloody, until I come again…or fail to come. Cassilda: (Standing and throwing her arms wide) Not upon us! Not upon us! The King: (Offstage, remote, diminishing) What! Did you think to be human still? § [Those onstage hesitate, as if lost. Then, following Cassilda’s lead, each stoops, picks up his or her Mask and puts it on, turning to face the audience and standing in still silence. When all others are Masked theChild enters from the rear, wearing a mask himself. He walks to the front of the stage and draws the curtain. He turns to the audience] Child: Yhtill and Carcosa are now one city, and our tale is at its end, make of it what you will–history, fable, nonsense or cautionary tale, it is nonetheless, the only tale there is. § [Te Child exits through the curtains, and the house lights come up at once. There are to be no curtain calls.]

Startled as I awoke in an unfamiliar room... nothing special, just advertisements and fancy looking brochures that contain just enough words to grab a simple minds attention. Empty chairs, existing for a purpose, stay vacant as punishment to the unseated who chose to stand when offered a conditional seat. The walls are covered with breath taking pictures in broken frames. The same decor of many abandoned rooms from generations before. The lights flicker as attemps are made to navigate around, never consistent enough to illuminate the dark. Just bright enough for the eyes to read the distinct exit sign. Laughter and love echo behind the closed singular door. No access with pushing or pulling. Unwelcome mat under my feet. I heard a voice yell "stop knocking" Adjusting to reality, the air becomes familiar, the same breath taken before. Back in the waiting room. Returning to the beginning for nothing.

Today we look for man-made philosophical panaceas.  Discussions and debates go on in every center of learning in a search for ultimate wisdom and its resultant happiness ... We are searching for a way out of our dilemma, and the universal sign we see is "no exit".  But the cross presents itself in the midst of our dilemma as our only hope.  Here we find the justice of God in perfect satisfaction - the mercy of God extended to the sinner - the love of God covering every need - the power of God for every emergency - the glory of God for every occasion.

There’s no exit sign on the way to Death, I though, and for some reason, that made me angry. There’s just nothing.

Don’t inhibit your hearing. Auditory cues can be early warning signs. You can hear gun shots even when you can’t see the gunman. Sit in places that offer the best visibility of exits and others. Watch people for cues and indicators that they may be up to no good. Trust your intuition. That “gut” feeling is there for a reason, and you need to pay attention to it.

If region and state couldn’t serve as a basis for honor, surely strong family values could. Even when they couldn’t manage to live up to their moral code—which favored lifelong, heterosexual, monogamous, pro-life marriage—they took pride in the code itself. It was not easy to live by such a code. One woman of the right had a gay brother who had been married, had a child, and abandoned both “just because of sex,” and the episode had caused an upheaval in the family. In order to avoid the pain of divorce her own parents had caused her, one woman entered a covenant marriage. (Intended to strengthen the institution, covenant marriage was passed into law in Louisiana in 1997, and later in Arkansas and Arizona. It calls on the couple to sign an affidavit that they have undergone pre-marital counseling, and otherwise heightens the requirements for entry and exit from marriage.) She soon discovered her husband was gay, and while the couple later cooperated in raising their two children, she was glad she had tried to keep the marriage together “the way it should be.” The fourteen-year-old daughter of another mother became pregnant and kept the baby. “I’m working full-time and she’s got to finish school. Frankly it’s been very hard.” And it would have been easier for her young daughter, she feels, if she had had an abortion. But there was honor in keeping the baby and “doing the right thing”—an honor they felt to be invisible to liberals.

becomes aware of the fast-enlarging exit sign for Gretna, its kitschy factory outlets, and the A75 west.

There must be no disturbance. If any creatures exit the cave or warn others of our existence here, we could be found. A piece of paper couldn’t fit in here, certainly not a person. No one is going to look for us here. A vampire would know the moment bats flew from the cave. Bats can’t fly out of here if there aren’t any in here, now, can they? She was sweetly reasonable. Trust me, little red hair, it is only a short distance farther. You aren’t going to make me sleep in the ground, are you? Because I won’t do it, not even if there are ten vampires stalking us. Vampires cannot stand even the dawn, Shea. Killing his prey does something to the blood. The sun would fry him immediately. He might betray us to the human servants he is in league with if he marked the entrance to this cave. Or they might be watching for just such a sign as bats flying unexpectedly into the early sun. You’re telling me there are bats in here. He tugged at her wrist. Stop being such a baby. I can control the bats, and they will serve to warn us of any danger. Shea made a face but followed him.

TRAILHEAD/ACCESS POINTS South Platte River Trailhead: From Denver, drive southwest on US Hwy 285 for about 20 miles to the mountain town of Conifer. One-quarter mile past the end of town, exit the highway to your right. At the stop sign turn left, proceed under the highway, turn right, proceed a few feet to the stop sign, and turn left. This is Jefferson County Rd 97, better known as Foxton Road. Proceed about 8 miles on Foxton Road to a stop sign at an intersection with Jefferson County Rd 96. Turn left on 96 and go 5.5 miles to the boarded-up South Platte Hotel. Cross the bridge and the road becomes Douglas County Rd 97. Seven-tenths of a mile on, you will see the 141-foot-long Gudy Gaskill Bridge on the right. This is the South Platte River Trailhead, the start of Segment 2 of The Colorado Trail. This trailhead also can be reached from the south via Woodland Park and north on CO Hwy 67 to Deckers (a one-store town). Follow the river via Douglas County Rds 67/97 to the trailhead. Little Scraggy Trailhead on FS Rd 550: See Segment 3 on page 80.

When a play ends, the audience gets up and follows signs for the exit. For a few hours after Momma died, I lay in my bed and thought I might not ever be able to get up again--without her and her direction, I worried that I'd forget the basic rules of existing.