Heartbeat Line Quotes

What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboarded down the street at night you could hear everyone's heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone's hearts would start to beat at the same time, like how women who live together have their menstrual periods at the same time, which I know about, but don't really want to know about. That would be so weird, except that the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a crystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn't have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line at the end of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war.

Aaron Warner Anderson is the only emotional through line in my life that ever made sense. He's the only constant. The only steady, reliable heartbeat I've ever had.

Aurora.” I looked at him over my shoulder. His jaw was tight again. The lines across his forehead were back too. “You look beautiful,” Mr. Rhodes said in that careful, somber voice a heartbeat later. “He’s an idiot for looking at anyone else.

In this new, turbulent reality, the one person I recognize is him. My memories of him - memories of us - have done something to me. I've changed somewhere deep inside. I feel different. Heavier, like my feet have been more firmly planted, liberated by certainty, free to grow roots here in my own self, free to trust unequivocally in the strength and steadiness of my own heart. It's an empowering discovery, to find that I can trust myself - even when I'm not myself - to make the right choices. To know for certain now that there was at least one mistake I never made. Aaron Warner Anderson is the only emotional through line in my life that ever made sense. He's the only constant. The only steady, reliable heartbeat I've ever had. Aaron, Aaron, Aaron, Aaron. I had no idea how much we'd lost, no idea how much of him I'd longed for. I had no idea how desperately we'd been fighting. How many years we'd fought for moments - minutes - to be together. It fills me with a painful kind of joy. - Ella

Aaron Anderson Warner is the only emotional through line in my life that ever made sense. He's the only constant, The only steady, reliable heartbeat I've ever had.

My heartbeat accelerates. I am in the here, in the now. I am also in the future. I am holding her and wanting and knowing and hoping all at once. We are the ones who take this thing called music and line it up with this thing called time. We are the ticking, we are the pulsing, we are the underneath every part of this moment. And by making this moment our own, we are rendering it timeless. There is no audience. There are no instruments. There are only bodies and thoughts and murmurs and looks. It's the concert rush to end all concert rushes, because this is what matters. When the heart races, this is what it's racing toward.

What is this, Kazi? I knew what he meant. This. What was this between us? Just what game were we playing? I had wondered too. Because now our kisses were filled with pauses, our gazes filled with more questions instead of fewer. I don’t know, Jase. What do you feel? Your lips, your hands, your heartbeat. No, Kazi, in here, what do you feel in here? His finger stroked a line down the center of my chest. I felt an ache pressing within. A need I couldn’t name. I don’t know. I didn’t want to know. Let me taste your mouth, I whispered. Don’t make me think.

No one else. It was me who had to carry myself over the finish line, and all I needed to remember when I felt like not trying was that that feeling wouldn't last forever. Forever. I used to believe it didn't exist. One word has terrified me as a child and it haunted me. But now I knew, and many small ways, but it was real, But it didn't scare me anymore. Forever wasn't a little girl cowering in the closet. Forever wasn't the shadows sitting in the back of the class. Forever wasn't doing what I thought Carl and Rose wanted instead of what I needed to do with my life. Forever wasn't believing I was some kind of replacement daughter and that I was letting them down. Forever wasn't being the one who needed protection. Forever wasn't pain and grief forever wasn't a problem. Forever was my heartbeat and it was the hope tomorrow held. Forever was the glistening silver lining of the dark cloud, no matter how heavy and thick it was. Forever was knowing it moments of weakness didn't equate to an eternity of them. Forever was knowing that I was strong. Forever was Carl and Rosa, Ainsley and Kira, Hector and Rider. Jaden would always be a part of my forever. Forever was in the fire-breathing dragon inside me that had shed the fear like a snake shedding skin. Forever was simply a promise of more. Forever was a work in progress. And I couldn't wait for forever.

What about a teakettle? What if the spout opened and closed when the steam came out, so it would become a mouth, and it could whistle pretty melodies, or do Shakespeare, or just crack up with me? I could invent a teakettle that reads in Dad’s voice, so I could fall asleep, or maybe a set of kettles that sings the chorus of “Yellow Submarine,” which is a song by the Beatles, who I love, because entomology is one of my raisons d’être, which is a French expression that I know. Another good thing is that I could train my anus to talk when I farted. If I wanted to be extremely hilarious, I’d train it to say, “Wasn’t me!” every time I made an incredibly bad fart. And if I ever made an incredibly bad fart in the Hall of Mirrors, which is in Versailles, which is outside of Paris, which is in France, obviously, my anus would say, “Ce n’étais pas moi!” What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboard down the street at night you could hear everyone's heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone's hearts would start to beat at the same time, like how women who live together have their menstrual periods at the same time, which I know about, but don't really want to know about. That would be so weird, except that the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a crystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn't have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line at the end of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war.

Forever wasn't pain and grief. Forever wasn't a problem. Forever was my heartbeat and it was the hope tomorrow held. Forever was the glistening silver lining of every dark cloud, no matter how heavy and thick it was. Forever was knowing moments of weakness didn't equate to an eternityof them.Forever was knowing that I was strong.Forever was the fire breathing dragon inside me that had shed the fear like a snake shedding skin. Forever was simply a promise of more. Forever was a work in progress.

Scientists say every action initiates an equal and opposite reaction. I say that's just the start. I say every action initiates a most unequal and upredictable chain reaction, that every filament of living becomes part of a larger weave, while remaining identifiable. That every line of latitude requires several stripes of longitude to obtain meaning. That every universe is part of a bigger heaven, a heaven of rhythm and geometry, where a heartbeat is the apex of a triangle.

He was like the other half of myself,' says Boris...Ulrich says, 'You haven't lost {him}, you know. I don't know if it helps to say that. I lost a friend once myself, and I know how it goes. 'He'll find his way inside you, and you'll carry him onward. Behind your heartbeat, you'll hear another one, faint and out of step. People will say you are speaking his opinons, or your hair has turned like his. 'There are no more facts about him -- that part is over. Now is the time for essential things...Gradually you'll grow older than him, and love him as your son. 'You'll live astride the line that separates life from death. You'll become experienced in the wisdom of grief. You won't wait until people die to grieve for them; you'll give them their grief while they are still alive, for then judgment falls away, and there remains only the miracle of being.

You hear my heartbeat?” I nod, cheek rubbing the fabric of his shirt. “It’s beating for you, little bird,” he murmurs, holding me closer. “That can be our music.” “But you can’t hear mine,” I whisper, voice cracking. He pauses. “I can hear it, Phoebe. I hear it in my soul. I set my life by its every beat.

The long-ago days - the days of Mother and Bone and the shed - have become fuzzy and have blended with images of Moon, of my travels, of other people and houses, of hiding places; a tangle of memories leading to Susan. I burrow into her side and listen to her heartbeat. With my eyes closed, I might be in the straw-filled wheelbarrow again, nestled against Mother, listening to the first heartbeat I knew. I open my eyes and tilt my head back to look at Susan's lined face. She smiles at me, and we sit pressed into each other, two old ladies.

Did you wish upon a star and take the time to try to make your wish come true? Did you try to paint the sunrise and find the gift of life within? Did you write a song just for the joy of it? Or write a poem just to feel the pain? Did you find a reason to ignore the petty injustices, the spoken barbs, or the envies, jealousies and greed that crossed your path? Did you wake up this morning and whisper inside, “Today, I’ll find every reason to smile, and ignore the excuses to frown.” Today will be the day I’ll whisper nothing snide, I’ll say nothing cruel. I’ll be kind to my enemy, I’ll embrace my friends, and for this one day, I’ll forget the slights of the past. Today will be the day I’ll live for the joy of it, laugh for the fun of it, and today, I’ll love whether it’s returned, forsaken, or simply ignored. And if you did, then your heart has joined the others who have as well, uniting, strengthening, and in a single heartbeat you’ve created a world of hope.

You haven't lost Iraki, you know. I don't know if it helps to say that. I lost a friend once myself, and I know how it goes. 'He'll find his way inside you, and you'll carry him onward. Behind your heartbeat, you'll hear another one, faint and out of step. People will say you are speaking his opinions, or your hair has turned like his. 'There are no more facts about him, that part is over. Now is the time for essential things. You'll see visions of him wherever you go. You'll see his eyes so moist, his intentions so blinding, you'll think he is more alive than you. You will look around and wonder if it was you who died. 'Gradually you'll grow older than him, and love him as your son. 'In the future, you'll live astride the line separating life from death. You'll become experienced in the wisdom of grief. You won't wait until people die to grieve for them. You'll give them their grief while they are still alive, for then judgement falls away, and there remains only the miracle of being.'

When he remembered, his indrawn breath pulled her scent into his mouth, coating his tongue with her taste. He swallowed that delicious flavor as his heartbeat sped.

But he’d also gotten a personal prickly chill all over from his own thinking. He could do the dextral pain the same way: Abiding. No one single instant of it was unendurable. Here was a second right here: he endured it. What was undealable-with was the thought of all the instants all lined up and stretching ahead, glittering. And the projected future fear of the A.D.A., whoever was out there in a hat eating Third World fast food; the fear of getting convicted of Nuckslaughter, of V.I.P.-suffocation; of a lifetime on the edge of his bunk in M.C.I. Walpole, remembering. It’s too much to think about. To Abide there. But none of it’s as of now real. What’s real is the tube and Noxzema and pain. And this could be done just like the Old Cold Bird. He could just hunker down in the space between each heartbeat and make each heartbeat a wall and live in there. Not let his head look over. What’s unendurable is what his own head could make of it all. What his head could report to him, looking over and ahead and reporting. But he could choose not to listen; he could treat his head like G. Day or R. Lenz: clueless noise. He hadn’t quite gotten this before now, how it wasn’t just the matter of riding out the cravings for a Substance: everything unendurable was in the head, was the head not Abiding in the Present but hopping the wall and doing a recon and then returning with unendurable news you then somehow believed.

They were in a long line, an endless line, and as they burst from the wood there was an instant, the smallest part of a heartbeat, when all Catelyn saw was the moonlight on the point of their lance, as if a thousand willowisps were coming down the ridge, wreathed in silver. Then she blinked, and they were only men, rushing down to kill or die.

What horror to face, to choose the moment of your child’s death, to see the machines whir to a stop, the monitors to beep, the line of the heartbeat to go flat. No one really recovers from that. It must be easier to harden your heart, close the recesses of pain, and live life more simply and with calm deliberation.

It's a terrifying feeling. It's easy to lust after someone, to match their face to a missed heartbeat or a sharp intake of breath. It's easy to say, I want them because of the color of their eyes, the lines of their body. It's something entirely different to say, I want them because of the way they rest their hands on the steering wheel, the way they gaze out a window, the way they say my name.

He could do the dextral pain the same way: Abiding. Here was a second right here: he endured it. What was undealable-with was the thought of all the instants all lined up and stretching ahead, glittering. And the projected future fear. ... It's too much to think about. To Abide there. But none of it's as of now real. ... He could just hunker down in the space between each heartbeat and make each heartbeat a wall and live in there. Not let his head look over. What's unendurable is what his own head could make of it all. ... But he could choose not to listen.

I was wrong,” he replied. “I wanted to keep you safe from me. Away from me…” “And now?” I demanded. His hand was moving higher and higher with every passing heartbeat, carving a line of sin beneath my skirt and up my thigh. “Now I want you closer,” he admitted. “Even though I know I’m being selfish.

Sermon: Why this surprising? Did you think you were going to live forever? Only difference between you, sitting there anticipating rest of your day, and Todd, in coffin, bound for eternal home in cold earth? Is heartbeat. Feel that, people? In your chests? This is thin line between you and grave. So why do you live like you are eternal? That foolish, you are fools. This scary? This not scary! This truth, this reality!

The week passed by swiftly, like a dream....a dream where minutes flew as rapidly as heartbeats. Such a breathless week when something within her drove Scarlett with mingled pain and pleasure to pack and cram every minute with incidents to remember after he was gone, happenings which she could examine at leisure in the long months ahead, extracting every morsel of comfort from them - dance, sing, laugh, fetch and carry for Ashley, anticipate his wants, smile when he smiles, be silent when he talks, follow him with your eyes so that each line of his erect body, each lift of his eyebrows, each quirk of his mouth, will be indelibly printed on your mind - for a week goes by so fast and the war goes on forever.

The icy water hit hard as earth. She thrashed on instinct, but Jacks held her tightly. His arms were unyielding, dragging her up through the crashing waves. Salt water snaked up her nose, and the cold filled her veins. She was coughing and sputtering, barely able to take down air as Jacks swam to shore with her in tow. He held her close and carried her from the ocean as if his life depended on it instead of hers. 'I will not let you die.' A single bead of water dripped from Jacks' lashes on to her lips. It was raindrop soft, but the look in his eyes held the force of a storm. It should have been too dark to his expression, but the crescent moon burned brighter with each second, lining edges of Jacks' cheekbones as he looked at her with too much intensity. The crashing ocean felt suddenly quiet in contrast to her pounding heart, or maybe it was his heart. Jacks' chest was heaving, his clothes were soaked, his hair was a mess across his face- yet in that moment, Evangeline knew he would carry her through fire if he had to, haul her from the clutches of war, from falling cities and breaking worlds. And for one brittle heartbeat, Evangeline understood why so many girls died from his lips. If Jacks hadn't betrayed her, if he hadn't set her up for murder, she might have been a little bewitched by him.

Abstractions do us much harm by impelling us to the quest of the absolute in all things. Joy does not exist, but there are joys: and these joys may not be folly felt unless they are detached from neutral or even painful conditions. The idea of continuity is almost self-negating. Nature makes no leaps; but life makes only bounds. It is measured by our heartbeats & these may be counted. That there should be, amid the number of deep pulsations that scan the line of our existence, some grievous ones, does not permit the affirmation that life is therefore evil. Moreover, neither a continuous joy would be perceived by consciousness.

Abiding. No one single instant of it was unendurable. Here was the second right here: he endured it. What was undealable-with was the thought of all the instants all lined up and stretching ahead, glittering. [...] It's too much to think about. To Abide there. But none of it's as of now real. [...] He could just hunker down in the space between each heartbeat and make each heartbeat a wall and live in there. Not let his head look over. What's unendurable is what his own head could make of it all. What his head could report to him, looking over and ahead and reporting. But he could choose not to listen; he could treat his head like G. Day or R. Lenz: clueless noise.

One straight line Heart beats stops Up and down ,life moves on. Strange! ©litymunshi

Nothing travels in a straight line when it comes to the heartbeat and the karma

People often ask me where I get my ideas from, sometimes as often as eighty-seven times a day. This is a well-known hazard for writers, and the correct response to the question is first to breathe deeply, steady your heartbeat, fill your mind with peaceful, calming images of birdsong and buttercups in spring meadows, and then try to say, “Well, it’s very interesting you ask that . . .” before breaking down and starting to whimper uncontrollably. The fact is that I don’t know where ideas come from, or even where to look for them. Nor does any writer. This is not quite true, in fact. If you were writing a book on the mating habits of pigs, you’d probably pick up a few goodish ideas by hanging around a barnyard in a plastic mac, but if fiction is your line, then the only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn’t collapse when you beat your head against it.

Ara. Ara, stop.” He propped my body against the wall and unfastened my hands from his neck. “Why? What's wrong?” I wiped my mouth dry with the back of my wrist. “Did I hurt you?” “Yes, you little leech.” He cupped his hand over the bite mark and pulled it away to look at it. “I may not have a heartbeat, but I still feel pain.” “You're bruising.” I squinted through the dull light to see his neck. “I know. I can feel that.” “I'm sorry.” “Are you kidding me?” He looked up at me. “Ara, that felt amazing. It hurt, but damn it was hard for me to control myself.” “Control yourself?” “Yeah. I wanted to...” He looked down and shook his head. “You wanted to what?” I lifted his face. “I wanted to do...things to you.” “What kinds of...things.” Excitement and fear made my heart thump. “Bad things?” “Yes. Bad things.” He reached up slowly and slipped the shoestring strap of my dress down my shoulder, then ran a delicate line of kisses along the curve of my neck, making the skin on my lower back tingle. “That doesn't feel like bad things.” “This is not what I had in mind,” he said into my shoulder.

Bliss?” I called. “Yeah?” “Check the drawers of the nightstand! She was playing with it in the middle of the night, and I think I remember taking it away and sticking it in there.” “Okay!” Through the open door, I watched her circle around the edge of the bed. I walked in place for a few seconds, letting my feet drop a little heavier than necessary, then opened and closed the door like I’d gone back inside the bathroom. Then I hid in the space between the back of the bedroom door and the wall where I could just see through the crack between the hinges. She pulled open the top drawer, and my heartbeat was like a bass drum. I don’t know when it had started beating so hard, but now it was all that I could hear. It wasn’t like I was asking her to marry me now. I just knew Bliss, and knew she tended to panic. I was giving her a very big, very obvious hint so that she’d have time to adjust before I actually asked her. Then in a few months, when I thought she’d gotten used to the idea, I’d ask her for real. That was the plan anyway. It was supposed to be simple, but this felt… complicated. Suddenly, I thought of all the thousands of ways this could go wrong. What if she freaked out? What if she ran like she did our first night together? If she ran, would she go back to Texas? Or would she go to Cade who lived in North Philly? He’d let her stay until she figured things out, and then what if something developed between them? What if she just flat out told me no? Everything was good right now. Perfect, actually. What if I was ruining it by pulling this stunt? I was so caught up in my doomsday predictions that I didn’t even see the moment that she found the box. I heard her open it though, and I heard her exhale and say, “Oh my God.” Where before my mouth had been dry, now I couldn’t swallow fast enough. My hands were shaking against the door. She was just standing there with her back to me. I couldn’t see her face. All I could see was her tense, straight spine. She swayed slightly. What if she passed out? What if I’d scared her so much that she actually lost consciousness? I started to think of ways to explain it away. I was keeping it for a friend? It was a prop for a show? It was… It was… shit, I didn’t know. I could just apologize. Tell her I knew it was too fast. I waited for her to do something—scream, run, cry, faint. Anything would be better than her stillness. I should have just been honest with her. I wasn’t good at things like this. I said what I was thinking—no plans, no manipulation. Finally, when I thought my body would crumble under the stress alone, she turned. She faced the bed, and I only got her profile, but she was biting her lip. What did that mean? Was she just thinking? Thinking of a way to get out of it? Then, slowly, like the sunrise peeking over the horizon, she smiled. She snapped the box closed. She didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She didn’t faint. There might have been a little crying. But mostly… she danced. She swayed and jumped and smiled the same way she had when the cast list was posted for Phaedra. She lost herself the same way she did after opening night, right before we made love for the first time. Maybe I didn’t have to wait a few months after all. She said she wanted my best line tomorrow after the show, and now I knew what it was going to be.

I twirl away, then back to him, staying on my toes, my hips always lightly rotating. He reacts clumsily at first, but soon the awkwardness fades away and he begins matching my movements, reflecting them in reverse. We dance like this, wrist to wrist, twirl and turn, step for step, for several more minutes. He holds my gaze, our eyes connecting at every turn, anticipating one another’s movements. His pulse is so strong against my wrist that it echoes through me, almost like a heartbeat of my own. My skin warms; my breath catches in my throat. I know how closely I dance along the line of destruction, but I cannot pull myself away. He is intoxicating, his force of life an addiction I cannot refuse. I have not felt this alive in centuries, not since you, Habiba, when you taught me the dance of Fahradan. Ours was a dance of giddy laughter, a dance of friends, sisters, a dance of life and youth and hope. But this dance is different. It is not I but he who entices, reversing the ancient roles of the dance. And I resist because I must, because if I don’t, because if I give in to the all-too-human desires racing through me—then it is Aladdin who will pay the terrible price. “Stop.” I drop my wrists and step away, and he does the same, still caught up in mirroring me. Except that he is breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with exertion, his eyes filled with a strange, wondrous, curious look as he stares at me. He moves closer, his eyes fixed on mine, and despite myself I cannot look away. Aladdin raises a tentative hand to my cheek. Immobile with both dread and longing, I can only stare up at him, flushing with warmth when he gently runs his hand down the side of my face. I shut my eyes, leaning into his touch just slightly, my stomach leaping. Longing. Wishing.

What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboarded down the street at night you could hear everyone's heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone's hearts would start to beat at the same time...the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a crystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn't have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line at the end of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war

In every tomorrow I had imagined, this was never one of them. There were never any prospects beyond the life of a scholarly old maid, but that was a fate I had looked forward to—to live among parchments and sink into the compressed universes stitched into lines and lines of writing. To answer to no one. There was another sorrow, tucked beneath my surprise. Although I had never envisioned marriage, I had thought of love. Not the furtive love I heard muffled in the corners or rooms of some of the harem wives. What I wanted was a connection, a shared heartbeat that kept rhythm across oceans and worlds. Not some alliance cobbled out of war. I didn’t want the prince from the folktales or some milk-skinned, honey-eyed youth who said his greetings and proclaimed his love in the same breath. I wanted a love thick with time, as inscrutable as if a lathe had carved it from night and as familiar as the marrow in my bones. I wanted the impossible, which made it that much easier to push out of my mind.

Isma stayed on the line, listening to their breath rise and fall together as in all those times when Aneeka would crawl into Isma's bed, awakened from or into some night terror, and only the older sister's heartbeat could teach the younger one's frantic heart how to quiet, until there was no sound except their breath in unison, the universe still around them.

Night, my handsome little prince,’ she whispered and tiptoed out of the nursery she had so carefully prepared for the birth of her baby, with soft toys all lined up at the head of the cot and a large white toy box in the corner, Alfie’s name spelt out in large letters on it. The heartbeat continued, strong and comforting –a protective force like a mother’s love.

What does our baby think of the cord sprouting into the whoosh whoosh of my wife’s heartbeat? And does Ramon imagine the lines of seaweed are kite strings stretching into a heaven of water? I see Ramon and our baby looking up, up where stretched-out skin, the roof of the world, lets in the light of day, up where the sun is a ballet of burning coins. The heart — a kite like a bucking bronc straining to break into sky.

Fine. You won’t tell me why your crew worked me over. You won’t let me see Derek. That’s your prerogative. We’ll do it your way. James Damael Shrapshire, in your capacity as the Pack’s chief security officer, you have permitted Pack members under your command to deliberately injure an employee of the Order. At least three individuals involved in the assault wore the shapeshifter warrior form. Under the Georgia Code, a shapeshifter in a warrior form is equivalent to being armed with a deadly weapon. Therefore, your actions fall under O.C.G.A. Section 16-5-21(c), aggravated assault on a peace officer engaged in the performance of her duties, which is punishable by mandatory imprisonment of no less than five and no more than twenty years. A formal complaint will be filed with the Order within twenty-four hours. I advise you to seek the assistance of counsel.” Jim stared at me. The hardness drained from his eyes, and in their depths I saw astonishment. I held his stare for a long moment. “Don’t call; don’t stop by. You need something done, go through official channels. And the next time you meet me, mind your p’s and q’s, because I’ll fuck you over in a heartbeat the second you step over the line. Now return my sword, because I’m walking out of here, and I dare any of your idiots to try and stop me.

I draw myself up next to her and look at her profile, making no effort to disguise my attention, here, where there is only Puck to see me. The evening sun loves her throat and her cheekbones. Her hair the color of cliff grass rises and falls over her face in the breeze. Her expression is less ferocious than usual, less guarded. I say, “Are you afraid?” Her eyes are far away on the horizon line, out to the west where the sun has gone but the glow remains. Somewhere out there are my capaill uisce, George Holly’s America, every gallon of water that every ship rides on. Puck doesn’t look away from the orange glow at the end of the world. “Tell me what it’s like. The race.” What it’s like is a battle. A mess of horses and men and blood. The fastest and strongest of what is left from two weeks of preparation on the sand. It’s the surf in your face, the deadly magic of November on your skin, the Scorpio drums in the place of your heartbeat. It’s speed, if you’re lucky. It’s life and it’s death or it’s both and there’s nothing like it. Once upon a time, this moment — this last light of evening the day before the race — was the best moment of the year for me. The anticipation of the game to come. But that was when all I had to lose was my life. “There’s no one braver than you on that beach.” Her voice is dismissive. “That doesn’t matter.” “It does. I meant what I said at the festival. This island cares nothing for love but it favors the brave.” Now she looks at me. She’s fierce and red, indestructible and changeable, everything that makes Thisby what it is. She asks, “Do you feel brave?” The mare goddess had told me to make another wish. It feels thin as a thread to me now, that gift of a wish. I remember the years when it felt like a promise. “I don’t know what I feel, Puck.” Puck unfolds her arms just enough to keep her balance as she leans to me, and when we kiss, she closes her eyes. She draws back and looks into my face. I have not moved, and she barely has, but the world feels strange beneath me. “Tell me what to wish for,” I say. “Tell me what to ask the sea for.” “To be happy. Happiness.” I close my eyes. My mind is full of Corr, of the ocean, of Puck Connolly’s lips on mine. “I don’t think such a thing is had on Thisby. And if it is, I don’t know how you would keep it.” The breeze blows across my closed eyelids, scented with brine and rain and winter. I can hear the ocean rocking against the island, a constant lullaby. Puck’s voice is in my ear; her breath warms my neck inside my jacket collar. “You whisper to it. What it needs to hear. Isn’t that what you said?” I tilt my head so that her mouth is on my skin. The kiss is cold where the wind blows across my cheek. Her forehead rests against my hair. I open my eyes, and the sun has gone. I feel as if the ocean is inside me, wild and uncertain. “That’s what I said. What do I need to hear?” Puck whispers, “That tomorrow we’ll rule the Scorpio Races as king and queen of Skarmouth and I’ll save the house and you’ll have your stallion. Dove will eat golden oats for the rest of her days and you will terrorize the races each year and people will come from every island in the world to find out how it is you get horses to listen to you. The piebald will carry Mutt Malvern into the sea and Gabriel will decide to stay on the island. I will have a farm and you will bring me bread for dinner.” I say, “That is what I needed to hear.” “Do you know what to wish for now?” I swallow. I have no wishing-shell to throw into the sea when I say it, but I know that the ocean hears me nonetheless. “To get what I need.

Who are you?" she said, barely able to hear her own words as her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. He froze at her question and darted his eyes from her gaze, taking in, memorizing, her face and neck, the lines of her collarbone. He reached for a lock of hair that had spilled over her breast. "This is your dream, remember? Tell me who I am," he said smiling, absently coiling the long brown tendril around a finger. She narrowed her eyes at him, her tone firm. "If this is my dream, oneiroi, then answer my question. Who are you?" He was hearing her true voice- that of a natural ruler. His smile widened at her fearlessness, even though he was twice her size and loomed over her, caging her body with his. "I am not an oneiroi, sweet one." "What are you, then?" "Deathless," he said simply. "Like you." "Wh-who are you?" she whispered. He slowly lowered himself to her, hovering just above her, the heat of his chest making contact with her, making her quiver, making her want to pull the weight of his body down to cover hers. He whispered in her ear. "I am your lord husband.

We have not thoroughly assessed the bodies snatched from dirt and sand to be chained in a cell. We have not reckoned with the horrendous, violent mass kidnapping that we call the Middle Passage. We have not been honest about all of America's complicity - about the wealth the South earned on the backs of the enslaved, or the wealth the North gained through the production of enslaved hands. We have not fully understood the status symbol that owning bodies offered. We have not confronted the humanity, the emotions, the heartbeats of the multiple generations who were born into slavery and died in it, who never tasted freedom on America's land. The same goes for the Civil War. We have refused to honestly confront the fact that so many were willing to die in order to hold the freedom of others in their hands. We have refused to acknowledge slavery's role at all, preferring to boil things down to the far more palatable "state's rights." We have not confessed that the end of slavery was so bitterly resented, the rise of Jim Crow became inevitable - and with it, a belief in Black inferiority that lives on in hearts and minds today. We have painted the hundred-year history of Jim Crow as little more than mean signage and the inconvenience that white people and Black people could not drink from the same fountain. But those signs weren't just "mean". They were perpetual reminders of the swift humiliation and brutal violence that could be suffered at any moment in the presence of whiteness. Jim Crow meant paying taxes for services one could not fully enjoy; working for meager wages; and owning nothing that couldn't be snatched away. For many black families, it meant never building wealth and never having legal recourse for injustice. The mob violence, the burned-down homes, the bombed churches and businesses, the Black bodies that were lynched every couple of days - Jim Crow was walking through life measuring every step. Even our celebrations of the Civil Rights Movement are sanitized, its victories accentuated while the battles are whitewashed. We have not come to grips with the spitting and shouting, the pulling and tugging, the clubs, dogs, bombs, and guns, the passion and vitriol with which the rights of Black Americans were fought against. We have not acknowledged the bloodshed that often preceded victory. We would rather focus on the beautiful words of Martin Luther King Jr. than on the terror he and protesters endured at marches, boycotts, and from behind jail doors. We don't want to acknowledge that for decades, whiteness fought against every civil right Black Americans sought - from sitting at lunch counters and in integrated classrooms to the right to vote and have a say in how our country was run. We like to pretend that all those white faces who carried protest signs and batons, who turned on their sprinklers and their fire hoses, who wrote against the demonstrations and preached against the changes, just disappeared. We like to pretend that they were won over, transformed, the moment King proclaimed, "I have a dream." We don't want to acknowledge that just as Black people who experienced Jim Crow are still alive, so are the white people who vehemently protected it - who drew red lines around Black neighborhoods and divested them of support given to average white citizens. We ignore that white people still avoid Black neighborhoods, still don't want their kids going to predominantly Black schools, still don't want to destroy segregation. The moment Black Americans achieved freedom from enslavement, America could have put to death the idea of Black inferiority. But whiteness was not prepared to sober up from the drunkenness of power over another people group. Whiteness was not ready to give up the ability to control, humiliate, or do violence to any Black body in the vicinity - all without consequence.

And so he lay, the moonlight washing over the incomparable smooth white of his back, its brilliance highlighting the graceful lines of his body to reveal the subtle but persuasive hint of firm masculinity that made it clear that this was the flesh not of a woman but of a still immature young man. The moon shone with dazzling brightness on Kiyoake’s left side, where the pale flesh pulsed softly in rhythm with his heartbeat. Here there were three small, almost invisible moles. And much as the three stars in Orion’s belt fade in strong moonlight, so too these three moles were almost blotted out by its rays. (p.43)

In some cases, the reaction to Cantor’s theory broke along national lines. French mathematicians, on the whole, were wary of its metaphysical aura. Henri Poincaré (who rivaled Germany’s Hilbert as the greatest mathematician of the era) observed that higher infinities “have a whiff of form without matter, which is repugnant to the French spirit.” Russian mathematicians, by contrast, enthusiastically embraced the newly revealed hierarchy of infinities. Why the contrary French and Russian reactions? Some observers have chalked it up to French rationalism versus Russian mysticism. That is the explanation proffered, for example, by Loren Graham, an American historian of science retired from MIT, and Jean-Michel Kantor, a mathematician at the Institut de Mathématiques de Jussieu in Paris, in their book Naming Infinity (2009). And it was the Russian mystics who better served the cause of mathematical progress—so argue Graham and Kantor. The intellectual milieu of the French mathematicians, they observe, was dominated by Descartes, for whom clarity and distinctness were warrants of truth, and by Auguste Comte, who insisted that science be purged of metaphysical speculation. Cantor’s vision of a never-ending hierarchy of infinities seemed to offend against both. The Russians, by contrast, warmed to the spiritual nimbus of Cantor’s theory. In fact, the founding figures of the most influential school of twentieth-century Russian mathematics were adepts of a heretical religious sect called the Name Worshippers. Members of the sect believed that by repetitively chanting God’s name, they could achieve fusion with the divine. Name Worshipping, traceable to fourth-century Christian hermits in the deserts of Palestine, was revived in the modern era by a Russian monk called Ilarion. In 1907, Ilarion published On the Mountains of the Caucasus, a book that described the ecstatic experiences he induced in himself while chanting the names of Christ and God over and over again until his breathing and heartbeat were in tune with the words.

What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboarded down the street at night you could hear everyone’s heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone’s hearts would start to beat at the same time, like how women who live together have their menstrual periods at the same time, which I know about, but don’t really want to know about. That would be so weird, except that the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a crystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn’t have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line at the end of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war.

That—this—is Orion’s secret. It’s not that the ship isn’t working, that we’re never going to make it. It’s that the ship has already arrived. We’re already here! There—there—is the planet that will be our home! It floats, so bright that it hurts my eyes. Giant green landmasses spread out across blue water, with swirls and wisps of clouds twirling over top. At the edge of the planet, where it turns away from the suns and starts to darken, I can see bright flashes of light—bursts of whiteness in the darkness—and I think: Is that lightning? In the center, where the light of the suns makes the planet seem to glow from within, I can see, very distinctly, a continent. A continent. On one edge, it’s cracked and broken like an egg, dark lines snaking deep into the landmass. Rivers. Lots of them. Maybe something too big to be rivers if I can see it from here. Fingers of land stretch out into the sea, and dots of islands are just out of their grasp. That area will be cool all the time, I think. Boats can go along the rivers, up and down. We can swim in the water. Because already, I can see myself living there. Being there. On a planet that looks up at a million suns every night, and at two every day. I want to scream, shout with joy. But the air is so thin now. Too thin. I’ve spent too long looking at Orion’s secret. The boop . . . boop . . . boop . . . fades away. There’s nothing to warn about now. Because there’s no air left. My sight is rimmed with black. My head pulses with my heartbeat, which sounds as loud to me as the alarm once did. I turn from the planet—my planet—and start pulling, hand over hand, against the tether, toward the hatch. The ship bobs in and out of my vision as my whole body jerks. I’m panicked now and fighting to stay awake. I try to suck in air, but there’s nothing there to suck. I’m drowning in nothing.

He thus didn’t find himself outside the limits of his experience; he was high above it. His distaste for himself remained down below; down below he had felt his palms become sweaty with fear and his breath speed up; but here, up high in his poem, he was above his paltriness, the key-hole episode and his cowardice were merely a trampoline above which he was soaring; he was no longer subordinate to his experience, his experience was subordinate to what he had written. The next day he used his grandfather’s typewriter to copy the poem on special paper; and the poem seemed even more beautiful to him than when he had recited it aloud, for the poem had ceased to be a simple succession of words and had become a thing; its autonomy was even more incontestable; ordinary words exist only to perish as soon as they are uttered, their only purpose is to serve the moment of communication; subordinate to things they are merely their designations; whereas here words themselves had become things and were in no way subordinate; they were no longer destined for immediate communication and prompt disappearance, but for durability. What Jaromil had experienced the day before was expressed in the poem, but at the same time the experience slowly died there, as a seed dies in the fruit. “I am underwater and my heartbeats make circles on the surface”; this line represents the adolescent trembling in front of the bathroom door, but at the same time his feature in this line, slowly became blurred, this line surpassed and transcended him. “Ah, my aquatic love”, another line said, and Jaromil knew that aquatic love was Magda, but he also knew that no one could recognise her behind these words; that she was lost, invisible, buried there, the poem he had written was absolutely autonomous, independent and incomprehensible as reality itself, which is no one’s ally and content simply to be; the poem’s autonomy provided Jaromil a splendid refuge, the ideal possibility of a second life; he found that so beautiful that the next day he tried to write more poems; and little by little he gave himself over to this activity.

I looked at R. I needed only to lean slightly in his direction for us to be touching. He raised his hand and brushed away a tear at the corner of my eye with his fingers. They were warm. I watched as my tears fell on his hand. And then he took me in his arms. The silence of the night had returned. It suddenly seemed unbelievable that less than an hour ago the doorbell had rung and boots had stomped across the floor above his room. Now I could feel his heart through his sweater. He embraced me gently, his hands encircling my back as though holding a cloud, and at last my tears stopped. Everything that had happened-shopping in the market, the death of the fish, lighting the candles on the cake, opening the music box, the burning of the datebook-seemed like memories from the distant past. We were entirely in the present. There, behind your heartbeat, have you stored up all my lost memories? I thought this to myself, cheek pressed against R’s chest. If I could, I would have liked to take them out and line them up in front of me one by one. I was sure that any memories that remained inside him would be very much alive, so different from my own, which were few in number and very pale-sodden flower petals sinking into the waves at the bottom of the incinerator.

I loved driving with Marlboro Man. I saw things I’d never seen before, things I’d never even considered in my two and a half decades of city life. For the first time ever, I began to grasp the concept of north, south, east, and west, though I imagine it would take another twenty-five years before I got them straight. I saw fence lines and gates made of welded iron pipe, and miles upon miles of barbed wire. I saw creeks--rocky, woodsy creeks that made the silly water hazard in my backyard seem like a little mud puddle. And I saw wide open land as far as the eye could see. I’d never known such beauty. Marlboro Man loved showing me everything, pointing at pastures and signs and draws and lakes and giving me the story behind everything we saw. The land, both on his family’s ranch and on the ranches surrounding it, made sense to him: he saw it not as one wide open, never-ending space, but as neatly organized parcels, each with its own purpose and history. “Betty Smith used to own this part of our ranch with her husband,” he’d say. “They never had kids and were best friends with my grandparents.” Then he’d tell some legend of Betty Smith’s husband’s grandfather, remembering such vivid details, you’d think he’d been there himself. I absorbed it all, every word of it. The land around him pulsated with the heartbeats of all who’d lived there before…and as if it were his duty to pay honor to each and every one of them, he told me their names, their stories, their relationship, their histories. I loved that he knew all those things.

There is an untapped beauty which lies just below the surface of the face of the ability to strip oneself of all of the veils that one covers himself/herself in before looking into the mirror. I wrote something many years ago, which has to do with the mermaid speaking to the white witch: "I am a mermaid and I know what I am but you are a white witch draped in silver robes"... it was about how people lie to themselves about who they are. They cover themselves in silver linings, in silver veils, in silver robes, while the cauldron they stir comes from hell! This piece that I wrote has since become exceedingly popular and exaggeratedly quoted. But even when we are mermaids, we still need to stop and look into the mirror and remove the silver lining we outline ourselves in, so that we can see who we really are, practice what we really are, thus becoming authentic through-and-through. Because this is the only way that we can reach our full capacities to enliven what we are capable of becoming and being. We often believe that silver linings are what enables us; nevertheless, silver linings often hold us down. Silver is heavy metal. Imagine all you could be, if you could be YOUR ACTUAL SELF. Who are you without your silver paint and paintbrush? It is a very liberating practice, a practice I am most eager to continue cultivating within me. Who are you without all of the adjectives you add to your existence? How do you move? What is that look in your eyes? Does your heartbeat match the pulses of the Sun? You'll never know until you put down your paintbrush.

So you hook up with strangers?" Liam asked in a hushed whisper as the cashier rang up their order. "Were you with someone last night?" "Yes. His name is Max." She pulled out her phone. "I have a selfie of us together." She held it up for the cashier to see, keeping the screen away from Liam's line of vision. "Oh, he's gorgeous," the cashier said. "He's got the nicest eyes." "Let me see." Liam felt his protective instincts rise. "Who is he? Max who?" "He doesn't have a last name." "Jesus Christ, Daisy," he spluttered. "Does Sanjay know you do this? What about your dad?" "They know all about Max," Daisy said. "In fact, my dad took a picture of us cuddled together in bed the night before he left on his trip, and the cutest one of Max on my pillow. I bought some pajamas but he refused to wear them. He likes to sleep au naturel." Bile rose in Liam's throat. "And your dad took... pictures?" "Photography is his new hobby. He took some great shots when I was giving Max a bath..." "Stop." Liam held up a hand. "Just... I can't. I don't know what's happened to you, but it ends now. We're engaged and that means no more random hookups, no pornographic pictures, and no flashing pictures of strangers in the nude." "Amina doesn't mind. She's my second cousin." Daisy introduced them before turning her phone around. "And this is Max." Liam was a heartbeat away from shutting his eyes when his brain registered the picture of a fluffy white dog on a pink duvet. His tension left him in a rush. "Max is a dog." "He's a Westie. Layla got him for me as an emotional support dog at a bad time in my life." Liam bit back the urge to ask Daisy about a time so bad she'd needed extra love. It was her business, and he could only hope she would tell him when she was ready so he could offer his support. "That wasn't funny." "Amina and I were amused." "I heard you were engaged." Amina's gaze flicked to Liam and she blushed. "He's almost as cute as Max.

Moving with infinite reluctance, Westcliff gingerly put his arms around her. The escalation of Lillian’s heartbeat seemed to drive the air from her lungs. One of his broad hands settled between her tense shoulder blades, while the other pressed at the small of her back. He touched her with undue care, as if she were made of some volatile substance. And as he brought her body gently against his, her blood turned to liquid fire. Her hands fluttered in search of a resting place until her palms grazed the back of his coat. Flattening her palms on either side of his spine, she felt the flex of hard muscle even through the layers of silk-lined broadcloth and linen. “Is this what you were asking for?” he murmured, his low voice at her ear. Lillian’s toes curled inside her slippers as his hot breath tickled her hairline. She responded with a wordless nod, feeling crestfallen and mortified as she realized that she had lost her gamble. Westcliff was going to show her how easy it was to release her, and then he would forever afterward subject her to ruthless mockery. “You can let me go now,” she whispered, her mouth twisting in self-derision. But Westcliff didn’t move. His dark head dropped a little lower, and he drew in a breath that wasn’t quite steady. Lillian perceived that he was taking in the scent of her throat…absorbing it with slow but ever-increasing greed, as if he were an addict inhaling lungfuls of narcotic smoke. The perfume, she thought in bemusement. So it hadn’t been her imagination. It was working its magic again. But why did Westcliff seem to be the only man to respond to it? Why— Her thoughts were scattered as the pressure of his hands increased, causing her to shiver and arch. “Damn it,” Westcliff whispered savagely. Before she quite knew what was happening, he had pushed her up against a nearby wall. His fiercely accusing gaze moved from her dazed eyes to her parted lips, his silent struggle lasting another burning second, until he suddenly gave in with a curse and brought their mouths together with an impatient tug.

I want to move my hands, but they’re fused to his rib cage. I feel his lung span, his heartbeat, his very life force wrapped in these flimsy bars of bone. So fragile yet so solid. Like a brick wall with wet mortar. A juxtaposition of hard and soft. He inhales again. “Jayme,” he says my name with a mix of sigh and inquiry. I open my eyes and peer into his flushed face. Roses have bloomed on his ruddy cheeks and he looks as though he’s raced the wind. “Mm?” I reply. My mind is full of babble, I’m so high. “Jayme,” he’s insistent, almost pleading. “What are you?” Instantaneous is the cold alarm that douses the flames still dancing in my heart. I feel the nervousness that whispers through me like a cool breeze in the leaves. “What do you mean?” I ask, the disquiet wringing the strength from my voice. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he explains, inhaling deeply. I feel the line of a frown between my brows. Gingerly, I lift the hem of his shirt. And as sure as I am that the world is round and that the sky is, indeed, blue the bruises and welts on his torso have faded to nothingness, the golden tan of his skin is sun-kissed perfection. Panic has me frozen as I stare. “I don’t understand,” I whisper. He looks down at his exposed abdomen. “I think you healed me.” He says it so simply, but my mind takes his words and scatters them like ashes. I feel like I’m waking from a coma and I have amnesia and everyone speaks Chinese. I can’t speak. If I had the strength to, I wouldn’t have the words. I feel the panic flood into me and fear spiked adrenaline courses through me, I shove him. Hard. Eyes wide with shock, he stumbles back a few steps. A few steps is all I need. Fight or flight instinct taking root, I fight to flee. The space between us gives me enough room to slide out from between him and the car. He shouts my name. It’s too late. I’m running a fast as my lithe legs will carry me. My Converse pound the sidewalk and I hear the roar of his engine. It’s still too late. I grew up here and I’m ten blocks from home. No newbie could track me in my own neighborhood. In my town. Not with my determination to put as much distance as I can between me and the boy who scares the shit out of me. Not when I’ve scared the shit out of myself. I run. I run and I don’t stop.

An upbeat song played over the loudspeaker, and everyone's attention focused on the Jumbotron above the basketball court. "It's time for the Bulls' Kiss Cam. So, pucker up for your sweetie and kiss them." The camera found an older couple in their fifties. The man pulled his wife, I assumed, in for a quick peck on the lips. "Aww. That is so sweet," Trina said. She proceeded to yank poor Owen to his seat in case the spotlight landed on them. She'd do just about anything to get on television, even if it meant not kissing Owen tonight to do so. "That is so staged," I said and sneaked a quick peek at my phone, seeing if he messaged me back. He didn’t. "Really?" she countered and slapped my arm. Once I glanced her way, she pointed towards the large screen looming above. On the screen was Sebastian and me as the camera had just so happened to find us. It stayed there zooming closer. And closer. And closer. "Come on," the announcer called out, prodding us. "Just one kiss won't hurt." He had no idea what he was asking. A kiss would initiate feelings I couldn't avoid any longer. I momentarily forgot how to breathe as the song, “Kiss the Girl” from the Little Mermaid hummed at my lips. Not the best choice, but still. Everything became much worse once my giant moved into view, smiling my favorite smile. Sebastian inched closer; eyebrow cocked to dare me."No pressure or anything." I was quiet for a moment before whispering, "Game on, buddy." My eyes closed a few heartbeats shy of Sebastian's lips meeting mine. His hands rose, cupping my cheeks to keep me from pulling away. Like that was going to happen. Sebastian’s mouth moved against mine, and I conceded, kissing him in return. He tasted sweet and minty, like the home I’d been missing. The kiss turned from soft and tame to fierce and wantingas if neither of us could get enough. And already, I considered myself a goner. Everything became a haze. My heart thumped so wildly against my chest, I swore Sebastian could hear. The crowd surrounding us was whistling and cheering us on, and it only kept gaining momentum as the moments passed. The noise quickly faded until it was as if we were the only two people in the room. We could have been the only two people on earth. "Okay, guys." Trina tapped my shoulder, garnering my attention. "Camera has moved on now." That was our cue to separate, and I slowly drew away from Sebastian. He, in turn, slipped his hand to the back of my neck, holding me here. "Don't," he sighed against my lips. I didn't budge another inch. I didn't want to. Sebastian rewarded me by deepening the kiss. Dear God. There were sparks. My stomach flipped. My toes curled. My body warmed. Every single inch of me only wanted one thing and one thing only. If this continued for too much longer, it was easy to guess my new favorite hobby: Kissing Sebastian Freaking Birch. Needing some air, I pressed my palm flat against his chest. This time he released me as we both were breathless. Sebastian's eyes carefully studied me. He kept staring as if he could read my heart, my mind. And for those brief few seconds, I honestly didn't believe there were any secrets between us. His gaze shifted as he gauged what to do next, and I had no freaking idea where we went from here. We'd done it now. We crossed that line, and there was no way of ever going back.

All the many successes and extraordinary accomplishments of the Gemini still left NASA’s leadership in a quandary. The question voiced in various expressions cut to the heart of the problem: “How can we send men to the moon, no matter how well they fly their ships, if they’re pretty helpless when they get there? We’ve racked up rendezvous, docking, double-teaming the spacecraft, starting, stopping, and restarting engines; we’ve done all that. But these guys simply cannot work outside their ships without exhausting themselves and risking both their lives and their mission. We’ve got to come up with a solution, and quick!” One manned Gemini mission remained on the flight schedule. Veteran Jim Lovell would command the Gemini 12, and his space-walking pilot would be Buzz Aldrin, who built on the experience of the others to address all problems with incredible depth and finesse. He took along with him on his mission special devices like a wrist tether and a tether constructed in the same fashion as one that window washers use to keep from falling off ledges. The ruby slippers of Dorothy of Oz couldn’t compare with the “golden slippers” Aldrin wore in space—foot restraints, resembling wooden Dutch shoes, that he could bolt to a work station in the Gemini equipment bay. One of his neatest tricks was to bring along portable handholds he could slap onto either the Gemini or the Agena to keep his body under control. A variety of space tools went into his pressure suit to go along with him once he exited the cabin. On November 11, 1966, the Gemini 12, the last of its breed, left earth and captured its Agena quarry. Then Buzz Aldrin, once and for all, banished the gremlins of spacewalking. He proved so much a master at it that he seemed more to be taking a leisurely stroll through space than attacking the problems that had frustrated, endangered, and maddened three previous astronauts and brought grave doubts to NASA leadership about the possible success of the manned lunar program. Aldrin moved down the nose of the Gemini to the Agena like a weightless swimmer, working his way almost effortlessly along a six-foot rail he had locked into place once he was outside. Next came looping the end of a hundred-foot line from the Agena to the Gemini for a later experiment, the job that had left Dick Gordon in a sweatbox of exhaustion. Aldrin didn’t show even a hint of heavy breathing, perspiration, or an increased heartbeat. When he spoke, his voice was crisp, sharp, clear. What he did seemed incredibly easy, but it was the direct result of his incisive study of the problems and the equipment he’d brought from earth. He also made sure to move in carefully timed periods, resting between major tasks, and keeping his physical exertion to a minimum. When he reached the workstation in the rear of the Gemini, he mounted his feet and secured his body to the ship with the waist tether. He hooked different equipment to the ship, dismounted other equipment, shifted them about, and reattached them. He used a unique “space wrench” to loosen and tighten bolts with effortless skill. He snipped wires, reconnected wires, and connected a series of tubes. Mission Control hung on every word exchanged between the two astronauts high above earth. “Buzz, how do those slippers work?” Aldrin’s enthusiastic voice came back like music. “They’re great. Great! I don’t have any trouble positioning my body at all.” And so it went, a monumental achievement right at the end of the Gemini program. Project planners had reached all the way to the last inch with one crucial problem still unsolved, and the man named Aldrin had whipped it in spectacular fashion on the final flight. Project Gemini was

Sermon: Why this surprising? Did you think you were going to live forever? Only difference between you, sitting there anticipating rest of your day, and Todd, in coffin, bound for eternal home in cold earth? Is heartbeat. Feel that, people? In your chests? That is thin line between you and grave. So why do you live like you are eternal? That foolish, you are fools. This scary? This not scary! This truth, this reality! Shouts: Shall we wake up? Shall we? Everyone staring big-eyed at priest. Except usual congregants, who seem to have heard all before. Priest goes on: Which of us will die tonight? Do we think he is being facetious? That shows we are dopes. Any one of us could die tonight, die right now, suddenly come up short of breath, keel over in pew, be with Todd in earth in wink of eye.

Like a spectre of a seemingly imagined conversation, you continue hosting; exploring me, opening me, holding my very deepest recesses within your grasp. It is such an unguarded feeling, to know that you are there; whether years, or weeks away. It could even be lifetimes of distance between our heartbeats. I think I've lost track of time, waiting patiently for you. Please linger, tarry, peruse, and dwell just a little more. I want to look upon your face - perceive every subtle line around your eyes, and make note of the dips and curves of your countenance.

A fascinating index of the system’s success is the spread of the turkey vulture, which had previously been confined to the southeastern states. The interstate highways functioned as a kind of moving buffet for them; as they followed the long lines of roadkill north and west over the next two decades, they came to inhabit every part of the country.

In his line of work, nobody ever calls in the dead of night. Still he forgives her for her sudden departures. His large, powerful body is always invincibly warm in this freezing room; he likes to turn up the air conditioning and have her burrow into his warmth. For a few moments she considers staying here, her cheek against his chest, letting his heartbeat lull her back into warm, safe sleep. Then, very reluctantly, she sits up. She watches the outline of his body under the covers, and out of habit she reaches out and runs the soft, fleshy pad of her right thumb across the long, brown lashes of his left eye. The eye shuts tighter as the other one opens. Green flecked with gold, catching what little light there is in the room. “Give me one good reason.” She cannot think of anything to say. “Thought not.” The huge hands with their thick fingers come up behind her head and pull it against his chest. She breathes him in, the smell of soap and warm skin and cigarette smoke. She loves the smell of him, even if she is allergic to secondhand smoke. He cannot, will not stop smoking, and she has to take antihistamines before she sees him. Small sacrifices, like not being able to go out with him in broad daylight, the slight twinge of envy she feels seeing lovers walk through malls and parks with their arms locked around each other. His daylight hours do not belong to her, and neither do these nights; she steals them like a common thief from a wife and children whose faces and names she does not want to know. Someday soon these sacrifices will not seem so small, and these nights will not be enough. She cannot bear the thought of that day coming, and yet somehow she cannot wait for it to come.

And I am in the crowd just as the drums are passing - always the last in line - their boom-boom-booming in my ears, and all around. I see the sun above the street, breathe in the day's rich, warm smell. Someone calls out, "Clear a path, make room, make room please!" The trumpets go again. My heartbeat quickens. I feel the push, the pull, the weave and sway of others.

His touched stilled as he searched my face for an answer. And in that moment, I realized that this was my life. What existed between Casteel and I was neither right nor wrong. It was messy and complicated, and maybe I’d regret this later as I gave him more and more pieces of me, but I wanted him. And I was so done denying myself anything. I was done lying to him and to myself. “Only on one condition,” I said. “You have a condition now?” I nodded, my heart thundering. “I don’t want to pretend,” I whispered. “I’m Poppy and you’re Casteel, and this is real.” “Can you agree to that?” I asked. His eyes drifted shut for a heartbeat, all the striking lines of his face were tense. “Always,” he whispered. “Yes.” I reacted and pulled away from the rock. Closing the distance between our mouths, I kissed him. I knew the moment my lips touched Casteel’s, the very second his lips parted, that this was real.

This is the truth. My family comes from a long line of women whose heartbeats sound like a needle run out of vinyl.

Aurora.” I looked at him over my shoulder. His jaw was tight again. The lines across his forehead were back too. “You look beautiful,” Mr. Rhodes said in that careful, somber voice a heartbeat later. “He’s an idiot for looking at anyone else.” I

In his line of work, nobody ever calls in the dead of night. Still he forgives her for her sudden departures. His large, powerful body is always invincibly warm in this freezing room; he likes to turn up the air conditioning and have her burrow into his warmth. For a few moments she considers staying here, her cheek against his chest, letting his heartbeat lull her back into warm, safe sleep. Then, very reluctantly, she sits up. She watches the outline of his body under the covers, and out of habit she reaches out and runs the soft, fleshy pad of her right thumb across the long, brown lashes of his left eye. The eye shuts tighter as the other one opens. Green flecked with gold, catching what little light there is in the room. “Give me one good reason.” She cannot think of anything to say. “Thought not.” The huge hands with their thick fingers come up behind her head and pull it against his chest. She breathes him in, the smell of soap and warm skin and cigarette smoke. She loves the smell of him, even if she is allergic to secondhand smoke. He cannot, will not stop smoking, and she has to take antihistamines before she sees him. Small sacrifices, like not being able to go out with him in broad daylight, the slight twinge of envy she feels seeing lovers walk through malls and parks with their arms locked around each other. His daylight hours do not belong to her, and neither do these nights; she steals them like a common thief from a wife and children whose faces and names she does not want to know. Someday soon these sacrifices will not seem so small, and these nights will not be enough. She cannot bear the thought of that day coming, and yet somehow she cannot wait for it to come.

from "KNEEL SAID THE NIGHT": "Call these notes. Half notes. Grace notes. I can only speak with small, sharp breaths that hurt my lungs, small bursts of paragraphs and lines. Half notes for knowing. Call them the voices that are in me. In these ragged months of global ache, death is one of the many inevitable(s), closer than my heartbeat ...

Fog lined the edges of the wood, hanging in low swirls over the meadow. The crows cawed together like a disjointed heartbeat. Nothing else moved.

In this new, turbulent reality, the one person I recognize is him. My memories of him - memories of us - have done something to me. I've changed somewhere deep inside. I feel different. Heavier, like my feet have been more firmly planted, liberated by certainty, free to grow roots here in my own self, free to trust unequivocally in the strength and steadiness of my own heart. It's an empowering discovery, to find that I can trust myself - even when I'm not myself - to make the right choices. To know for certain now that there was at least one mistake I never made. Aaron Warner Anderson is the only emotional through line in my life that ever made sense. He's the only constant. The only steady, reliable heartbeat I've ever had. Aaron, Aaron, Aaron, Aaron. I had no idea how much we'd lost, no idea how much of him I'd longed for. I had no idea how desperately we'd been fighting. How many years we'd fought for moments - minutes - to be together. It fills me with a painful kind of joy.

This is where it starts—where it always starts: you peer out over your long nose and see green. It brushes against your outer coat and tickles the smooth skin of your belly. It blankets the ground beneath your paws. In place of the endless stone boxes the men built, giant green trunks rise up around you. You sit on your hindquarters but still can’t quite tilt your head back far enough to see their leafy tops. This isn’t your home. There’s no way you could’ve been here before. But somehow, it feels familiar. And there is something else you recognize. . . . Meat. Your whole body seems to shout the word at once. Fur bristles along your spine. Your muzzle twitches and saliva drips from your jowls. You feel the smooth sharpness of your tearing teeth. It has been so long. Where is the meat? Your ears stand upright, the fine hairs taking in everything. You hear the crisp snap of a small branch, then the whisper of fur brushing against leaves. You think you can even hear the trill of a heartbeat. More than anything, though, you can smell the creature, hidden in the shadows, between the darker shades of green. It smells like fear and food, like everything you love about the chase. It smells like life. Out of the corner of your vision, you sense motion. You spring forward from your back legs, and the animal bolts, a tawny blur. It’s not like the rodents you’re used to. This is bigger. It bounds instead of skitters, leaps instead of burrows. It’s all speed and grace, and you love the energy it takes to chase after it. Your pack is with you suddenly—brothers and sisters and second cousins, alphas and omegas. As you tear through the forest, head nodding and eyes watering, they trail in lines behind you, and you know without looking that your tail is streaming out like a flag. With the blood pumping inside your ears, each second sounds like a bark. The creature is faster than you are, but it’s losing steam. You’re panting but not tired. You run and run and run, watching the spindly legs flick through the underbrush ahead of you. You were made for this. There’s a flick of white, a flash of a hoof. You drive harder, your nails churning up cool dirt. The pack fans out and starts to close in, herding your prey closer and closer. It’s slowing. You’re gaining. It stumbles, and you dive. You open your jaws. You sink in your teeth. You savor.

And then they broke out of the tree line and she could see the Blue Lakes, the water curving in and out of the great masses of land before disappearing around a bend where she knew it continued for miles more. The mountains seemed to wrap themselves around the water, to form a protective sort of wall so high and strong that Ari had the feeling she could be crushed by their enormity. Instead of wanting to flee, her insignificance shocked her with a strange sense of elation and she thought, for just a moment, that she had never seen anything so tragically beautiful. From where they stood, nearly at the foot of the lake, they were infinitely tiny yet the clouds and the water and the land all mixed together until she was entirely unaware of proportion. Perhaps the lake was an ocean. Perhaps the mountains were only hills. In a moment, she understood the neat green of the forest and the scattered rocks and the dark of the land. She felt the Zrignigh Mountains breathing, and they were not a collection of dirt and stones but a single entity, a power more terrifying than anything she had ever witnessed. All connected by one beating heart, they swallowed the Blue Lakes whole, envel- oped them, fed off of their fruits, their life. She tried to breathe with them and found herself overwhelmed by their heartbeat.

And then they broke out of the tree line and she could see the Blue Lakes, the water curving in and out of the great masses of land before disappearing around a bend where she knew it continued for miles more. The mountains seemed to wrap themselves around the water, to form a protective sort of wall so high and strong that Ari had the feeling she could be crushed by their enormity. Instead of wanting to flee, her insignificance shocked her with a strange sense of elation and she thought, for just a moment, that she had never seen anything so tragically beautiful. From where they stood, nearly at the foot of the lake, they were infinitely tiny yet the clouds and the water and the land all mixed together until she was entirely unaware of proportion. Perhaps the lake was an ocean. Perhaps the mountains were only hills. In a moment, she understood the neat green of the forest and the scattered rocks and the dark of the land. She felt the Zrignigh Mountains breathing, and they were not a collection of dirt and stones but a single entity, a power more terrifying than anything she had ever witnessed. All connected by one beating heart, they swallowed the Blue Lakes whole, envel- oped them, fed off of their fruits, their life. She tried to breathe with them and found herself overwhelmed by their heartbeat.

The past never went away and it was not designed to do so. It would always be there, and it should be acknowledged… My past was a part of me and it molded who I was today, but it was not the sum of who I was to become. It did not control me… I still had a lot of work to do and that was *my* work to complete and it was my voice that needed to be heard when I needed to speak. No one else. It was me who had to carry myself over the finish line, and all I needed to remember when I felt like not trying was that that feeling wouldn't last forever. Forever. I used to believe it didn't exist. One word has terrified me as a child and it haunted me. But now I knew, in many small ways, that it was real, but it didn't scare me anymore. Forever wasn't a little girl cowering in the closet. Forever wasn't the shadows sitting in the back of the class. Forever wasn't doing what I thought Carl and Rosa wanted instead of what I needed to do with my life. Forever wasn't believing I was some kind of replacement daughter and that I was letting them down. Forever wasn't being the one who needed protection. Forever wasn't pain and grief. Forever wasn't a problem. Forever was my heartbeat and it was the hope tomorrow held. Forever was the glistening silver lining of every dark cloud, no matter how heavy and thick it was. Forever was knowing moments of weakness didn't equate to an eternity of them. Forever was knowing that I was strong. Forever was Carl and Rosa, Ainsley and Keira, Hector and Rider. Jaden would always be a part of my forever. Forever was the fire-breathing dragon inside me that had shed the fear like a snake shedding skin. Forever was simply a promise of more. Forever was a work in progress. And I couldn't wait for forever.

Wanted to linger in the flat winter alone at the property line, where barbed wire twists irrelevant through the pines. Wanted to merge into the speckled landscape like the fine lacework of roots turning by touch through dim earth, to feel that energy wick up my legs. Wanted oneness in the nameless sorority of trees and creeping lichen. Almost— But then, you break in with your body, and my body turns woman again. My skin distinct from grey bark and rudely aware of all the secret pink places you’ve kissed me. How I hate you for a heartbeat, before I look up to see your face stinging sweet with cold and recognition. Your pupils open wide to drink in the sight of me, and here is this other beauty I wanted. — Aza Pace, “Definition in the Woods,” The Boiler (no. 30, Summer 2019)

Coates and his new colleagues examined a group of financial traders working on a London trading floor, asking each one to identify the successive moments when he felt his heart beat—a measure of the individual’s sensitivity to bodily signals. The traders, they found, were much better at this task than were an age- and gender-matched group of controls who did not work in finance. What’s more, among the traders themselves, those who were the most accurate in detecting the timing of their heartbeats made more money, and tended to have longer tenures in what was a notably volatile line of work. “Our results suggest that signals from the body—the gut feelings of financial lore—contribute to success in the markets,” the team concluded. Confirming Coates’s informal observations, those who thrived in this milieu were not necessarily people with greater education or intellect, but rather “people with greater sensitivity to interoceptive signals.

A book, cover open, the first page is magic, light filtering through a forest of leaves, each gray stroke subtle perfection blended beautifully, something moves, stirring in my depths, water flows from the second page, pouring out around me until I’m swimming, tossed back and forth from rock to rock, along the monotone rivers bumpy edges, page three is stark white, its emptiness echoes inside me, reverberations making their way up to silence what’s bouncing around in my head, fingers follow fingers, turning and turning and turning, till I near the end of the line, at last admitting the journey is over, yet another path is open, hidden in plain sight, pages releasing their hold on one another to reveal the treasure, and lead me to what I had no idea I was seeking, bodies folded into one under silken skin lips and hands, and my heartbeat hammering in my chest, fire burning in my cheeks, along with something more, something new, terrifying and strong, with one final turn a name burns itself into my brain, letters forever engraved, who would have thought, someone already knows what bounces round my head, in sudden hast, the flock returns to its pasture, grazing on gossip and sugary smothered breakfast, as I quietly fade into the background, a wolf desperate to be a sheep, my discovery hides out of sight, waiting to serve as a catalyst, there’s more than one of us here.

A book, cover open, the first page is magic, light filtering through a forest of leaves, each gray stroke subtle perfection blended beautifully, something moves, stirring in my depths, water flows from the second page, pouring out around me until I’m swimming, tossed back and forth from rock to rock, along the monotone rivers bumpy edges, page three is stark white, its emptiness echoes inside me, reverberations making their way up to silence what’s bouncing around in my head, fingers follow fingers, turning and turning and turning, till I near the end of the line, at last admitting the journey is over, yet another path is open, hidden in plain sight, pages releasing their hold on one another to reveal the treasure, and lead me to what I had no idea I was seeking, bodies folded into one under silken skin lips and hands, and my heartbeat hammering in my chest, fire burning in my cheeks, along with something more, something new, terrifying and strong, with one final turn a name burns itself into my brain, letters forever engraved, who would have thought, someone already knows what bounces round my head, in sudden hast, the flock returns to its pasture, grazing on gossip and sugary smothered breakfast, as I quietly fade into the background, a wolf desperate to be a sheep, my discovery hides out of sight, waiting to serve as a catalyst, there’s more than one of us here.

I caught his mouth with mine and shifted my hands to start unhooking his shirt buttons. I could feel him grinning as he kissed me harder, driving me back against the bookshelf and shoving his knee between my thighs. I pushed his shirt off of his broad shoulders and looked at the perfection of his muscular torso for a moment, running my hands down his chest. He drove me back against the shelf more firmly, kissing me again. I devoured the taste of him, his hands sliding over my breasts through the thin material of my dress and making my nipples harden in response. I placed my palms on his chest and pushed him back, propelling him around so that he was pressed against the shelf instead of me and a dark laugh left him. “Do you wanna be in charge, sweetheart?” “Well, I am more powerful than you,” I teased. His eyes lit with the challenge in my tone as I took a few steps back and pulled on the knot at the back of my neck. My dress fell from my body like a spill of oil and pooled at my feet, leaving me in nothing but my black panties. “Holy shit, Tory.” He gazed at me hungrily and I stepped back again biting on my bottom lip as I looked at him. “Take your pants off,” I commanded. Caleb’s smile deepened and he held my eye as he kicked his shoes off and unhooked his belt. I twisted my fingers through my hair as I watched him, my pulse rising as he revealed more of his muscular body to me. When he was down to his navy boxers, he advanced on me again. I smiled, backing up as he stalked towards me until the backs on my thighs met with the games table. He was upon me in a heartbeat, his hands gripping my thighs as he lifted me up and sat me on the table. His mouth pressed to my throat, stubble grazing across my skin in the most delicious way. His kisses moved lower, passing over my collar bone before making it to the swell of my breast. His mouth landed on my nipple, his tongue flicking against it and making me moan in pleasure. His hand found my other breast while he spread his other palm across my lower back to hold me in place. I locked my ankles around him, pulling him closer so that I could feel the full length of his arousal grinding against me through the lacy fabric of my panties. His mouth found mine again and I pushed my fingers into his golden curls as my breasts skimmed against the firm lines of his muscular chest. My muscles were tightening, my heart pounding and my body aching for more of him. I grazed my fingertips down his chest, feeling every ridge of his abdomen before reaching the waistband of his boxers. I pushed my hand beneath the soft material and wrapped my fingers around the hard length of him. Caleb groaned against my lips as I began to move my hand up and down, a tingle running along my spine as I felt just how much my touch affected him. His hands made it to the sides of my panties and he peeled them down as his heavy breathing broke our kiss. I lifted my ass to let him remove them and he stepped back, forcing my hand off of him as he tossed my underwear aside. I watched as he pushed his boxers off revealing every inch of him and my mouth dried up with desire. He shot forward with his Vampire speed, scooping me up and moving me backwards as he lay me beneath him on the games table. Poker chips and cards scattered all around us and a surprised laugh left my lips. He grinned as he kissed me again, hard enough to bruise my lips but still not enough to tame my desire. My hands explored the curve of his shoulders and I arched my back off of the table so that my nipples skimmed his flesh. Caleb shifted, moving between my legs, our kiss breaking for the briefest moment as he looked into my eyes and pushed himself inside me. A moan of pleasure escaped me as he filled me and I tipped my head back, my eyes falling closed as I absorbed the feeling of his body merging with mine. “Fuck,” Caleb breathed as he started to move, slowly at first but building in speed as I urged him on. (tory)

So this dream seemed oddly familiar and yet completely alien to me at the same time. Once again I was tucked in a bed, being held and protected against anything and everything the world might have to throw at me. But instead of the soft embrace of parents I’d never known, my head lay on the chest of a man whose strong arms were wrapped around me like he never wanted to let me go. His heartbeat thumped beneath my ear. My arm and leg were coiled over him while he held me against him, his hand resting on the curve of my thigh. He was warm unlike anyone I’d ever known, his skin almost seeming to hold a fire within it which filled my soul with strength and peace. My eyes were closed so I couldn’t see him but I just felt oddly at home. Like this was where I was meant to be. My hand lay on the hard muscles of his abs and I slowly started tracing the lines the muscles created with my fingertips, not wanting to shatter the peace of the dream by opening my eyes. He inhaled deeply, his chest rising beneath me while the arm holding me pulled me a little closer still. I continued my sleepy exploration of his stomach, my fingers tracing the lines lower and lower until they suddenly skimmed against the edge of a rough waistband. I frowned to myself at the sensation of denim against my fingertips. Who would sleep in a pair of jeans? What kind of weird dream man had I conjured up? I ran my fingers along the top of the jeans, the rough material tickling at the edges of my memory but my head was too foggy to place it. “If you keep doing that I’m going to stop being a gentleman about this situation.” My hand fell still and I froze at the sound of that voice. There was no way even dream Tory would be deluded enough to feel safe in his arms. My heart pounded a panicked rhythm against my ribcage and I peeled my eyes open, blinking a few times against the darkness I found waiting for me. Pain thundered through my skull and my tongue was thick in my mouth. I cringed against the headache, trying to focus on something around me as I slowly realised that this wasn’t a dream at all. I spotted the fire burning low in the grate across the room first. There was a black fire guard standing before it and a plush cream chair beside it. I knew this room. I’d burned it down once. And somehow I’d ended up right in the centre of Darius Acrux’s goddamn golden bed. I was too horrified at myself to move, my brain hunting for answers in a foggy sea of alcohol infused memories. I’d been drinking in The Orb with Sofia and Diego while she shielded our presence with a spell to deflect attention so that no one would spot us and play any Hell Week pranks on us. Or notice the fact that we’d stayed out after curfew. I remembered playing a strange Fae version of truth or dare with them while we worked our way through too many shots and Diego came up with ideas to retrieve his hat from Orion. Then...nothing. Certainly nothing that could explain to me how I’d ended up in Darius Acrux’s arms. My gaze slid across the wide armchair where I spotted my academy skirt hanging over one arm. I swallowed a thick lump in my throat, turning my attention to what I was wearing...or wasn’t wearing. I plucked at the huge t-shirt which clearly wasn’t mine, pulling the neck wide so that I could look down inside it. A moment of relief found me as I spotted my bra still in place but he hadn’t released his hold on me so I couldn’t be sure my panties were still there too. (Darius POV)

Our feelings and our eyes I asked her, “Irma, what have you done?” She looked at me and replied, “nothing!” I cannot find few of my heart beats a lot seems undone, But there was a feeling that reminded me of something, And I tracked the rhythm of my every heart beat, Which led just to one trace, That whenever I see her and our eyes meet, My heart loses its pace, And there goes my heart beat missing in between this space, The distance between her eyes and mine, Though we stand on the same ground at the same place, Yet my heart beats rush towards her making a bee line, Just to beat closer to her heart, To feel her warmth and swim in the sea of her feelings, And as these love seeking heart beats depart, My heart cries in its painful reelings, Where it finds itself left in the wilderness of nowhere, She is there, her heart is there too, But our eyes still tend to wander somewhere, Where she is willing to say I love you, But her heart beats are yet to feel the miracle of a missing heart beat, That always rushes unto me, Creating love’s fondest retreat, Where wherever I may see, I see her and she only sees me, This is the distance that grows in the eyes, That only these missing heart beats can shorten, Just like when I look at those skies, I am always by her beauty smitten, Her eyes, her smiles, her face and her sweet ways, Are actually the twinkle that the night stars bear, And ah their pain on those Sunny and bright days, When they long to see her, But today, she looked at me and I felt she plugged into my spirit, And a heart beat unknown sank into me with it, Then she started beating in my every heart beat, And how I loved my heart beat, and repeat and repeat, With every heartbeat, “I love you too.” And then the distance in our eyes vanished suddenly, As I held her in my arms and said, “I was born to love you!” And then our two hearts, beat as one and forever happily.

Aaron Warner Anderson is the only emotional through line in my life that ever made sense. He's the only constant, The only steady, reliable heartbeat I've ever had

Forever wasn't pain and grief. Forever wasn't a problem. Forever was my heartbeat and it was the hope tomorrow held. Forever was the glistening silver lining of the dark cloud, no matter how heavy and thick it was. Forever was knowing it moments of weakness didn't equate to an eternity of them. Forever was knowing that I was strong. [...] Forever was in the fire-breathing dragon inside me that had shed the fear like a snake shedding skin. Forever was simply a promise of more. Forever was a work in progress.

Afterward, I looked over the printout of my bodily responses with a profound sense of wonder. I could see that the paper was covered with jagged lines that traced my spiking heartbeat and panting breath as the red alert of risk swept through my body. But the reflective areas of my brain never had a clue that I was on edge. So far as I “knew,” I was doing nothing more than calmly trying to make a few bucks by picking cards.

True to Me" City lights, wild nights, chasing what feels right, Living loud, in the crowd, but my heart's in a quiet fight. I've walked the line, lost and found, my reflection's my new company, In the noise, I found my voice, it's singing, "I'm true to me." They'll try to change your rhythm, say you're not enough, But your melody's your own, and it's made of tougher stuff. 'Cause there's nothing better than being true, In a world that's shifting, I'm my own breakthrough. Don't be ashamed, embrace the view, I'm always me, and that's my virtue. I've felt the sting, heard the rings, of words that cut so deep, But I'm a diamond in the rough, and I've got promises to keep. To the mirror, I say, "You're okay," and the truth starts to breakthrough, I'm a star, just as I are, and there's nothing I can't do. So let them talk behind my back, let them draw their lines, I'm a masterpiece in progress, and I'm fine. (Chorus) 'Cause there's nothing better than this heart of mine, Through every setback, I just redefine. I'm not afraid to love, to cross that line, I'm feeling everything, and it's a sign. How can you deal with love, if you're afraid to feel? How can you heal, if you don't believe you're real? I'm standing strong, I'm feeling free, 'Cause there's nothing better than the me I see. Yeah, there's nothing better than this path I choose, With every step, I know I won't lose. I'm not just a face in the crowd, I'm a headline news, I'm living out loud, 'cause there's nothing better than being true. So here's to the brave, to the love we crave, To being ourselves, to the waves we make. With every heartbeat, with every move, There's nothing better, nothing more true than you.

True to Me" City lights, wild nights, chasing what feels right, Living loud, in the crowd, but my heart's in a quiet fight. I've walked the line, lost and found, my reflection's my new company, In the noise, I found my voice, it's singing, "I'm true to me." They'll try to change your rhythm, say you're not enough, But your melody's your own, and it's made of tougher stuff. 'Cause there's nothing better than being true, In a world that's shifting, I'm my own breakthrough. Don't be ashamed, embrace the view, I'm always me, and that's my virtue. I've felt the sting, heard the rings, of words that cut so deep, But I'm a diamond in the rough, and I've got promises to keep. To the mirror, I say, "You're okay," and the truth starts to breakthrough, I'm a star, just as I are, and there's nothing I can't do. So let them talk behind my back, let them draw their lines, I'm a masterpiece in progress, and I'm fine. 'Cause there's nothing better than this heart of mine, Through every setback, I just redefine. I'm not afraid to love, to cross that line, I'm feeling everything, and it's a sign. How can you deal with love, if you're afraid to feel? How can you heal, if you don't believe you're real? I'm standing strong, I'm feeling free, 'Cause there's nothing better than the me I see. Yeah, there's nothing better than this path I choose, With every step, I know I won't lose. I'm not just a face in the crowd, I'm a headline news, I'm living out loud, 'cause there's nothing better than being true. So here's to the brave, to the love we crave, To being ourselves, to the waves we make. With every heartbeat, with every move, There's nothing better, nothing more true than you.

Compassionate computing is the silent revolution, where lines of code echo the heartbeat of humanity, reminding us that behind every data point, there is a story to be understood and respected.

I gained everything, brother, everything. And I would do it all over again in a heartbeat. The hellacious road less traveled has been worth it, man. I only wish he was still with us.

I know what I’m holding. I know her worth.” It’s an echo, this part of my heartbeat that thrums in my chest, an echo of a life I lived long ago and a man I loved whom I spent my rainy days with. My love for him is still so distinguishable, and for that I’m grateful.

Pact of love Not in the silence but in the stillness of quietude I want to be with you, Then as our heartbeats break the silence I want to tell you, Darling I love you, And see the flash of joy arise from you, And let the quiet stillness be intruded by you, By your smiles, by your heart beats, by anything that represents you, Then as my world of emotions and feelings grows over you, I shall attempt to steal you from you, To reside somewhere in the eternal stillness with you, Where there is the world but it exists only for me and you, Then as my feelings sink inside you, I shall tune my heart beats with that of you, Then even the stillness will not disturb me and you, Because now it will be hard to tell whether you are inside me or I am inside you, With feelings merged as one, with heart beats beating as one, I shall now see my world through you, Then my love Irma, we shall sign our pact of love bearing just one line, “I was born to love you!

[His parents] treated love as an obligation. It came with conditions, and God help them if he stepped out of line. If they could've cut him up into pieces and kept only the parts they found acceptable, they would've done it in a heartbeat.

A lone women's voice climbed into the sky, eerily high, raw pain driven through it like a pike. Ro rah hai yeh zameen! Ro raha hai asmaan... Another joined in and then another: This earth, she weeps! The heavens too... The birds stopped their twittering for a while and listened, beady-eyed, to humanising. Street dogs slouched past checkposts unchecked, their heartbeats rock steady. Kites and griffons circled the thermals, drifting lazily back and forth across the Line of Control, just to mock the tiny clot of humans gathered down below.

I love you,” Val began, wondering where in the nine circles of hell that had come from. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry; that came out… wrong. Still…” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “It’s the truth.” Ellen’s fingers settled on his nape, massaging in the small, soothing circles Val had come to expect when her hands were on him. “If you love me,” she said after a long, fraught silence, “you’ll tell me the truth.” Val tried to see that response as positive—she hadn’t stomped off, railed at him, or tossed his words back in his face. Yet. But neither had she reciprocated. “My name is Valentine Windham,” he said slowly, “but you’ve asked about my family, and in that regard—and that regard only—I have not been entirely forthcoming.” “Come forth now,” she commanded softly, her hand going still. “My father is the Duke of Moreland. That’s all. I’m a commoner, my title only a courtesy, and I’m not even technically the spare anymore, a situation that should improve further, because my brother Gayle is deeply enamored of his wife.” “Improve?” Ellen’s voice was soft, preoccupied. “I don’t want the title, Ellen.” Val sat up, needing to see her eyes. “I don’t ever want it, not for me, not for my son or grandson. I make pianos, and it’s a good income. I can provide well for you, if you’ll let me.” “As your mistress?” “Bloody, blazing… no!” Val rose and paced across the porch, turning to face her when he could go no farther. “As my wife, as my beloved, dearest wife.” A few heartbeats of silence went by, and with each one, Val felt the ringing of a death knell over his hopes. “I would be your mistress. I care for you, too, but I cannot be your wife.” Val frowned at that. It wasn’t what he’d been expecting. A conditional rejection, that’s what it was. She’d give him time, he supposed, to get over his feelings and move along with his life. “Why not marry me?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. She crossed her arms too. “What else haven’t you told me?” “Fair enough.” Val came back to sit beside her and searched his mind. “I play the piano. I don’t just mess about with it for polite entertainment. Playing the piano used to be who I was.” “You were a musician?” Val snorted. “I was a coward, but yes, I was a musician, a virtuoso of the keyboard. Then my hand”—he held up his perfectly unremarkable left hand—“rebelled against all the wear and tear, or came a cropper somehow. I could not play anymore, not without either damaging it beyond all repair or risking a laudanum addiction, maybe both.” “So you came out here?” Ellen guessed. “You took on the monumental task of setting to rights what I had put wrong on this estate and thought that would be… what?” “A way to feel useful or maybe just a way to get tired enough each day that I didn’t miss the music so much, and then…” “Then?” She took his hand in hers, but Val wasn’t reassured. His mistress, indeed. “Then I became enamored of my neighbor. She beguiled me—she’s lovely and dear and patient. She’s a virtuoso of the flower garden. She cared about my hand and about me without once hearing me play the piano, and this intrigued me.” “You intrigued me,” Ellen admitted, pressing the back of his hand to her cheek. “You still do.” “My Ellen loves to make beauty, as do I.” Val turned and used his free hand to trace the line of Ellen’s jaw. “She is as independent as I am and values her privacy, as I do.” “You are merely lonely, Val.

Muse, We are servants of the Mystery. We were put here on earth to act as agents of the Infinite, to bring into existence that which is not yet, but which will be, through us. Every breath we take, every heartbeat, every evolution of every cell comes from God and is sustained by God every second, just as every creation, invention, every bar of music or line of verse, every thought, vision, fantasy, every dumb-ass flop and stroke of genius comes from that infinite intelligence that created us and the universe in all its dimensions, out of the Void, the field of infinite potential, primal chaos, the Muse. To acknowledge that reality, to efface all ego, to let the work come through us and give it back freely to its source, that, in my opinion, is as true to reality as it gets.

We are servants of the Mystery. We were put here on earth to act as agents of the Infinite, to bring into existence that which is not yet, but which will be, through us. Every breath we take, every heartbeat, every evolution of every cell comes from God and is sustained by God every second, just as every creation, invention, every bar of music or line of verse, every thought, vision, fantasy, every dumb-ass flop and stroke of genius comes from that infinite intelligence that created us and the universe in all its dimensions, out of the Void, the field of infinite potential, primal chaos, the Muse. To acknowledge that reality, to efface all ego, to let the work come through us and give it back freely to its source, that, in my opinion, is as true to reality as it gets.

I find solace in a serenade the words of a stranger bringing comfort through the lines of a song, The pain intertwined in the verses and half notes My heart knows the words and I sing along as my soul finds healing through a ballad swirling through my stereo

There is a very, narrow, thinness of line between the living and the dead; actually, it's just a lack of a heartbeat away.

There are moments in life that contain instant knowledge. The first time expectant parents hear their baby's heartbeat and realize the world into only about them anymore. The moment when a runner can see the finish line and knows they're going to win. The instant death is inevitable when your parachute doesn't open. And the moment when you look into another person's eyes and know that tonight, or for a few hours, you're the only two people in the world. Their eyes met. Their lips touched. No more hedging or evading. She was ready to dance.

His eyes drifted shut for a heartbeat, all the striking lines of his face were tense. “Always,” he whispered. “Yes.” I reacted and pulled away from the rock. Closing the distance between our mouths, I kissed him. I knew the moment my lips touched Casteel’s, the very second his lips parted, that this was real.

The teenager let out a deep, deep sigh, like he’d been holding it in for hours. “Dad’s gonna be so pissed.” “Yeah, but not at you,” I reassured him. The look he sent me was one that told me he wasn’t totally convinced that was going to be the case, but I knew it would. And I’d be nosey and eavesdrop. We headed into the house. I went to the table in the kitchen, picking up a hunting and fishing magazine stacked neatly in the middle as Amos went for the house phone and punched in some numbers. His face was gloomy as hell. I pretended not to look at him as he held the receiver and let out a deep breath. He winced right before saying, “Hey, Dad… uh, Ora and I think there’s a leak in the garage apartment… The ceiling has, like, pockets of water, and there’s drops—what? I don’t know how… I just went in there and saw it… Ora turned off the water. Then she turned off the power when the lights started flickering… Hold on.” The boy held the phone out. “He wants to talk to you.” I took it. “Hi, Rhodes, how’s your day going? How many people have you busted for not having a permit?” I flashed a grimace-like smile at Amos, who suddenly didn’t look so sick. Rhodes didn’t say anything for a heartbeat before coming on the line with “It’s going good now.” Excuse me? Was that flirting? “And only two hunters. How’s yours?” He was really asking me about my day. Who was this man and how could I buy him? “Pretty good. A customer brought me a Bundt cake. I gave Clara half when she gave me the stink eye. I’ll give Am half of my half so you can try it. It’s good.” Amos was giving me the funniest look, and I winked at him. We were in this together. “Thanks, Buddy,” he said almost softly. “You mind telling me what happened over there?

Dex’s eyes met his, a stunning smile coming onto his face, and his cheeks flushed. The affection in his eyes squeezed Sloane’s heart, and he brought their lips together again, doing his best to show Dex how he made Sloane feel through his kiss, even if he had trouble finding the words to go with it. He lined himself up with one hand and lifted Dex’s leg with the other before he tenderly pushed himself inside. His lover inhaled sharply and Sloane paused, allowing Dex to adjust around him. A heartbeat later, Dex nodded, and Sloane pushed through until he was buried deep, the tight heat both excruciating and exhilarating. Sloane rocked against Dex, his muscles pulled and tensed as he moved, drawing out, and then pushing in. He kept a steady pace, his eyes never leaving Dex’s as he moved. Dex reached down between them to stroke his cock, and Sloane bucked his hips at the sight, making Dex gasp. With a wicked grin, Sloane pulled out, grabbed a pillow from beside Dex’s head and tapped Dex’s flank, receiving a naughty smile when Sloane slipped the pillow underneath Dex’s lower back. “Hold on tight?” Dex asked with a knowing grin. “Hold on tight,” Sloane growled playfully. He lined his cock up against Dex’s hole once again, thrusting inside him, and Dex clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle his cry, his other hand thrown up against the headboard. Sloane snapped his hips, thrusting hard inside Dex. He held Dex’s legs up against him, his arms around them as he fucked him, his breath ragged, and his pulse soaring. “Oh

Mick?” she whispered. “Yeah?” “Are you feeling something?” “You could say that,” he murmured. “You?” She licked her lips and he nearly groaned. “I think so,” she whispered. “That’s good.” “Are you going to kiss me?” He cupped her face, let his thumbs trace her jawbone, his fingers sinking into her silky waves. “No,” he said quietly. “And not because I don’t want to, but because when I do, I want to know you’re ready. That you’ll feel it.” She sighed. “Guys do whatever they want all the time, no emotions necessary. I want that skill.” Another shaky breath escaped her, and since they were literally an inch apart, they shared air for a single heartbeat during which neither of them moved. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “Okay, so I’m definitely feeling things.” She hesitated and then her hands came up to his chest. “Maybe we should test it out to be sure.” God, she was the sweetest temptation he’d ever met, and he wanted nothing more than to cover her mouth with his. Instead, he brushed his mouth to her cheek. “Please, Mick,” she whispered, her exhale warming his throat. He loved the “please,” and he wanted to do just that more than anything. But when she tried to turn her head into his, to line up their mouths, he gently tightened his grip, dragging his mouth along her smooth skin instead, making his way to her ear. “Not yet,” he whispered, letting his lips brush over her earlobe and the sensitive skin beneath it. She moaned and clutched him. “Why not?” It took every ounce of control he had to lift his head and meet her gaze. “Because I want to make sure you’re really with me, that you’re feeling everything I’m feeling. That there’ll be no doubt, no regrets.” “You sure have a lot of requirements.” He laughed. And she was right, it was all big talk for a guy who didn’t do relationships anymore. Still, he forced himself to step back and shut the passenger door. As he rounded the hood to the driver’s side, he tried to remind himself of all the reasons she was a bad idea. He lived two hundred miles away and he was hoping to move his mom up by him and never come back here. Not to mention that Quinn lived an equal two hundred miles in the opposite direction and she was in a deeply vulnerable place. No way would he even think about taking advantage of that. But when he slid behind the wheel and their eyes locked, he realized that while his mind could stand firm, the rest of his body wasn’t on board with the in-control program.