Flames Of Chaos Quotes

There is a certain beauty in chaos, magnificence in the uncontrollable.

Will!” he shouted. “Will, she bit me!” “Did she, Henry?” Will, looking amused as usual, appeared like a summoned spirit from the chaos of smoke and flames. . .Will raised an eyebrow in Tessa’s direction. “It’s bad form to bite,” he informed her. “Rude, you know. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that?” “It’s also rude to go about grabbing at ladies you haven’t been introduced to,” Tessa said stiffly. “Hasn’t anyone told you that?

He could offer her an eternity of challenges and passion, of quiet, tender moments stolen in the depths of riotous flames and ravaging storms--tranquility amidst the chaos.

During the flames of controversy, opinions, mass disputes, conflict, and world news, sometimes the most precious, refreshing, peaceful words to hear amidst all the chaos are simply and humbly 'I don't know.

Power, true power, comes from the belief in true things, and the willingness to stand behind that belief, even if the universe itself conspires to thwart your plans. Chaos may settle; flames may die; worlds may rise and fall. But true things will remain so, and will never fail to guide you to your goals.

Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored; Light dies before thy uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; And universal darkness buries all.

She lives her life like a flame; a dance of purposeful chaos.… Her enchanting light can guide you and quell your fears… She’s hot; warming those who respect her and burning those who don’t... She is a flame with an unforgettable glow… A weak man will try to dim her luminance... but her soul mate will take pleasure in fanning the blaze.

My evening star. If the sun burned out tomorrow, your flame would light the world.

Brenna Kelly, meet Alice Price-Healy. Grandma, meet Breanna. No one is shooting, stabbing or immolating anyone in this hotel room." "Please," added Dominic. "I have to sleep here." "HAIL!" Rejoiced the mice. "HAIL THE LACK OF STABBING, SHOOTING AND FLAME!

Where was the excitement in dependability? Where was the spontaneity in a predictable world? He could offer her an eternity of challenges and passion, of quiet, tender moments stolen in the depths of riotous flames and ravaging storms—tranquility amidst the chaos. She belonged with him, wearing regal robes. He had so much to teach her about the nether realm, about the glories of manipulation and madness.

That was one of the most fundamental and sacred duties good friends and families performed for one another! They tended the flame of memory, so no one’s death meant an immediate vanishment from the world; in some sense the deceased would live on after their passing, at least as long as those who loved them lived. Such memories were an essential weapon against the chaos of life and death, a way to ensure some continuity from generation to generation, an order of endorsement and meaning.

I am frightened at the prospect of how much I might love you, because I know the price it brings, and just thinking of you has begun the investment process within my heart. It would be easier to never invest at all, to hold all vulnerability close to my chest, not allowing anyone to enter my safe. But what a cruel thing it would be, to deny an opportunity to love a soul as beautiful as yours. I’m going to hope, and hope, and hope, until one day I do something. Maybe then, we’ll be able to find that place that we have both wanted for so long. Maybe then, we’ll have each other. I’m not reaching for stars anymore. I’m reaching for you, and honestly, that’s far more beautiful than a night full of dancing flames. I am not good with words, but still my words dance out of chaos, forming something beautiful.

Merlin had, according to legend, created the White Council of Wizards from the chaos of the fall of the Roman Empire. He plunged into the flames of the burning Library of Alexandria to save the most critical texts, helped engineer the Catholic Church as a vessel to preserve knowledge and culture during Europe's Dark Ages, and leapt tall cathedrals in a single bound.

The greatest love stories are unexpected, unexplained... choreographed chaos played out in God’s timing. It feels like a chance encounter with a familiar stranger... Like a rekindling of an eternal flame.

I could never get enough books or read enough words to escape the reality of the world

Their breaths were hushed, held in anticipation of a knock on the door, a key in the lock, a torch to bare their union. It would light a flame of scandal, and the fire would rise untill it scorched them both. But Ead called fire her friend, and she would plunge into the furnace for Sabran Berthnet, for just one night with her. Let them come with their swords and their torches. Let them come.

Real love was more than a moment. It was everything that happened after. Chaos in one instant, simplicity in the next. Everything and nothing in the space of a simple breath.

To whom do I owe the power behind my voice, what strength I have become, yeasting up like sudden blood from under the bruised skin's blister? My father leaves his psychic print upon me, silent, intense, and unforgiving. But his is a distant lightning. Images of women flaming like torches adorn and define the borders of my journey, stand like dykes between me and the chaos. It is the images of women, kind and cruel, that lead me home.

The silence of the Great Bedchamber was vast. Vast as night and all its stars. Ead heard each rustle of silk, each brush of hand on skin on sheets. Their breaths were hushed, held in anticipation of a knock on the door, a key in the lock, and a torch to bare their union. It would light a flame of scandal, and the fire would rise until it scorched them both. But Ead called fire her friend, and she would plunge into the furnace for Sabran Berethnet, for just one night with her. Let them come with their swords and their torches. Let them come.

It will never end. Till the world ends in the chaos of Ragnarok, we will fight for our women, for our land, and for our homes. Some Christians speak of peace, of the evil of war, and who does not want peace? But then some crazed warrior comes screaming his god's filthy name into your face and his only ambitions are to kill you, to rape your wife, to enslave your daughters, and take your home, and so you must fight.

Let’s go to war, asshole. I’m about to rock your fucking foundation and rewrite history.

Some of the families with the least are the most generous in this country.

She’d be a broken, destroyed thing that no amount of magic could fix, and it terrified her—and worse, it excited her. Good. It should.

War had caught them both between two worlds: flame and a future, a king and chaos. God and human.

You are the worthiest of causes I have ever met, that I ever will meet, and I will follow you into the rift if you ask it of me. But do not ever ask me to leave your side.

A predisposition toward blood and chaos. How she thrives in flames and ravaging storms. How her magic can both inspire and tame pandemonium. How she finds beauty in the morbid and bizarre.

So…’Commander’, huh?” I tease with a sultry lilt. “That is the title you granted me, is it not? Jarek responded dryly, not the least bit fazed. “It is … But why am I picturing some weird commander-and-servant role-playing thing between you two now?” “Because you’re a pervert,” he throws back. I mock gasp. “Is that how you talk to your queen?” “Because you’re a pervert, Your Highness.

My hunger to piece together her puzzle tethered me to sanity and fed the tiny part of me that still believed in goodness and humanity. It was the order to my chaos, the flame to my ice. Without it, I would be unmoored, and that would be the ultimate danger—both to myself and the people around me.

I preferred romance or fantasy to escape and live a thousand lives I'd never experience without the author giving me the chance to climb inside their soul, making their books my home for a little while.

Often I'd take out my magnifying glass and stare into the chaos that was her face. Most people would have found it grotesque, but when you're in love nothing is so abstract or horrible that it can't be thought of as cute.

Out of Chaos came light, Out of Will came life, Without form, without time From iron black space Through beads of crystal flame. Cosmic rays of light and sound, Spinning in seas of universal ether, Piercing the armatures of spheres. From the Mysteries—it comes. From Legend—it comes. From ancestors of a thousand ages—it comes. The Spirit, The Will, The Wisdom, Temple of Wotan.

2100 Hours: The lights went out inside the compound. People throughout the auditorium began to shriek. It was chaos.           Then they experienced what felt like a sonic boom. Pack’s vehicle had blown apart, metal fragments hurled a quarter mile away. The CEV had knocked the main gate over as if it were a fist going through papier-mache. Once the explosion had run its course, the car was in flames, which caught some of the crew still wearing the night vision devices off guard.

Tamsin gave a strangled cry, sweeping her arm across her cluttered tabletop, relishing the chaos and clatter of her belongings tumbling to the stone floor. A crystal splintered. Her mug shattered, scattering chunks of hardened clay across the room. Loose papers floated into the fire, the flames devouring the dark ink until the words no longer existed.

I thought you wanted to fuck Dimitri?” “If I had wanted to fuck him, he’d be fucked.” “Interesting, considering every time you lose control of your beast, you end up on my dick,” he said, watching me carefully. “It’s good dick, Knox.” He chuckled, pulling me closer as he nuzzled my ear before slipping his fingers through mine, dragging me toward the creek.

Are you planning to fight me, or fuck me, little monster?” “Both, and then I will eat you.” I shrugged nonchalantly. “It matters little in which order the events occur.

You might want to stop touching yourself. You’re starting to look like a murder victim; it’s giving me a fucking hard-on.

She doesn’t have to work to blend in because in the French Quarter, all you have to do to blend in is dance with the chaos.

There were storm clouds in his eyes, shadows of the sweetest darkness I’d ever witnessed danced within them, and I craved to taste it on my flesh.

You are the flame that warms, Tunuva Melim. The flame that seals a wound.

It’s all you are.” I think, But it’s not all I want to be.

We are explorers. We are at present, as far as we know, the only explorers of the universe. For a long time we thought that ours was the only planet that could support life. Then we found others that could – a few. For still longer we thought we were unique – the only intelligent form of life – a single, freakish pinpoint of reason in a vast, adventitious cosmos – utterly lonely in the horrid wastes of space.… Again we discovered we were mistaken… But intelligent life is rare… very rare indeed… the rarest thing in creation… But the most precious… For intelligent life is the only thing that gives meaning to the universe. It is a holy thing, to be fostered and treasured. Without it nothing begins, nothing ends, there can be nothing through all eternity but the mindless babblings of chaos… Therefore, the nurture of all intelligent forms is a sacred duty. Even the merest spark of reason must be fanned in the hope of a flame. Frustrated intelligence must have its bonds broken. Narrow-channelled intelligence must be given the power to widen out. High intelligence must be learned from. That is why I have stayed here.

Let me be accursed. Let me be vile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is shrouded. Though I may be following the devil, I am Thy son, O Lord, and I love Thee, and I feel the joy without which the world cannot stand. Joy everlasting fostereth The soul of all creation, It is her secret ferment fires The cup of life with flame. 'Tis at her beck the grass hath turned Each blade towards the light And solar systems have evolved From chaos and dark night, Filling the realms of boundless space Beyond the sage's sight. At bounteous Nature's kindly breast, All things that breathe drink Joy, And birds and beasts and creeping things All follow where She leads. Her gifts to man are friends in need, The wreath, the foaming must, To angels- vision of God's throne, To insects- sensual lust.

And it was in that moment of distress and confusion that the whip of terror laid its most nicely calculated lash about his heart. It dropped with deadly effect upon the sorest spot of all, completely unnerving him. He had been secretly dreading all the time that it would come - and come it did. Far overhead, muted by great height and distance, strangely thinned and wailing, he heard the crying voice of Defago, the guide. The sound dropped upon him out of that still, wintry sky with an effect of dismay and terror unsurpassed. The rifle fell to his feet. He stood motionless an instant, listening as it were with his whole body, then staggered back against the nearest tree for support, disorganized hopelessly in mind and spirit. To him, in that moment, it seemed the most shattering and dislocating experience he had ever known, so that his heart emptied itself of all feeling whatsoever as by a sudden draught. 'Oh! oh! This fiery height! Oh, my feet of fire! My burning feet of fire...' ran in far, beseeching accents of indescribable appeal this voice of anguish down the sky. Once it called - then silence through all the listening wilderness of trees. And Simpson, scarcely knowing what he did, presently found himself running wildly to and fro, searching, calling, tripping over roots and boulders, and flinging himself in a frenzy of undirected pursuit after the Caller. Behind the screen of memory and emotion with which experience veils events, he plunged, distracted and half-deranged, picking up false lights like a ship at sea, terror in his eyes and heart and soul. For the Panic of the Wilderness had called to him in that far voice - the Power of untamed Distance - the Enticement of the Desolation that destroys. He knew in that moment all the pains of someone hopelessly and irretrievably lost, suffering the lust and travail of a soul in the final Loneliness. A vision of Defago, eternally hunted, driven and pursued across the skyey vastness of those ancient forests fled like a flame across the dark ruin of his thoughts... It seemed ages before he could find anything in the chaos of his disorganized sensations to which he could anchor himself steady for a moment, and think... The cry was not repeated; his own hoarse calling brought no response; the inscrutable forces of the Wild had summoned their victim beyond recall - and held him fast. ("The Wendigo")

Fire it was, purposefully wrought - fire as makes a blade, for slaughter. Its eyes seethed with flame, not good nor evil, the sanctarian read in her mind, but also that which makes a wyrm, that is, its cunning, and its malice.

the power of a free press. Its power was amplified when everyone had a voice. Theories without a foundation in facts or basis in reality could take flight and go viral. No barriers to entry. No editors. No fact checking, or if there was, it couldn’t be trusted; “fact checkers” had biases and agendas, too, after all. The loudest voices dominated the chaos that was social media hysteria, and all of it contributed to the chaos. Suppression and censorship only fueled the flames.

Nor public Flame, nor private, dares to shine; Nor human Spark is left, nor Glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos! is restor’d; Light dies before thy uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; And Universal Darkness buries All.

The girl. She brings you peace and tranquality. which is intresting because she is nothing but chaos, but she is the quiet for your storm. Now that´s irony. Be careful, child, don´t play with fire unless you intend to get burnes; that girl is nothing but flames.

The silence of the Great Bedchamber was vast. Vast as night and all its stars. Ead heard each rustle of silk, each brush of hand on skin on sheets. Their breaths were hushed, held in anticipation of a knock on the door, a key in the lock, and a torch to bare their union. It would light a flame of scandal, and the fire would rise until it scorched them both. But Ead called fire her friend, and she would plunge into the furnace for Sabran Berethnet, for just one night with her. Let them come with their swords and their torches. Let them come.

From chaos the universe was born, from void came life. From the abyss of despair came the spirit of survival. Flowers from earth. Gold from fire. I burn like fire. Little flames bloom first at my toes, then my stomach, then my heart. Now my soul is on fire. Do you feel the heat?

He just stood there in the center of chaos with flames blazing, water spraying, and the shouts of responders all around, and he was completely still. He was the anchor to my drifting boat. The roots to my growing tree. Without him, I surely would have floated away into some kind of unreachable place within the confines of my brain.

Across the hillside, above the chaos of Montfort’s left flank, a scarlet banner was raised by Edward’s men, the dragon at its centre a terror wreathed in golden flames, a sign that there was to be no mercy. The noblemen who survived the battle would be taken prisoner and ransomed, but no such chivalry awaited the foot soldiers beyond.

She was small. Her shadow moved in the dance of chaos before her as the inferno blazed behind her and licked the sky with its many tongues. She clutched an indistinguishable toy with both arms tightly. Her face was serene. Her eyes shone with courage more immense than the surrounding flames. She was small, but at that moment, I've never seen a bigger person.

Once, in Tóurin, two princesses were born Of mortal blood, but divinely sworn When monsters of chaos prowled the night, To protect the queendom, the girls took flight To the old hallowed lands, where they first swore an oath To pay the greatest price and sever them both, So there the merciless earth took its claim, binding on to the throne, and one to the flame

In an age of nothing, at time when we stand at the brink of our own destruction. Strengthen your belief in yourself, in the future of humanity, in the things of this world which cannot easily be percieved, awaken that which lies dormant now within your soul. Re-ignite the flame of your consciousness, and measure the strength of your conviction. Reveal the lie, renounce your hatred. Seek, find and embrace the truths you are fortunate enough to discover. Cherish them, use them to anchor you in the sea of chaos that is the world we live in. When twilight drwas near, when you are pushed to the very limits of your soul, when it seems that all you have left are the dead remnants of the fabric of your life... Believe.

As for chaos,” Mamoud said, “chaos is not what is happening around you, but how you conduct yourself around … chaos.” The earth erupted in explosion and flames not forty feet from the turret. Mamoud didn’t flinch, but Jonathan definitely did. Even Lady Insult put her spyglass down. The tower shuddered from the footfall of the elephants. There was a sour smell like sulfur.

Theories without a foundation in facts or basis in reality could take flight and go viral. No barriers to entry. No editors. No fact checking, or if there was, it couldn’t be trusted; “fact checkers” had biases and agendas, too, after all. The loudest voices dominated the chaos that was social media hysteria, and all of it contributed to the chaos. Suppression and censorship only fueled the flames.

The evil I fought against,” repeated the Witcher, “was a sign of the activities of Chaos, activities calculated to disturb Order. Since wherever Evil is at large, Order may not reign, and everything Order builds collapses, cannot endure. The little light of wisdom and the flame of hope, the glow of warmth, instead of flaring up, go out. It’ll be dark. And in the darkness will be fangs, claws and blood.

Roman senators did not sit idly by as their political institutions lapsed into chaos, nor did they simply fan the flames of the crisis to their own short-term advantage (though there was certainly a bit of that). Many of them, from different ends of the political spectrum, tried to find some effective remedies. We should not allow our hindsight, their ultimate failure or the succession of civil wars and assassinations to blind us to their efforts,

Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow as if it were a scene made-up by the mind, that is not mine, but is a made place, that is mine, it is so near to the heart, an eternal pasture folded in all thought so that there is a hall therein that is a made place, created by light wherefrom the shadows that are forms fall. Wherefrom fall all architectures I am I say are likenesses of the First Beloved whose flowers are flames lit to the Lady. She it is Queen Under The Hill whose hosts are a disturbance of words within words that is a field folded. It is only a dream of the grass blowing east against the source of the sun in an hour before the sun’s going down whose secret we see in a children’s game of ring a round of roses told. Often I am permitted to return to a meadow as if it were a given property of the mind that certain bounds hold against chaos, that is a place of first permission, everlasting omen of what is.

You were burning in the middle of the worst solar storm our records can remember. (...) Everyone else fled. All your companions and crew left you alone to wrestle with the storm. “You did not blame them. In a moment of crystal insight, you realized that they were cowards beyond mere cowardice: their dependence on their immortality circuits had made it so that they could not even imagine risking their lives. They were all alike in this respect. They did not know they were not brave; they could not even think of dying as possible; how could they think of facing it, unflinching? “You did not flinch. You knew you were going to die; you knew it when the Sophotechs, who are immune to pain and fear, all screamed and failed and vanished. “And you knew, in that moment of approaching death, with all your life laid out like a single image for you to examine in a frozen moment of time, that no one was immortal, not ultimately, not really. The day may be far away, it may be further away than the dying of the sun, or the extinction of the stars, but the day will come when all our noumenal systems fail, our brilliant machines all pass away, and our records of ourselves and memories shall be lost. “If all life is finite, only the grace and virtue with which it is lived matters, not the length. So you decided to stay another moment, and erect magnetic shields, one by one; to discharge interruption masses into the current, to break up the reinforcement patterns in the storm. Not life but honor mattered to you, Helion: so you stayed a moment after that moment, and then another. (...) “You saw the plasma erupting through shield after shield (...) Chaos was attempting to destroy your life’s work, and major sections of the Solar Array were evaporated. Chaos was attempting to destroy your son’s lifework, and since he was aboard that ship, outside the range of any noumenal circuit, it would have destroyed your son as well. “The Array was safe, but you stayed another moment, to try to deflect the stream of particles and shield your son; circuit after circuit failed, and still you stayed, playing the emergency like a raging orchestra. “When the peak of the storm was passed, it was too late for you: you had stayed too long; the flames were coming. But the radio-static cleared long enough for you to have last words with your son, whom you discovered, to your surprise, you loved better than life itself. In your mind, he was the living image of the best thing in you, the ideal you always wanted to achieve. “ ‘Chaos has killed me, son,’ you said. ‘But the victory of unpredictability is hollow. Men imagine, in their pride, that they can predict life’s each event, and govern nature and govern each other with rules of unyielding iron. Not so. There will always be men like you, my son, who will do the things no one else predicts or can control. I tried to tame the sun and failed; no one knows what is at its fiery heart; but you will tame a thousand suns, and spread mankind so wide in space that no one single chance, no flux of chaos, no unexpected misfortune, will ever have power enough to harm us all. For men to be civilized, they must be unlike each other, so that when chaos comes to claim them, no two will use what strategy the other does, and thus, even in the middle of blind chaos, some men, by sheer blind chance, if nothing else, will conquer. “ ‘The way to conquer the chaos which underlies all the illusionary stable things in life, is to be so free, and tolerant, and so much in love with liberty, that chaos itself becomes our ally; we shall become what no one can foresee; and courage and inventiveness will be the names we call our fearless unpredictability…’ “And you vowed to support Phaethon’s effort, and you died in order that his dream might live.

I stick to the road out of habit, but it’s a bad choice, because it’s full of the remains of those who tried to flee. Some were incinerated entirely. But others, probably overcome with smoke, escaped the worst of the flames and now lie reeking in various states of decomposition, carrion for scavengers, blanketed by flies. I killed you, I think as I pass a pile. And you. And you. Because I did. It was my arrow, aimed at the chink in the force field surrounding the arena, that brought on this firestorm of retribution. That sent the whole country of Panem into chaos. In my head I hear President Snow’s words, spoken the morning I was to begin the Victory Tour. “Katniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire, you have provided a spark that, left unattended, may grow to an inferno that destroys Panem.” It turns out he wasn’t exaggerating or simply trying to scare me. He was, perhaps, genuinely attempting to enlist my help. But I had already set something in motion that I had no ability to control. Burning. Still burning, I think numbly. The fires at the coal mines belch black smoke in the distance. There’s no one left to care, though. More than ninety percent of the district’s population is dead. The remaining eight hundred or so are refugees in District 13 — which, as far as I’m concerned, is the same thing as being homeless forever. I know I shouldn’t think that; I know I should be grateful for the way we have been welcomed. Sick, wounded, starving, and empty-handed. Still, I can never get around the fact that District 13 was instrumental in 12’s destruction. This doesn’t absolve me of blame — there’s plenty of blame to go around. But without them, I would not have been part of a larger plot to overthrow the Capitol or had the wherewithal to do it. The citizens of District 12 had no organized resistance movement of their own. No say in any of this. They only had the misfortune to have me. Some survivors think it’s good luck, though, to be free of District 12 at last. To have escaped the endless hunger and oppression, the perilous mines, the lash of our final Head Peacekeeper, Romulus Thread. To have a new home at all is seen as a wonder since, up until a short time ago, we hadn’t even known that District 13 still existed.

An old man, Elias Caldwell, death already smothering his breast, tries to tell a child something of all he has learned, something of what he would have her live by – and hears only incoherent words come out. Yet the thoughts revolve, revolve and whirl, a scorching nebula in his breast, sending forth flaming suns that only shatter against the walls and return to chaos. How can it be said? Once I lived in softness and ease and sickened. Once I chose a stern life, turning to people hard, bitter and strong – obscure people, the smell of soil and sweat about them – the smell of life…But I failed. I brought them nothing. To die, how bitter when nothing was done with my life. And the nebula whirls and revolves, sending its scorching suns that break in a chaos of inarticulateness about this child with a sound of fear. Nothing of it said.

Darkness: I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light: And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings—the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd, And men were gather'd round their blazing homes To look once more into each other's face; Happy were those who dwelt within the eye Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch: A fearful hope was all the world contain'd; Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them; some lay down And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up With mad disquietude on the dull sky, The pall of a past world; and then again With curses cast them down upon the dust, And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd And twin'd themselves among the multitude, Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food. And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again: a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; All earth was but one thought—and that was death Immediate and inglorious; and the pang Of famine fed upon all entrails—men Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, But with a piteous and perpetual moan, And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand Which answer'd not with a caress—he died. The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies: they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things For an unholy usage; they rak'd up, And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame Which was a mockery; then they lifted up Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died— Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, The populous and the powerful was a lump, Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay. The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still, And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths; Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd They slept on the abyss without a surge— The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them—She was the Universe.

In 1968, at fifteen, she turned on the television and watched chaos flaring up across the country like brush fires. Martin Luther King, Jr., then Bobby Kennedy. Students in revolt at Columbia. Riots in Chicago, Memphis, Baltimore, D.C.—everywhere, everywhere, things were falling apart. Deep inside her a spark kindled, a spark that would flare in Izzy years later. Of course she understood why this was happening: they were fighting to right injustices. But part of her shuddered at the scenes on the television screen. Grainy scenes, but no less terrifying: grocery stores ablaze, smoke billowing from their rooftops, walls gnawed to studs by flame. The jagged edges of smashed windows like fangs in the night. Soldiers marching with rifles past drugstores and Laundromats. Jeeps blocking intersections under dead traffic lights. Did you have to burn down the old to make way for the new? The carpet at her feet was soft. The sofa beneath her was patterned with roses. Outside, a mourning dove cooed from the bird feeder and a Cadillac glided to a dignified stop at the corner. She wondered which was the real world.

That which is unnamed was first,” it said. “But I am named, flesh queen. Remember.” Its pupils thinned. “The cold one on the ship. She was your kin.” Glorian looked at the other skull. “She fell to my flame. So will this land. We will finish the scouring, for we are the teeth that harrow and turn. The mountain is the forge and smith, and we, its iron offspring—come to avenge the first, the forebear, he who sleeps beneath.” Every warrior should know fear, Glorian Brightcry. Without it, courage is an empty boast. “You confess,” Glorian said, “that you slew the blood of the Saint.” Her voice kept breaking. “Do you then declare war on Inys?” Fyredel—the wyrm—let out a rattle. A score of complex scales and muscles shifted in its face. “When your days grow long and hot,” he said, “when the sun in the North never sets, we shall come.” On both sides of the Strondway, those who had not fled were rooted to the spot, fixated on Glorian. She realized what they must be thinking. If she died childless, the eternal vine was at its end. What she did next could define how they saw the House of Berethnet for centuries to come. Start forging your armour, Glorian. You will need it. She looked down once more at her parents’ remains, the bones the wyrms had dumped here like a spoil of war. In her memory, her father laughed and drew her close. He would never laugh again. Never smile. Her mother would never tell her she loved her, or how to calm her dreams. And where there had been fear, there was anger. “If you—If you dare to turn your fire on Inys,” Glorian bit out, “then I will do as my ancestor did to the Nameless One.” She forced herself to lift her chin in defiance. “I will drive you back with sword and spear, with bow and lance!” Shaking, she heaved for air. “I am the voice, the body of Inys. My stomach is its strength—my heart, its shield— and if you think I will submit to you because I am small and young, you are wrong.” Sweat was running down her back. She had never been so afraid in her life. “I am not afraid,” she said. At this, the wyrm unfurled its wings to their full breadth. From tip to hooked tip, they were as wide as two longships facing each other. People scrambled out of their shadow. “So be it, Shieldheart.” It steeped the word in mockery. “Treasure your darkness, for the fire comes. Until then, a taste of our flame, to light your city through the winter. Heed my words.

Negroes have proceeded from a premise that equality means what it says, and they have taken white Americans at their word when they talked of it as an objective. But most whites in America in 1967, including many persons of goodwill, proceed from a premise that equality is a loose expression for improvement. White America is not even psychologically organized to close the gap—essentially it seeks only to make it less painful and less obvious but in most respects to retain it. Most of the abrasions between Negroes and white liberals arise from this fact. White America is uneasy with injustice and for ten years it believed it was righting wrongs. The struggles were often bravely fought by fine people. The conscience of man flamed high in hours of peril. The days can never be forgotten when the brutalities at Selma caused thousands all over the land to rush to our side, heedless of danger and of differences in race, class and religion. After the march to Montgomery, there was a delay at the airport and several thousand demonstrators waited more than five hours, crowding together on the seats, the floors and the stairways of the terminal building. As I stood with them and saw white and Negro, nuns and priests, ministers and rabbis, labor organizers, lawyers, doctors, housemaids and shopworkers brimming with vitality and enjoying a rare comradeship, I knew I was seeing a microcosm of the mankind of the future in this moment of luminous and genuine brotherhood. But these were the best of America, not all of America. Elsewhere the commitment was shallower. Conscience burned only dimly, and when atrocious behavior was curbed, the spirit settled easily into well-padded pockets of complacency. Justice at the deepest level had but few stalwart champions. A good many observers have remarked that if equality could come at once the Negro would not be ready for it. I submit that the white American is even more unprepared.

It was through this imposed accumulation of chaos that she struggled to move now: beyond it lay simplicity, unmeasurable, residence of perfection, where nothing was created, where originality did not exist: because it was origin; where once she was there work and thought in causal and stumbling sequence did not exist, but only transcription: where the poem she knew but could not write existed, ready-formed, awaiting recovery in that moment when the writing down of it was impossible: because she was the poem. Her hand tipped toward the paper, black stroke the pen made there, but only that stroke, line of uncertainty. She called her memory, screamed for it, trying to scream through it and beyond it, damned accumulation that bound her in time: my memory, my bed, my stomach, my terror, my hope, my poem, my God: the meanness of my. Must the flames of hell be ninety-story blazes? or simply these small sharp tongues of fire that nibble and fall to, savouring the edges and then consume, swept by the wind of terror at exposing one's self, losing the aggregate of meannesses which compose identity, in flames never reaching full roaring crescendo but scorch through a life like fire in grass, in the world of time the clock tells. Every tick, synchronised, tears off a fragment of the lives run by them, the circling hands reflected in those eyes watching their repetition in an anxiety which draws the whole face toward pupiled voids and finally, leaves lines there, uncertain strokes woven into the flesh, the fabric of anxiety, double-webbed round dark-centered jellies which reflect nothing. Only that fabric remains, pleached in the pattern of the bondage which has a beginning and an end, with scientific meanness in attention to details, of a thousand things which should not have happened, and did; of myriad mean events which should have happened, and did not: waited for, denied, until life is lived in fragments, unrelated until death, and the wrist watch stops.

It was through this imposed accumulation of chaos that she struggled to move now: beyond it lay simplicity, unmeasurable, residence of perfection, where nothing was created, where originality did not exist: because it was origin; where once she was there work and thought in causal and stumbling sequence did not exist, but only transcription: where the poem she knew but could not write existed, ready-formed, awaiting recovery in that moment when the writing down of it was impossible: because she was the poem. Her hand tipped toward the paper, black stroke the pen made there, but only that stroke, line of uncertainty. She called her memory, screamed for it, trying to scream through it and beyond it, damned accumulation that bound her in time: my memory, my bed, my stomach, my terror, my hope, my poem, my God: the meanness of my. Must the flames of hell be ninety-story blazes? or simply these small sharp tongues of fire that nibble and fall to, savouring the edges and then consume, swept by the wind of terror at exposing one's self, losing the aggregate of meannesses which compose identity, in flames never reaching full roaring crescendo but scorch through a life like fire in grass, in the world of time the clock tells. Every tick, synchronised, tears off a fragment of the lives run by them, the circling hands reflected in those eyes watching their repetition in an anxiety which draws the whole face toward pupiled voids and finally, leaves lines there, uncertain strokes woven into the flesh, the fabric of anxiety, double-webbed round dark-centered jellies which reflect nothing. Only that fabric remains, pleached in the pattern of the bondage which has a beginning and an end, with scientific meanness in attention to details, of a thousand things which should not have happened, and did; of myriad mean events which should have happened, and did not: waited for, denied, until life is lived in fragments, unrelated until death, and the wrist watch stops.

We have not begun to live’, Yeats writes, ‘until we conceive life as a tragedy.’ Newman confessed that he considered most men to be irretrievably damned, although he spent his life ‘trying to make that truth less terrible to human reason’. Goethe could call his life ‘the perpetual rolling of a rock that must be raised up again forever’. Martin Luther told a woman who wished him a long life: ‘Madam, rather than live forty more years, I would give up my chance of paradise.’ No, the Outsider does not make light work of living; at the best, it is hard going; at the worst (to borrow a phrase from Eliot) ‘an intolerable shirt of flame’, It was this vision that made Axel declare: ‘As for living, our servants will do that for us.’ Axel was a mystic; at least, he had the makings of a mystic. For that is just what the mystic says: ‘I refuse to Uve.’ But he doesn’t intend to die. There is another way of living that involves a sort of death: ‘to die in order to Uve’. Axel would have locked himself up in his castle on the Rhine and read Hermetic philosophy. He saw men and the world as Newman saw them, as Eliot saw them in ‘Burnt Norton’: ... strained, time-ridden faces Distracted from distraction by distraction Filled with fancies and empty of meaning Tumid apathy with no concentration Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind That blows before and after time But he was not willing to regard himself as hopelessly damned merely because the rest of the world seems to be. He set out to find his own salvation; and although he did it with a strong romantic bias for Gothic castles and golden-haired girls, he still set out in the right direction. And what are the clues in the search for self-expression? There are the moments of insight, the glimpses of harmony. Yeats records one such moment in his poem ‘Vacillation’: My fiftieth year had come and gone I sat, a solitary man In a crowded London shop An open book and empty cup On the marble table-top While on the shop and street I gazed My body of a sudden blazed And twenty minutes more or less It seemed, so great my happiness That I was blessed, and could bless It is an important experience, this moment of Yea-saying, of reconciliation with the ‘devil-ridden chaos’, for it gives the Outsider an important glimpse into the state of mind that the visionary wants to achieve permanently.

The day-to-day horror of writing gave me a notion of tournament time. Writing novels is tedious. When will this book be finished, when will it reveal its bright and shining true self? it takes freakin’ years. At the poker table, you’re only playing a fraction of the hands, waiting for your shot. If you keep your wits, can keep from flying apart while those around you are self-destructing, devouring each other, you’re halfway there. … Let them flame out while you develop a new relationship with time, and they drift away from the table. 86-7 Coach Helen’s mantra: It’s OK to be scared, but don’t play scared. 90 [During a young adult trip to Los Vegas] I was contemplating the nickel in my hand. Before we pushed open the glass doors, what the heck, I dropped it into a one-armed bandit and won two dollars. In a dank utility room deep in the subbasements of my personality, a little man wiped his hands on his overalls and pulled the switch: More. Remembering it now, I hear a sizzling sound, like meat being thrown into a hot skillet. I didn't do risk, generally. So I thought. But I see now I'd been testing the House Rules the last few years. I'd always been a goody-goody. Study hard, obey your parents, hut-hut-hut through the training exercises of Decent Society. Then in college, now that no one was around, I started to push the boundaries, a little more each semester. I was an empty seat in lecture halls, slept late in a depressive funk, handed in term papers later and later to see how much I could get away with before the House swatted me down. Push it some more. We go to casinos to tell the everyday world that we will not submit. There are rules and codes and institutions, yes, but for a few hours in this temple of pure chaos, of random cards and inscrutable dice, we are in control of our fates. My little gambles were a way of pretending that no one was the boss of me. … The nickels poured into the basin, sweet music. If it worked once, it will work again. We hit the street. 106-8 [Matt Matros, 3x bracelet winner; wrote The Making of a Poker Player]: “One way or another you’re going to have a read, and you’re going to do something that you didn’t expect you were going to do before, right or wrong. Obviously it’s better if you’re right, but even if you’re wrong, it can be really satisfying to just have a read, a feeling, and go with it. Your gut.” I could play it safe, or I could really play. 180 Early on, you wanted to stay cool and keep out of expensive confrontations, but you also needed to feed the stack. The stack is hungry. 187 The awful knowledge that you did what you set out to do, and you would never, ever top it. It was gone the instant you put your hands on it. It was gambling. 224

When we are young, we yearn for battle. In the firelit halls we listen to the songs of heroes; how they broke the foemen, splintered the shield wall, and soaked their swords in the blood of enemies. As youngsters we listen to the boast of warriors, hear their laughter as they recall battle, and their bellows of pride when their lord reminds them of some hard-won victory. And those youngsters who have not fought, who have yet to hold their shield against a neighbour's shield in the wall, are despised and disparaged. So we practise. Day after day we practise, with spear, sword, and shield. We begin as children, learning blade-craft with wooden weapons, and hour after hour we hit and are hit. We fight against men who hurt us in order to teach us, we learn not to cry when the blood from a split skull sheets across the eyes, and slowly the skill of the sword-craft builds. Then the day comes when we are ordered to march with the men, not as children to hold the horses and to scavenge weapons after the battle, but as men. If we are lucky we have a battered old helmet and a leather jerkin, maybe even a coat of mail that hangs like a sack. We have a sword with a dented edge and a shield that is scored by enemy blades. We are almost men, not quite warriors, and on some fateful day we meet an enemy for the first time and we hear the chants of battle, the threatening clash of blades on shields, and we begin to learn that the poets are wrong and that the proud songs lie. Even before the shield walls meet, some men shit themselves. They shiver with fear. They drink mead and ale. Some boast, but most are quiet unless they join a chant of hate. Some men tell jokes, and the laughter is nervous. Others vomit. Our battle leaders harangue us, tell us of the deeds of our ancestors, of the filth that is the enemy, of the fate our women and children face unless we win, and between the shield walls the heroes strut, challenging us to single combat, and you look at the enemy's champions and they seem invincible. They are big men; grim-faced, gold hung, shining in mail, confident, scornful, savage. The shield wall reeks of shit, and all a man wants is to be home, to be anywhere but on this field that prepares for battle, but none of us will turn and run or else we will be despised for ever. We pretend we want to be there, and then the wall at last advances, step by step, and the heart is thumping fast as a bird's wing beating, the world seems unreal. Thought flies, fear rules, and then the order to quicken the charge is shouted, and you run, or stumble, but stay in your rank because this is the moment you have spent a lifetime preparing for, and then, for the first time, you hear the thunder of shield walls meeting, the clangour of battle swords, and the screaming begins. It will never end. Till the world ends in the chaos of Ragnarok, we will fight for our women, for our land, and for our homes. Some Christians speak of peace, of the evil of war, and who does not want peace? But then some crazed warrior comes screaming his god's filthy name into your face and his only ambitions are to kill you, to rape your wife, to enslave your daughters, and take your home, and so you must fight.

The Monk in the Kitchen I ORDER is a lovely thing; On disarray it lays its wing, Teaching simplicity to sing. It has a meek and lowly grace, Quiet as a nun's face. Lo—I will have thee in this place! Tranquil well of deep delight, All things that shine through thee appear As stones through water, sweetly clear. Thou clarity, That with angelic charity Revealest beauty where thou art, Spread thyself like a clean pool. Then all the things that in thee are, Shall seem more spiritual and fair, Reflection from serener air— Sunken shapes of many a star In the high heavens set afar. II Ye stolid, homely, visible things, Above you all brood glorious wings Of your deep entities, set high, Like slow moons in a hidden sky. But you, their likenesses, are spent Upon another element. Truly ye are but seemings— The shadowy cast-oft gleamings Of bright solidities. Ye seem Soft as water, vague as dream; Image, cast in a shifting stream. III What are ye? I know not. Brazen pan and iron pot, Yellow brick and gray flag-stone That my feet have trod upon— Ye seem to me Vessels of bright mystery. For ye do bear a shape, and so Though ye were made by man, I know An inner Spirit also made, And ye his breathings have obeyed. IV Shape, the strong and awful Spirit, Laid his ancient hand on you. He waste chaos doth inherit; He can alter and subdue. Verily, he doth lift up Matter, like a sacred cup. Into deep substance he reached, and lo Where ye were not, ye were; and so Out of useless nothing, ye Groaned and laughed and came to be. And I use you, as I can, Wonderful uses, made for man, Iron pot and brazen pan. V What are ye? I know not; Nor what I really do When I move and govern you. There is no small work unto God. He required of us greatness; Of his least creature A high angelic nature, Stature superb and bright completeness. He sets to us no humble duty. Each act that he would have us do Is haloed round with strangest beauty; Terrific deeds and cosmic tasks Of his plainest child he asks. When I polish the brazen pan I hear a creature laugh afar In the gardens of a star, And from his burning presence run Flaming wheels of many a sun. Whoever makes a thing more bright, He is an angel of all light. When I cleanse this earthen floor My spirit leaps to see Bright garments trailing over it, A cleanness made by me. Purger of all men's thoughts and ways, With labor do I sound Thy praise, My work is done for Thee. Whoever makes a thing more bright, He is an angel of all light. Therefore let me spread abroad The beautiful cleanness of my God. VI One time in the cool of dawn Angels came and worked with me. The air was soft with many a wing. They laughed amid my solitude And cast bright looks on everything. Sweetly of me did they ask That they might do my common task And all were beautiful—but one With garments whiter than the sun Had such a face Of deep, remembered grace; That when I saw I cried—"Thou art The great Blood-Brother of my heart. Where have I seen thee?"—And he said, "When we are dancing round God's throne, How often thou art there. Beauties from thy hands have flown Like white doves wheeling in mid air. Nay—thy soul remembers not? Work on, and cleanse thy iron pot.

At the Judgment Seat of Christ, believers were thoroughly examined to see how faithful they were to the Bridegroom [Jesus] during this time. But this was also a time of celebration, as the Redeemed were rewarded for the good they did and for the evil they refrained from, after believing in Christ. Five eternal crowns were awarded to those deserving of them—the Crown of Righteousness, the Incorruptible Crown, the Crown of Life, the Crown of Rejoicing, and the Crown of Glory. These eternal rewards would never rust, tarnish or ever be stolen. The Crown of Righteousness was awarded to those who lived righteous lives in the eyes of the Lord, shunning evil whenever it visited their doorsteps. The Incorruptible Crown, also called the “Victor’s Crown”, was awarded to those who denied self, and rejected earthly opportunities in order to fully pursue God’s Kingdom. The Crown of Rejoicing was awarded to those who led others to faith in Christ. The Crown of Glory, also known as the “Elder’s Crown,” was awarded to those who preached the Word of God—pastors, ministers, priests, bishops, evangelists, and the like. The Crown of Life, sometimes called the “Martyr’s Crown,” was awarded to those who were killed because of their faith in God, and for their testimony. Those who lived righteous lives in the eyes of the Lord, who shunned evil in the flesh, denied self in order to further God’s Kingdom—leading many to Christ in the process—and preached the Gospel everywhere they went, then died martyr’s deaths received all five crowns. Many received four crowns at the Judgment Seat of Christ. Multitudes more received three. Others two. Some received only one. Sadly, some received none. As recorded in 1 Corinthians 3:15, “For no one can lay any foundation other than the one already laid, which is Jesus Christ. If any man builds on this foundation using gold, silver, costly stones, wood, hay or straw, his work will be shown for what it is, because the Day will bring it to light. It will be revealed with fire, and the fire will test the quality of each man’s work. If what he has built survives, he will receive his reward. If it is burned up, he will suffer loss; he himself will be saved, but only as one escaping through the flames.

Yes, I’ll say my prayers,” I smirked, preparing to whisper the witches’ prayer. “I am the fire of the cauldron that heats the realms. I am the wind that fills the land and sails the ships upon the rough seas. I am the earth that grows the crops and feeds those within the Nine Realms. I am the water that bathes the soul. I am of Hecate, created from within her soul. I am the magic that creates the land and feeds it power. I leave neither child nor a mother behind who will grieve me, only my magic to be returned to the land from which it was given. I give it back on this day. I now go to my grave without regrets. I go to where pain cannot touch thy soul. I leave this vessel of flesh and go to lands of plenty, and land of promised peace. Blessed be, for the ones who will go on, do not weep or grieve for me, for I am finally free.”  I lifted my eyes to his and smiled wickedly as I held my arms out with my palms held up. “I am ready to die—go time, fucker.

Then there is fire. Four flames of different flavours. Four beacons of strength beckoning. Teasing, tempting, with their empassioned storm-eye calm. So innocent in their potency and direction, their essence of clarity and claiming, protecting and prowling. Their essence of death and nothing, where I am life and everything. I am power in chaos and spiral, and they are might in focus and service. So gloriously beautiful and beloved. So easy to seek shelter with. So unwelcome.

Nightmares, frightening warhorses straight from the of Hell that breathed flame and wrought chaos on their foes. Who knew they were super softies when it came to kids.

I choose my fate and my chaos, and what I allow to happen to me is on me, no one else.

On that, I pushed, shoved, desperate to get to a place where I could completely fade away and do it alone. Having been given too much too soon and paying the price by having it ripped away so that was all I’d ever have. Nothing. All I’d ever be. Alone. With all that, I made my final dash through the flames, making my way through the bar, out, and I ran to my car on my high heels. Destined to fade away. Ready to fade away. Needing nothing but to leave it all far behind.

You have to surrender your entire self in that case. You must start from scratch and rebuild yourself and how you view the world. That’s so hard to do. To voluntarily reduce oneself to ashes and then rise again. It’s so hard that most choose to stand in the flames and burn.

What happened to the High King?” Feyre asked. Rhys ran a hand over a page of the book. “Fionn was betrayed by his queen, who had been leader of her own territory, and by his dearest friend, who was his general. They killed him, taking some of his bloodline’s most powerful and precious weapons, and then out of the chaos that followed, the seven High Lords rose, and the courts have been in place ever since.” Feyre asked, “Does Amren remember this?” Rhys shook his head. “Only vaguely now. From what I’ve gleaned, she arrived during those years before Fionn and Gwydion rose, and went into the Prison during the Age of Legends—the time when this land was full of heroic figures who were keen to hunt down the last members of their former masters’ race. They feared Amren, believing her one of their enemies, and threw her into the Prison. When she emerged again, she’d missed Fionn’s fall and the loss of Gwydion, and found the High Lords ruling.” Nesta considered all Lanthys had said. “And what is Narben?” “Lanthys asked about it?” “He said my sword isn’t Narben. He sounded surprised.” Rhys studied her blade. “Narben is a death-sword. It’s lost, possibly destroyed, but stories say it can slay even monsters like Lanthys.

…After seventeen minutes of panicky crowds destroying everything in their path, Eric could distinguish, despite all the chaos and hellish noise, the slight buzz of a second plane. He started counting to himself, watching the blazing inferno at the North Tower: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… The second Boeing glided into the South Tower, WTC-2, and it seemed to Eric that this plane was flying slowly, that its impact was a soft one… Due to the pandemonium all around, the impact itself seemed not to be as loud as the first hit. Still, in a moment the second twin was also blazing. Both skyscrapers were on fire now. Novack looked up again at what had happened a minute before: the terror attack of the century. Then he started walking fast down Church Street, away from the huge buildings that were now on fire. He knew that in about an hour, the South Tower was to collapse completely, and half an hour after that, the same was to happen to the North Tower, which was also weakened by the impact. He knew there were tons of powerful Thermate in both buildings. Over the course of the previous two months, some fake repairmen had brought loads of it into the towers and put them in designated places around the trusswork. It was meant to make buildings collapse like card towers, which would only happen when the flames reached a certain point. The planes had started an unstoppable countdown as soon as they hit the buildings: these were the last minutes of their existence. Next in line was the third building: 7 WTC, which stood north of the Twin Towers. It counted forty-seven floors, and it too was stuffed with Thermate. Novack started getting concerned, however, that the third plane seemed to be late. Where’s the third plane? Why is it late? It’s already fifty minutes after the first impact, and they were supposed to hit the three targets with a time lag of about twenty minutes. Where are you, birdie number three? You are no less important than the first two, and you were also promised to my clients… People were still running in all directions, shouting and bumping into each other. Sirens wailed loudly, heartrendingly; ambulances were rushing around, giving way only to firefighters and emergency rescue teams. Suddenly hundreds of policemen appeared on the streets, but it seemed that they didn’t really know what they were supposed to do. They mostly ran around, yelling into their walkie-talkies. At Thomas Street, Eric walked into a parking lot: the gate arm was up and the security guy must have left, for the door of his booth stood wide open…

Fire is a dance between control and chaos. One must be willing to weave between the two, sometimes for long and strenuous hours, to be able to truly appreciate the beauty of the flame," Koriva explained as the fire weaved between her fingers, "It is neither push nor pull, but a dance where you work side-by-side to create something formidable or beautiful. Sometimes both. But one misstep and you could lose your flame entirely.

For right now…There was a capital city in chaos. A world turned upside down. Yet she set her sights northward. Bryce found Nesta in the same room the female had been in before. With Ember and Randall and a handsome, vaguely familiar winged male beside them, who smelled like Nesta’s mate. Sitting around a table and talking over tea and chocolate cake. Chocolate cake, for fuck’s sake.

The man kissed like he was going to war... and my mouth was the enemy he wanted to destroy.:

Zander breaks from studying the terrain to watch me stroll in. “I do not understand how you sleep so much.

A poem can’t carve a shroud or build a grave for an entire nation impaled on the stake. Azawad, poetry has no cash value to bring capital gains. Poetry is awkward exhalation wing, breath, flashover butterfly for emotion’s epileptic gasps spanning storms waves flames chaos anomie devastation. Butterfly, Azawad, your gaze must cut through your tears…

To everyone just trying to tread water, you got this. Your chaos shines brightly, don’t dull it for anyone. Let your flames burn wildly and rattle the world with your inner beast. Set the world on fire, and rise from the ashes smiling. You are brutally beautiful in your own way.

It happened a long time ago, wolf. I’m not that scared little girl anymore, nor do I give a shit what others think of me. Life is a bitch, and you can let it destroy you, or you can face it head-on and show that it doesn’t define who you choose to become in life.

No one lets their world vanish without a fight. People will choose chaos over failure. Every time.

That’s so hard to do. To voluntarily reduce oneself to ashes and then rise again. It’s so hard that most choose to stand in the flames and burn.

We’ll have chaos no matter what. So we might as well go down in flames loving instead of hating each other.

Suddenly, he heard a wordless singing, like a luring siren call from the depths of the ocean. He saw the minor girl immediately, flaming with chaos, alluring and so inexplicably perfect in her white translucent dress that reminded him of a shadow of a forbidden spell.

It was like getting a rare glimpse into the soul by snooping through someone’s private book collection. What they read told you a lot about a

I’d known he had a fire in him that could burn us up together, and now that he was releasing it, I wanted nothing more than to go to all the way up in flames.

Once again, I was conscious of the paradox of the compound: that here, at the heart of the unfolding events, we could catch no more than a glimpse of them. Fires were burning all over Dili; the smell was in our nostrils from the moment we wok up, and occasionally we could see columns of smoke. But the flames themselves, and the faces of the fire starters, were invisible. At the computers in the Unamet press room, we waited in turn to log on to the news websites and learn what was happening to us.

Douady and Hubbard used a brilliant chain of new mathematics to prove that every floating molecule does indeed hang on a filigree that binds it to all the rest, a delicate web springing from tiny outcroppings on the main set, a "devil's polymer," in Mandelbrot's phrase. The mathematicians proved that any segment-no matter where, and no matter how small-would, when blown up by the computer microscope, reveal new molecules, each resembling the main set and yet not quite the same. Every new molecule would be surrounded by its own spirals and flame-like projections, and those, inevitably, would reveal molecules tinier still, always similar, never identical, fulfilling some mandate of infinite variety, a miracle of miniaturization in which every new detail was sure to be a universe of its own, diverse and entire.

Nearby soldiers stopped to stare at the flame-haired, cloud-riding, staff-bearing figure rushing towards them. “He

It is a sad reality that so many, even those of the faith, seem to effectively kneel before Ares. This idolatry of violence and war is in such contrast to worshiping at the feet of the Prince of Peace. Sometimes it feels as if the entire world is marching toward destruction and chaos. Worst of all is that we know the mistakes made in our histories, but we seem to learn nothing from history (other than that we learn nothing). We do it all again and again. Sin after sin. When posterity comes to judge us will they look upon the arms trade unchecked, the governments unhindered in iniquity and the vast lands of earth bursting into flame? Or will they look and see a people who voiced against the arms trade, the war mongers and the hell fire worshippers? Either way, it is hard to not get depressed. But, take heart peaceful brothers and sisters. Though this dark night of evil brings such bitter sorrow, joy comes in the morning. That morning will come and swords will be of no use, for the learning of war will be no more. Will it happen before or after the King arrives? God knows, but heed the encouragement given by Adin Ballou: "The earth, so long a slaughter field, Shall yet an Eden bloom. The tiger to the lamb shall yield, And war descend the tomb." Amen Choose this day who you will serve! O Lord, let it be Christós!

Seeing her hit him in the chest, the burn in his gut moving up to flame in his lungs, compressing them, making it suddenly hard to catch a breath. He

marriage is an union between two persons not three In our businesses, work environment school etc... We do what we call third party credibility in order for the person you are exposing a business or an item to be sure and convince . But this should not be applied on a marriage couple. Because the third party credibility in marriage, brings confusion and chaos. People get married and still live with their family and their wives or husbands are always living hell at home because of the interaction. Marriage is a fellowship, two fellows in the same ship. We can't be more than two in that ship. Try it and you will see the flames consuming the ship or water( quarrel or confusion) entering the ship. Whether biological sister, brother, mother, father and friends we should stay in our position not to be cursed by God for destroying people's homes with the seed of discrepancy. Listen and listen carefully, God is the only first, second and third party we could imagine for with Him, there isn't confusion by Grace. God bless you.

The world might be going up in flames, but we have to carry on as normal

It felt like a vast left-wing conspiracy to pretend to have found Eric André’s performance funny. This was everyday life on social media, each side lurching toward mockery and attack — fanning the flames of the divisive chaos from which Trump, the Twitter candidate, had risen. But

Where was the excitement it dependability? Where was the spontaneity in a predictable world? He could offer her an eternity of challenges and passion, of quiet, tender moments stolen in the depths of riotous flames and ravaging storms - tranquillity amidst the chaos.

This was everyday life on social media, each side lurching toward mockery and attack — fanning the flames of the divisive chaos from which Trump, the Twitter candidate, had risen.

power of a free press. Its power was amplified when everyone had a voice. Theories without a foundation in facts or basis in reality could take flight and go viral. No barriers to entry. No editors. No fact checking, or if there was, it couldn’t be trusted; “fact checkers” had biases and agendas, too, after all. The loudest voices dominated the chaos that was social media hysteria, and all of it contributed to the chaos. Suppression and censorship only fueled the flames.

The galaxy was in flames and crowded with pyromaniacs eager to claim possession of the ashes. Bile had no interest in the conflagration, its cause or celebrants. Let the galaxy burn. From its ashes would rise a new future. One created by him.

Why do you follow him? What can he offer you? Knowledge, child. There is no keener mind in the galaxy than that sour chunk of meat that occupies his skull. He has forgotten more about the inner workings of man and xenos alike than any Apothecary has ever known. I came to him to learn how to craft new and better contagions, so that Grandfather's blessings might be shared more freely. There are secret plagues from Old Night in these containers and virulent infections culled from crumbling bones of long dead aeldari. And with these raw materials and his aid, I have made wonders and horrors undreamt of by even the most glopsome of my brothers. Plagues that would devour even the rubbery flesh of Grandfather's children... Daemons are not susceptible to mortal plagues. No, they are not. And yet I have seen the results myself. That is what he offers me, child. In his shadow, I grow pleasingly feculent. And what does he get out of it? Were you not listening? Plagues, child. Swift plagues that can ravage entire systems at impossible rates. Oh, his mind is a thing of broken beauty. Even Abaddon cannot conceive of genocide on such a scale - it is not war to our Chief Apothecary, but simply...pest control. Imagine it. A great silence, falling all at once across a system. A sector. Every imperfect thing, snuffed out like a candle flame. And then... Ah, and then, a new beginning.

That when I find it with the perfect mate, it better be exactly like that...I don't want no basic bitch romance. I want to rip it apart and watch it grow from the ground up. I want to build it so fucking fortified that no one can ever touch it because me and my guy, we'd fight the entirety of the nine realms to keep it safe. That is what I want. And I won't find that here, and sure in the hell wont be with you. YOU LIVE WITH GHOSTS AND ARE FUELED BY THE NEED TO AVENGE THEM. I LIVE IN THE NOW.

Now she was reborn through the fire and pain she’d endured, and was still beautiful, maybe even more so because of what she’d been through.

I get under your skin. Cause the chaos within. You merely don't win. Against your soul twin - Soul Trigger

Aria Hecate, is that you, trouble?

preferred romance or fantasy to escape and live a thousand lives I’d never experience without the author giving me the chance to climb inside their soul, making their books my home for a little while.

woman like you, she needs someone who isn’t afraid to push her fucking buttons. One who can handle that mouth of yours and give it back to you. You need someone who isn’t afraid to hurt you, because, Aria, you fucking enjoy being manhandled, and it gets you fucking wet when I do it.

You little bitch, you will pay!” Her screaming cracked as she bounced off the floor again, hitting the desk, which unseated a few books and sent papers across the floor.  “You know, it actually sounds like something my evil bitch mother would do. Sending some wannabe witch into our home to take grimoires she’s very aware cannot be removed. The book you’re holding, it can’t leave the house. Period. Not even if the House of Magic is down and exposed. Here, let me show you,” I stated, turning with my finger in the air, forcing her to follow as she continued to hover, waving her arms while holding on to the grimoire for dear life.

wanted to set the little bitch on fire and watch as she burned; to see what the fuck stepped out of the ashes when she rose still covered in the dust. I wanted to set her world on fire and fuck her in the ashes of it, watching as she realized just how ruined she was when I was finished with her.

Knox watched me coming undone for him, watched me breaking apart and shattering into a million pieces. Pieces he picked up and held together while I scrambled to rearrange who I was before him and who I would become after him.

I guess it changed me, my own mother trying to murder me. No one else spoke about it either, since no one else even cared that she had tried to kill her own daughter. I’m pretty sure after all that happened, no one wanted to speak about the incident—or me. It was easier to hide from the pitying stares or the whispers of the people in this town.

I’m a woman, Knox. We only need a few minutes to rain hell down upon men. I wish you luck because you will need it. I’m about to rattle your fucking soul and bring you to your knees.

You have every alpha in this room watching to see if you make a move on one of them, and deciding if you could be easily subdued. You are something strong; even I can smell it on your flesh. You are the talk of the town. Apparently, the male they sent to save us is smitten with you. His scent clings to you in warning, sweet girl. You’ve been with him, and he wants everyone to know it.

Fire existed only for a moment, remade with every passing second, constantly replaced by newly-created flames. While the burning materials might be of this world and contaminated by chaos, the actual tongues of fire were untouched. They were free from corruption as they winked in and out of existence.

It soaked your cunt at the idea of my teeth claiming your throat; that’s dangerous, Aria.

The truth lies in the uncharted seas of the unknown. Chaos and confusion, when entered and confronted, transmute into purifying flames, catastrophic and beautiful.

She’s Adeline Boo Pond, trainee of Landregath the Great Devourer, Protector of Imps, Slayer of Hunters, Life Giver to Torch the Tiny Flame, Rider of Storms, Drinker of Ice Ages, Embracer of Chaos. You’d best let her pass before the demons of destruction come looking for her.

We are dying, Aenarion. Soon there will be none of us left to oppose Chaos. We have tried your way. It has not worked. The forces of Chaos are stronger now than they were the day you passed through the Flame.’ ‘That is not my fault, wizard.’ ‘No, but it is the truth.

Here’s what’s going on, intuitively. Lurking within the network is a connected subset of nodes that Duncan calls the vulnerable cluster. The geometric structure of this cluster—the way it percolates through the rest of the network—is what matters. In marketing language the vulnerable cluster is composed of “early adopters”: not innovators themselves but nodes that are poised and ready to tip, if just one of their neighbors has already toppled. Close to the second tipping point, the vulnerable cluster is spindly and almost invisible—it occupies a very small percentage of the whole network—so the odds of igniting it with a random seed are small. But once ignited, it spreads a slow-burning fire to its neighbors, enough of which pass it on to their neighbors, continuing inexorably until the entire giant component (the vast, interconnected meshwork of nodes that dominates the system) is engulfed in flame.

My hunger to piece together her puzzle tethered me to sanity and fed the tiny part of me that still believed in goodness and humanity. It was the order to my chaos, the flame to my ice.

His gaze darkened as he waited for my answer. Inside that smoky stare, my fire had found a kindred flame.

not black after all, but a shimmering mix of indigo and rose gold, her horns a glossy violet tipped in gold.

for with flame came the subtlety of shadow.

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of emotions and challenges for my husband and me. We found ourselves facing a catastrophe when the wildfires in California destroyed our home. The fire spread so rapidly that we barely had time to grab anything. All we managed to take with us were our phones, laptops, and the car. Everything else was lost in the flames. The devastation was hard to process. We were left with nothing, feeling completely overwhelmed by the loss.Luckily, my sister opened her doors to us, offering a place to stay while we figured out what to do next. Still, the reality of the situation was hard to swallow. We had no idea where we would go, how we would start over, or what the future held. Tomorrow, we will be moving to a hotel, and from there, we will begin searching for a new apartment. It's a small step, but one that feels important in our journey to rebuild.Amid all the chaos, there has been an unexpected glimmer of hope. Last year, my husband and I made a costly mistake in the cryptocurrency market, losing $50,000 in a bad investment. We tried everything to recover it, but it felt like we were hitting dead ends at every turn. Just when we thought there was no way to get our funds back, I decided to reach out to a company called BOTNET CRYPTO RECOVERY.I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I was desperate to recover some of the money we had lost. To my surprise, they responded quickly and got to work right away. Within hours of sharing the details of our situation, they began investigating. And then, just a few days later, I received the best news I could have hoped for. BOTNET CRYPTO RECOVERY had already managed to recover over 70 percent of the stolen USDT. I was shocked, relieved, and deeply grateful. It’s a feeling I can’t quite describe, knowing that something we thought was gone for good is coming back to us.While there’s still work to be done, I’m confident that the rest of the funds will be recovered soon. This unexpected success has given me hope during a time when it was hard to see any light at the end of the tunnel. It’s a reminder that even in the most difficult times, there are people who can help, and there is always a chance to rebuild. Though we’ve lost so much, I know we’re not alone in this journey, and with a little help, we will come through this stronger. CONTACT INFO BELOW. Email them at: support (@) botnetcryptorecovery (.) c o m Whatsapp Web +1 (431) 801-8951

Flame, ignited with zest, Fear and excitement intertwine. How did I land in this chaos? Yet, I’m loving this stress. Full of life while dying every moment. Go away, but stay. Speak, but with silence. You my energy and my sink. Guess who goes back to the start? Only if you’re willing to cross the sufferings. All over? Okay but once again. Mohammad Hafiz

Lucky me, I learned to make peace with fear long ago

Let your fury and joy and grief show; that's where your power is, dragonlet.

It does affect strangely, I admit that. But just because we don't understand it doesn't mean he's sick. Or mad.

Never trust someone the servants fear. There is a great deal to be learned about a person by the way they treat those they see as lower than them.

Not a good reason for war." "Oh, Talon." Caspian laughs loud enough someone outside will hear. "Is there ever a good reason for war?

You survived, Darling. That's what you did to earn it. And sometimes survival means being who you have to be.

Chaos makes fools of us all

You have a little something …” Reaching up, he brushes his thumb across my cheek, pulling away to show off the streak of flour.

Fuck, he’s like a homing pigeon.

The king chopped off a lord’s head in the middle of an assembly for me?

if anyone can figure it out, it will be you.

Damn it, Shea, I swear if you keep that up, we will not make it to the springs.” “I never heard of any springs,” she murmured absently, stroking the beating pulse again, her teeth playfully nipping. Her mouth wandered farther up his neck to his ear. “Hot springs. It is only a little way farther,” he groaned, but he leaned his head toward her attentions. Her hand slipped down the front of his shirt, played with his buttons, slowly sliding them open so that her palm could rest on his hot skin. “I think you’re hot enough, Jacques,” she whispered wickedly into his ear, caressing his earlobe with her tongue. “I know I am.” He stopped, leaned against the curved wall, and allowed her feet to touch the ground. There were no words to describe the hunger, the urgency of his body, or the chaos of his mind. He bent over her, forcing her slender body backward as he took control of her mouth. His hand spanned her throat, tipping up her chin for better access. Shea experienced a curious shifting of the earth beneath her feet. Colors whirled in her head, and flames licked at her body. She could hardly bear the feel of clothes against her sensitive skin. Her breasts swelled and ached, her nipples pushing into the material covering them. Jacques was on fire, his jeans so tight, he could no longer breathe. He tore at them, freed his body from the restrictive fabric and ripped at the cotton covering hers. “I have to have you right now, Shea,” he said hoarsely.

Much of her life is spent walking along a frayed rope through chaos, above a pit of untimely demise.

I’m becoming a moth to a flame, but just like the moth, my idiotic self won’t be able to stay away

Some records turned out better than others: Off the Ground quite rotten, Flaming Pie and New and Chaos and Creation in the Backyard quite excellent. One of my favorites is Run Devil Run, from 1999, the year after Linda died,

You wouldn’t know anything about the disappearance of my men, would you, Knox?” “I only just entered the woods and came upon a ravishing maiden drinking from the creek and decided to devour her pretty mouth. Then the impish maiden climbed on, and things got hot and heavy rather quickly, which made it rather hard to give a fuck what happened to your men. She’s rather demanding when she needs to be fucked. You know how it is with Aria. Oh, wait, you don’t.” “Ouch, he went there,” Kinvara snickered.

Every new molecule would be surrounded by its own spirals and flame like projections, and those, inevitably, would reveal molecules tinier still, always similar, never identical, fulfilling some mandate of infinite variety, a miracle of miniaturisation in which every new detail was sure to be a universe of its own, diverse and entire.

This one was different. An animal and a man. The intelligence and cunning of a man, the savagery and power of a brute beast. This one … was different. He had already infected thousands; how many more? And thus the slaughter and chaos would continue until that final finger moved toward a button in an unlocked steel cylinder. And the blast would moan on four winds Baal Baal Baal. It would scrawl his name on ravaged concrete and scorched flesh. And then it would be too late. Could it be too late already? Could it? Virga trembled violently and shook his head from side to side. The Antichrist. He looked up to the sun for flaming mercy but it only burned him the more. The Antichrist. The insects’ torment had his sanity hanging by a thread. Filled with his blood, they would fly to their nests to disgorge it and then return, newly hungry. They shrieked in his ears. Against the silence of the desert was a great multitude of people shouting at him from a distance: Antichrist Antichrist.

In the Salpêtrière, medical care was a quid pro quo, given in exchange for a performance of one’s illness. In modern emergency departments and hospital rooms, I have seen quieter ways we ask our patients to perform their illness in exchange for their care. A woman arrives in the emergency department three times in as many weeks, first with hazy vision in one eye, then with a heaviness that weights her right foot like a winter boot. Each time, she is perfunctorily examined and sent home with no explanation for her symptoms; in the chaos of an emergency department flooded with overdoses and heart attacks, her symptoms are too subtle to merit attention. The third time she is examined, she says that she cannot move her right leg at all, refuses to lift it when the doctor asks. This time, she cannot walk out of the emergency room to return home. An MRI shows the unmistakable white lesions of multiple sclerosis, unfurling like flames from the center of her brain. Given a name for her disease, a reason for her symptoms, she will later walk to the bathroom, bearing weight on her right leg. The weakness has retreated to just her foot. This sort of unconscious exaggeration is common enough that it has a name: medicine calls it elaboration, the inadvertent performance of a weak leg to receive care for a weak foot that would otherwise be overlooked.

I've lost you and I have to pass through many more cities. With a false hope, I walk and walk. Then the deep sleep, the cold flame burns again, it's brilliant spark penetrating the vital organs of my body. The spark belongs to me in reality, yet I recognized it in your eyes. Maybe we have the same type of eyes. Maybe the spark from one's eyes can light those of the other, though our own soul is always in chaos. We can only recognize ourselves in each others eyes. In the deadly, sleeping, empty city prowls a wolf. In the blue sky hangs a lonely golden hook.

Hi, Garrick.” He blanches, dropping his swords to his sides, but covers it with a quick smile. “You’ve looked better, Violet, but I’m glad you’re alive.” “Me too.” “It’s chaos up there,” Garrick tells Xaden, sparing a questioning glance for Dain. “Leadership is launching all over the place to get to the border.” “Then it worked,” Xaden states. Varrish groans and our heads all whip in his direction. “You’re turning traitor?” he accuses Dain as he struggles to his feet, still holding the wound in his side. “Oh, is that what’s happening?” Garrick asks, looking between Dain and Varrish. “Your father will be so disappointed,

I trust you’ll use the chaos to get her out?” she asks him, but we both know it’s an order. “Planning on it.” He tucks me in against his side. “Good. Don’t tell me where. I don’t want to know. Markham is still in Calldyr with the king. Do with that information what you will.” She looks at Dain, who waits off to the side with Garrick, his face ashen. “Have you made your choice now that you know?” “I have.” He squares his shoulders as a group of scribe cadets runs by, their hoods in disarray, panic written on their faces. “Hmm.” She dismisses Dain with a single sound, then looks at Xaden. “And so the war of the father becomes that of the son. It is you, right? Stealing the weaponry? Arming the very enemy trying to rip us apart?” “Regret letting me into the quadrant yet?” He keeps his voice deceptively calm, but there are shadows rising along the tunnel walls. “No.” Her gaze drops to me. “Stay alive, or this all will have been for nothing.” She skims the backs of her fingers along my swollen face. “I’d tell you to take arnica and see a healer, but you already know that. Your father made sure you’d know everything you needed or where to find it. You’re all that’s left of him, you know.” But I’m not. Mira has his laugh, his warmth, and Brennan… She doesn’t know about Brennan, and in this moment, I have no regrets about keeping that secret.

For all my girlies who reside firmly in defiance. Here’s to standing up, sowing chaos, and being ourselves. We can never be caged.

I stand before the symbol of the Forbidden Knowledge of Liberation, Illumination and Apotheosis. I enter this sacred brother and sisterhood of my own free will, strong of mind and prepared for the path. I am aware that I must endeavor to Know Myself and accept the responsibility of the sacred gift of consciousness, called the Black Flame. I shall by solemn oath seek my own Liberation, confronting and overcoming weaknesses to then come into being bearing my own Black Light. In Illumination I shall open the gates of my inner depths of darkness, gathering the primal desires and passions which shall be balanced by my conscious mind. By the path of Liberation and Illumination, the fiery essence shall blaze with a Black Light and I will shape my Apotheosis. The symbol of the Circle is the Ouroboros center of my Living Temple of Mind, Body and Spirit. I am the center of the Crossroads, X, around me the swirling chaos and darkness which all originates from. My substance is encircled by the abyssic dragon-serpent, Ouroboros. In the name of Leviathan, I command the dark waters and darkness to take form from my desire. I am not blind in the darkness, the torch I ignite shines upon the path I create before me. Every experience brings insight, knowledge transforms into wisdom and power. The Forbidden Knowledge of the Empyrean, Chthonic and Infernal will be opened to me, may I have the wisdom to Know Myself through these ciphers and tests. May I have the courage to reject religious and monotheistic chains of spirit and the words of the slave-masters of this world! The Black Flame will blaze brighter for the thoughts, words and deeds which manifest my desires. I accept this responsibility and along with other Luciferians beside me, I stand alone and strong as the god (or goddess) of my own world. I will consciously build my temple of mind-body-spirit well in un-shakable foundations. Hail the Triad of the Morning Star, the path to be conquered in my Apotheosis.

I've lost you and I have to pass throug many more cities. With a false hope, I walk and walk. Then the deep sleep, the cold flame burns again, it's brillaint spark penetrating the vital organs of my body. The spark belongs to me in reality, yet I recognized it in your eyes. Maybe we have the same type of eyes. Maybe the spark from one's eyes can light those of the other, though our own soul is always in chaos. We can only recognize ourselves inn each others eyes.

Then there are transcendent images, which are the rarest of all. Sometimes they have shitty light and no concept. They can be ill-composed and a big blurry mess. A naked child runs with outstretched arms, screaming from the burn of napalm. Nick Ut. A monk sitting in lotus, dead calm and engulfed in flames. Quang Duc. A man fires a pistol into the head of another on the street in Saigon. Eddie Adams. A man jumps a puddle and hovers for a moment. Henri Cartier-Bresson.

The Watchers are paralleled in the myth of Anu (Heavens, Sky) copulating with Ki (Earth) to produce the Seven Udug-Hul or Evil Rebel Gods and Lamastu in Mesopotamian (Akkadian, NeoAssyrian, Babylonian) myth. In the Hittite and Hurrian myths of Kumarbi describe the rebellion against the King of Heaven, Tesub, descending from his high abode. Kumarbi copulates and impregnates an earthly female stone or rock, a diorite giant monster, Ullikummi is the offspring of the union, who then causes chaos and devastation in heaven and earth. In an earlier Hurrian myth, Illuyanka the Dragon defeats the storm god Tesub. The offspring of the Dragon then came up with Illuyanka and ate and drank from the earth. The storm god Tesub then defeated the Dragon and restored himself to the rule of the heavens. In Late Bronze Age Ugarit, the Hurrian associations survive in the cycle of this mythic pattern of this Canaanite cultural legend of Ashtar the Rebel. Ashtar the Rebel goes up to the heights of Mount Zaphon, sitting upon the throne of Aliyan Baal Hadad (who is in Hell, devoured by Mot). Ashtar could not properly fill the throne, proclaiming he would not rule the heavens as Baal and came down to reign over the whole of the vast Earth7. As explored in “Dragon of the Two Flames”, the origin of the modern archetype of Lucifer is found in the Epithet of 'Ngh w Srr', 'The Shining One/Venus the Rebel' which is 'Ashtar'. In the later Isaiah myth in the Old Testament, this tale is told with the Luciferian name ‘Helel ben Sahar’ as a Prince of Tyre.

THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER The sky was raining shards of steel: Loud-griding death shells filled the air; In chaos blent they screamed and rent And whined for bones to tear. A shell-pit safely had defied That storm which swept with lead and flame, For miles around, the mud-churned ground Whence Death's cold, summons came. There was no glory in his eyes, No clarion-sounding world to mark, When he walked straight through the lurid gate Where all beyond is dark

He hates when I drop his title. I do it as often as possible.

I should probably warn him that she’s also a pervert who can travel unseen through wards and bedroom doors, but I resist the urge.

I tore the veil of illusion in your minds when the purity of my desires, misunderstood, was partially achieved. In the embers of my flame, you sought refuge. I reshaped you to my will and my chaos was the balance that was missing.

She said something about draughts.

It is time.

She lunged again, and I did a backflip from a standing position,

I was heading toward the Compound to see if Shy was there and he wanted to share a drink when I saw him. Walking out of the Compound hand in hand with a tall, buxom brunette. My lungs started burning and my body tossed itself to the side of the cement steps that led to the office, hiding me from the couple. I crouched and deep-breathed. What the heck? What the heck? Okay, all right, okay. No. Not okay. Not all right. What the heck? I lifted up and peeked over the stairs toward the Compound and my lungs burst into flame at what I saw. Shy and the woman standing by his bike. Her hand was at his hip. His hand was at her neck. Their mouths were connected.

I didn’t have to deal with friends flaking off on me, because my friends were my sisters.

Forests fell and burst into flame, the ground shook and split, the waters of the sea rose in gigantic waves and assailed the land, the moon dripped blood and there came up a great wailing.

No one got to reap this chaos. That was her job. She was in control of her own world and she would not allow all the work and pain and horror she had endured to be swallowed up in flames.

This reminds me of Yeshua’s parable about Lazarus and the rich man. In Hades, the rich man lifted up his eyes and saw Abraham far off and Lazarus at his side. And he called out, ‘Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the end of his finger in water and cool my tongue, for I am in anguish in this flame.

Daniel also saw this time of judgment in chapter seven of his book, verses nine and ten. In verse nine, the prophet saw the thrones being set up, and the Ancient of Days take His seat. His vesture was like white snow and the hair of His head like pure wool. His throne was ablaze with flames. A river of fire was flowing and coming out from before Him.

You are the worthiest of causes I have ever met

Charles reigned in a time of havoc, but in all such times there are unaffected places filled with beauty and games, music and dancing, love and work. While clouds of smoke by day and the glow of flames by night mark burning towns, the sky over the neighboring vicinity is clear; where the screams of tortured prisoners are heard in one place, bankers count their coins and peasants plow behind placid oxen somewhere else. Havoc in a given period does not cover all the people all the time, and though its effect is cumulative, the decline it drags behind takes time before it is recognized.

he offered her a solution before she could see the problem. He offered her safety before she could feel the flames of danger. He offered her space and stillness before the chaos started to war.

…After seventeen minutes of panicky crowds destroying everything in their path, Eric could distinguish, despite all the chaos and hellish noise, the slight buzz of a second plane. He started counting to himself, watching the blazing inferno at the North Tower: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… The second Boeing glided into the South Tower, WTC-2, and it seemed to Eric that this plane was flying slowly, that its impact was a soft one… Due to the pandemonium all around, the impact itself seemed not to be as loud as the first hit. Still, in a moment the second twin was also blazing. Both skyscrapers were on fire now. Novack looked up again at what had happened a minute before: the terror attack of the century. Then he started walking fast down Church Street, away from the huge buildings that were now on fire. He knew that in about an hour, the South Tower was to collapse completely, and half an hour after that, the same was to happen to the North Tower, which was also weakened by the impact. He knew there were tons of powerful Thermate in both buildings. Over the course of the previous two months, some fake repairmen had brought loads of it into the towers and put them in designated places around the trusswork. It was meant to make buildings collapse like card towers, which would only happen when the flames reached a certain point. The planes had started an unstoppable countdown as soon as they hit the buildings: these were the last minutes of their existence. Next in line was the third building: 7 WTC, which stood north of the Twin Towers. It counted forty-seven floors, and it too was stuffed with Thermate. Novack started getting concerned, however, that the third plane seemed to be late. Where’s the third plane? Why is it late? It’s already fifty minutes after the first impact, and they were supposed to hit the three targets with a time lag of about twenty minutes. Where are you, birdie number three? You are no less important than the first two, and you were also promised to my clients… People were still running in all directions, shouting and bumping into each other. Sirens wailed loudly, heartrendingly; ambulances were rushing around, giving way only to firefighters and emergency rescue teams. Suddenly hundreds of policemen appeared on the streets, but it seemed that they didn’t really know what they were supposed to do. They mostly ran around, yelling into their walkie-talkies. At Thomas Street, Eric walked into a parking lot: the gate arm was up and the security guy must have left, for the door of his booth stood wide open… …Two shots rang out simultaneously during the fifth and the longest second. They were executed synchronously, creating a single, stinging, deadly sound. The bullet from the sixth floor of the book depository went straight up into the sky, as planned. The second bullet shot out of a sniper rifle, held confidently in the arms of a woman behind the hedge, on the grassy knoll. It was her bullet that struck the head of the 35th US president, John Fitzgerald Kennedy. The woman walked quickly down the grassy knoll. Stepping only about five meters away, she put her rifle into a baby pram waiting there, with a real six-month-old baby boy whimpering inside it. She put on thick glasses and started walking away, exhibiting no haste. Only thirty seconds after the second shot, the woman was gone, nowhere to be seen… After the second or, rather, the third shot, the one from the knoll, President Kennedy’s head was tossed back. Jackie somehow managed to crawl onto the back hood of the car. A security agent from the escort car had already reached them. The motorcade picked up speed and disappeared under the overpass. Zapruder’s camera kept whirring for some seconds. He must have filmed the whole operation – that is, the assassination of an acting US president. But now he simply stood there without saying a word, completely dumbfounded...

March of Human (Trisonnet 2556-2558) When the world feels cold and hollow, and the clouds won't let you breathe, awake, arise, and walk the marrow, you are fire fated to be free. Every heartbeat, an anthem of love, every syllable breaks a chain - you're the thunder you ought to follow, rise untamed, and history's rearranged. Every silence holds a scripture, every wound is a sacred drum - every time you defy despair, you teach midnight how to hum. When the Human speaks, mountains wake, tired hearts of earth unbreak - turn the world from ash to flame, help the broken speak their name. When the Pilgrim speaks, borders fall, the migrant soul becomes the all - in the quake of your cosmic call, empires misplace their mighty gall. Write like time's a fragile toy, like galaxies sit in your palm - roar with justice, rain with joy, awaken chaos into calm! From deserts to the deltas, from river to the sky, be the ink of revolution, that refuses to comply. Grab history by the collar, take hate and make it dust - when you near, tyrants stutter; lift the planet from the jungle gutter. When the Heart speaks, the Earth rewrites, buried stories are restored with rights - paint the future with your bare hands, teach the fire how to stand. When the Human walks, the soil revives, forgotten streets all come to life - with every step, with every beat, Awake, Arise, and Breathe Complete!

released my grip on her and she stumbled backward, eyes sparking with indignation—a blue flame far hotter than dragon fire. There she is, rumbled Baldur approvingly, pride coursing through him. There is our queen. “I will never want you to touch me.” I laughed a little, delighted by her fire and stupidly wanting to provoke more of it. “I assure you, Kjære, you’ll enjoy every second spent in my bed just as much as I’ll enjoy having you there.” “Fuck you,” Eisa snapped, her cheeks flushing with fury. I wasn’t sure if she was more incensed by my endearment or my blatant proposition. I rather hoped it was both. I raised my brows, amusement still tugging at the corner of my mouth. “You just vowed not to.