Holding You Hostage Quotes

If you’re with her and you wish you were elsewhere then leave. One of the cruellest things you can do to a person is make them feel like home when to you they’re only temporary. We all deserve adoration and undistracted attention. We all deserve to feel complete. If you can’t give her your whole heart, then don’t you dare hold it hostage.

Sure, on a larger scale, it was healthy to have people out there you cared about more than yourself. She knew that. But then there was the abject fear you would lose it. They say possessions own you. Not so. Loved ones own you. You are forever held hostage once you care so much.

If two people truly have feelings for one another then they don’t have an affair. They get a divorce and they sort out their feelings. You are accountable for the people you hold hostage in a marriage when your mind and heart refuse to fully commit to them.

Did you send an escort with my family?” “Yes. They’re a target.” “How did you know they would be leaving?” “My people saw them load up, called me, and I told them to follow.” Duh. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome. I plan to hold them hostage until you sleep with me.” I stumbled. He turned and gave me a brilliant, impossibly handsome smile. “Just kidding.” Damn it.

Reasons we should get married: Because I love you. We both look good in black boots. I spent some time without you, and I didn’t like it. You make me happy. I make you laugh. I like the way you fight. You see through my masks. I really love you. You love me, too. (Though you’ve mostly said this while yelling, so perhaps I should have double-checked.) Army of tiny vigilantes. (I have name ideas.) Various political reasons that make sense but don’t fit with the theme of this list. I’m holding your handwriting hostage. You can have it back when you say yes.

They say possesions own you. Not so. Loved ones own you. You are forever held hostage once you care so much.

Are you sad?” “Not yet.” He closes his eyes. “I’ll drive for a bit.” I hold out my hand. He shakes his head. “You’re my guest. I’ll drive. You’re tired.” “Oh, I’m your guest now?” I put as much menace as I can into my walk and he puts both hands behind his back. I smile at him and he smiles back. I’m surprised the pinprick stars above us don’t explode into silver powder. The sadness I caught in his eyes is burned away by a spark of amusement. “My hostage. My blackmailed, unwilling captive. Stockholm Shortcake.

It does seem simple, doesn't it?' she said, with a final bitter attempt at flippancy, 'when you want to kill a chicken...you take hold of it...then you wring its neck...it's only the chicken who does not find it quite so simple. Now you hold a knife at my throat, and a hostage for my obedience...You find it simple...I don't

Break your shackles and reach out to your freedom. Break to pieces whatever indoctrination and programming that holds you hostage. The world is yours. Get possession of it.

Sebastian drew his hand away from his sword with a visible effort. “I said I never intended on harming her.” “No, just hold her hostage,” Magnus said. “You want something- something from the Clave, or something from Clary and Jace. I’d guess the latter; the Clave has never interested you much, but you do care what your sister thinks. She and I are very close, by the way,” he added.

It’s taboo to admit that you’re lonely. You can make jokes about it, of course. You can tell people that you spend most of your time with Netflix or that you haven’t left the house today and you might not even go outside tomorrow. Ha ha, funny. But rarely do you ever tell people about the true depths of your loneliness, about how you feel more and more alienated from your friends each passing day and you’re not sure how to fix it. It seems like everyone is just better at living than you are. A part of you knew this was going to happen. Growing up, you just had this feeling that you wouldn’t transition well to adult life, that you’d fall right through the cracks. And look at you now. La di da, it’s happening. Your mother, your father, your grandparents: they all look at you like you’re some prized jewel and they tell you over and over again just how lucky you are to be young and have your whole life ahead of you. “Getting old ain’t for sissies,” your father tells you wearily. You wish they’d stop saying these things to you because all it does is fill you with guilt and panic. All it does is remind you of how much you’re not taking advantage of your youth. You want to kiss all kinds of different people, you want to wake up in a stranger’s bed maybe once or twice just to see if it feels good to feel nothing, you want to have a group of friends that feels like a tribe, a bonafide family. You want to go from one place to the next constantly and have your weekends feel like one long epic day. You want to dance to stupid music in your stupid room and have a nice job that doesn’t get in the way of living your life too much. You want to be less scared, less anxious, and more willing. Because if you’re closed off now, you can only imagine what you’ll be like later. Every day you vow to change some aspect of your life and every day you fail. At this point, you’re starting to question your own power as a human being. As of right now, your fears have you beat. They’re the ones that are holding your twenties hostage. Stop thinking that everyone is having more sex than you, that everyone has more friends than you, that everyone out is having more fun than you. Not because it’s not true (it might be!) but because that kind of thinking leaves you frozen. You’ve already spent enough time feeling like you’re stuck, like you’re watching your life fall through you like a fast dissolve and you’re unable to hold on to anything. I don’t know if you ever get better. I don’t know if a person can just wake up one day and decide to be an active participant in their life. I’d like to think so. I’d like to think that people get better each and every day but that’s not really true. People get worse and it’s their stories that end up getting forgotten because we can’t stand an unhappy ending. The sick have to get better. Our normalcy depends upon it. You have to value yourself. You have to want great things for your life. This sort of shit doesn’t happen overnight but it can and will happen if you want it. Do you want it bad enough? Does the fear of being filled with regret in your thirties trump your fear of living today? We shall see.

Many people hold onto a grudge because it offers the illusion of power and a perverse feeling of security. But in fact, we are held hostage by our anger. It is never too late to forgive. But you can forgive too soon. I am especially wary of what I call "saintly forgiveness." Premature forgiveness is common among people who avoid conflict. They're afraid of their own anger and the anger of others. But their forgiveness is false. Their anger goes underground. I define forgiving as letting someone back into your heart. This returns us to a loving state -- and not merely within the relationship -- we feel good about ourselves and the world. True forgiveness isn't easy, but it transforms us significantly. To forgive is to love and to feel worthy of love. In that sense, it is always worthwhile.

I love you.” The words were a curse, harsh and punishing. “I can’t change it and I don’t want to. You’re it for me.” Angelo’s body shook between Gabe’s legs. “I gave you my heart in that fucking interrogation room, cop, yet you’ve been holding yours hostage from me.” He pulled his head back, eyes over-bright, lips red and swollen. “I want those words. I deserve those words.” His voice wobbled and broke. “I demand those words. I need them.

I'm the only one who has permission to hold you hostage, remember?

All the rules changed. I’m holding you hostage, pretty. Who the hell do you think you are?” “Just an old lady trying to make things right.

You’re serious? You want me to go to school?” “Why not?” he challenged. “So long as you take care of shit around here, I’m fine with it. Might want to move on that whole divorce thing too while you’re at it. Club’s got a lawyer, I’ll set up an appointment for you. I can pretty much guarantee your ex won’t put up a fight.” He smiled when he said it—not a nice smile. “Okay, I’ll go check it out,” I said slowly. “This is weird, you get that? You kidnapping me, holding me hostage and then sending me to school? This isn’t how things like this usually work.” Horse grinned at me, eyes lazy and satisfied. “Just roll with it,” he whispered. “And keep doing whatever exercises you do to make your cunt squeeze like that. They got a college degree for that?

dear depression you are a swallowed island. a continental shelf of grief. an underwater prison. a fog holding the sky hostage and chasing away the blue...

Success. I turned back to my sandwich, only to find that it wasn’t there anymore. Maybe because it had been hijacked. “Give me that!” I told the vamp, who was holding it firmly against his chest, a determined look on his face. “What ees zat?” he demanded, eyeing my prize. “Cheese.” I held it up. “Zat ees not cheese.” “How do you know?” “Eet is orange.” “A lot of cheese is orange.” “Non! No cheese ees that color. Cheese comes from zee milk. Zee milk, eet ees white. When ’ave you seen milk that looks like zat?” I held up the square of little slices and pointed at the bold-faced label. “Processed American Cheese.” He snatched the package, without letting go of his hostage. And eyed it warily. “Eet says ‘cheese food.’” He looked up, obviously perplexed. “What ees thees? Zee cheese, it does not eat.

Junie says that the worst thing about shame is the way it chains you down. The way it holds your mind hostage and won’t let you go, gnawing from the inside out, feeding on you like a parasite.

Don’t,” I whisper. “I won’t let him make you into the villain.” A gaze as sharp as thorns hooks into me, holds me hostage. “I told you, I’ll be the villain for you.” Resolve bolsters my spine. “Yes. But so will I.

Vladimir Ilyich (Lenin), your concrete actions are completely unworthy of the ideas you pretend to hold. Is it possible that you do not know what a hostage really is — a man imprisoned not because of a crime he has committed, but only because it suits his enemies to exert blackmail on his companions? ... If you admit such methods, one can foresee that one day you will use torture, as was done in the Middle Ages. I hope you will not answer me that Power is for political men a professional duty, and that any attack against that power must be considered as a threat against which one must guard oneself at any price. This opinion is no longer held even by kings... Are you so blinded, so much a prisoner of your own authoritarian ideas, that you do not realise that being at the head of European Communism, you have no right to soil the ideas which you defend by shameful methods ... What future lies in store for Communism when one of its most important defenders tramples in this way every honest feeling?

Companies, entertainers, content creators, politicians, preachers ... Everybody is squeezing you in the name of your family. Don't run away from your responsibilities but you should seek eternal freedom and not waste your life in gratifying some ghosts that are pretending to be your family members and holding you hostage.

Attention, success, and comparison hold my soul hostage and refuse to negotiate until they get what they want. Spoiler alert: They want everything. And they are never satisfied. They will never let you go.

You're not going to want to see him. Not tonight, Sorrengail.' Garrick warns with a grimace. 'Self-preservation is a thing. Notice we're not with him, and we're his best friends.' 'Yeah, well, I'm his...' I open my mouth and shut it a few times because... fuck if I know what I am to him. But the longing that holds my heart hostage, this driving need to be at his side because I know he's suffering, no matter if it means throwing myself headfirst into uncertainty... I can't deny what he is to me. I kick off the leather slippers of my dress uniform- they're more of a hazard than anything, and in this wind? Well, we'll see how it goes. 'I'm just... his.

She pulled her arm free from his grasp and stood back, her arms crossed. "So, what then? You're holding me hostage? Are you even really a sheriff?" "I am," he said, highly amused at her attempt at bravado. "You wanna see my badge?

Lord, so many things skitter through my mind, and I give chase to gather them and hold them up in a bunch to you, but they go this way and that while I go that way and this ... So, gather me up instead and bless what eludes my grasp but not yours: trees and bees, fireflies and butterflies, roses and barbecues, and people ... Lord, the people ... bless the people: birthday people, giving birth people, being born people; conformed people, dying people, dead people; hostaged people, banged up people, held down people; leader people, lonely people, limping people; hungry people, surfeited

If you’re with her and you wish you were elsewhere then leave. One of the cruellest things you can do to a person is make them feel like home when to you they’re only temporary. We all deserve adoration and undistracted attention. We all deserve to feel complete. If you can’t give her your whole heart, then don’t you dare hold it hostage.

Fear can hold your vision hostage and anxiety is the symptom of the things you are afraid of.

But hearts are made to hold you hostage and I’m captive against my will.

all the makings of you are love at first sight. when i dream of you tonight, i will hold you hostage underneath my eyelids.  

Home. Home is just a word. Thin on meaning. It's a word that can hold you hostage, keep you from living your life.

When God reveals His will in the silence of your heart, but it all seems impossible to you; He will hold your heart hostage until you elevate your vision, thoughts, and actions.

These “I love you’s” are holding me hostage.

Do you know how many people are in the No-Fire Zone?” I asked him. “The government is shelling although they know civilians are there, and the movement is holding people hostage.

Your child and your work hold you hostage, suck you dry, ruin your sleep, mess with your head, treat you like dirt, and then you discover they’ve given you that gold nugget you were looking for all along.

We were in the Safeway parking lot. I couldn’t find my cigarettes. You said, "Hurry up!" but I was worried there would be a hold-up and we would be stuck in a hostage situation, hiding behind the frozen meats, with nothing to smoke for hours. You said "Don’t be silly," so I followed you into the store. We were thumping the melons when I heard somebody say, "Nobody move!" I leaned over and whispered in your ear, "I told you so.

He smirks, shaking his head and letting his eyes wander. I watch him carefully, wondering what I can say to get him to leave. “I’m not leaving until you answer some questions. Plus, I’m holding your sketchbook hostage, so you might want to cooperate.” I raise an eyebrow at him. I guess there isn’t much I can say. “This isn’t a hostage negotiation.” He chuckles half-heartedly as his eyes take me in, almost sizing me up. “I guess I should introduce myself.” He holds a hand out for me to shake. “I’m Nathan.” I stare at his hand for a moment. “Taylor,” I reply, meeting his eyes again without taking his hand. He lets his hand fall back to his side. “At least I got you to say something non-hostile.” “I haven’t been hostile,” I object. His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, haven’t you?” “Why don’t you leave me alone?” I snap. “Leave and don’t come back.” I move passed him, heading for my apartment. He can’t follow and annoy me if I lock the door. “Where are you going?” he demands. I look back over my shoulder and roll my eyes at him, indicating the answer should be obvious: anywhere he isn’t. Once inside, I slam the door behind me. “That was totally not hostile!” he calls after me, sarcastically. I quickly head for my bedroom door, slamming it, too.

I’m kidnapping you,” my Suh-mer announces. “I already got the chief’s permission and everything. I’m going to kidnap you and hold you hostage in the cabin here for the next few days and have my wicked, wicked way with you.” She smiles up at me and wriggles her eyebrows.

As a way for both of us to make money, I’ll hold you hostage, while at the same time, you’ll be holding me hostage,” I said to Orafoura.
“Won’t the ransom money you pay to me cancel out the money I’ll pay to you?” Orafoura said. 
“Not if I shoot you first. Then I’ll have all the ransom money!

He holds my chin in a firm grip, cutting me off. “I need to get this out.” Instead of five deep breaths, he takes one long inhale. Progress. “Tonight, when you told Lily we weren’t together, I wasn’t angry…” My lungs stop working. His arresting stare holds me hostage. “I was disappointed because of how much I wanted us to be.

Attention, success, and comparison hold my soul hostage and refuse to negotiate until they get what they want. Spoiler alert: They want everything. And they are never satisfied. They will never let you go. We need a rescuer to come and save us from the bondage of the lie that whispers we have to build and grow and be known by all.

Do you want a ride home?" "I rode my bike, and I don't really want to keep it here at the school." "I have a truck, it won't be a problem to throw it into the bed." "Well then, I suppose I don't really have an excuse to say no, do I?" "I was going to hold your duffel hostage until you said yes anyway." "Now what has my duffel bag ever done to you?

Drafting green from a thousand trees shining on each bank of the river in the noonday sun, he threw down steps and made a little platform to stand on. "We", he declared, "are damaged but not dismayed, oppressed but no overwhelmed. We are the Broken, for when our oaths were tested, we broke them ourselves. We were despised: Here are my best friends. This world sees a bastard, an orphan, a hostage, a cripple, an idiot. I call them the Mighty. We - you - are outcasts all, the homeless driven from the lands where our mothers were buried. They have taken the light from our lives. Killed our loved ones, our friends. Taken our homes. Left us to wander as ghosts and feral dogs." [...] [...]"They have taken the light from us. Yes. But now they expect us to cower like dogs beaten and fade like shades forgotten. But I don't see dogs and shades here. Do they not know what they've begun? I see wolves. I see ghosts..." He looked around them as if they had forgotten who they were, and he was here to hold up a mirror for them that they might remember. "Have you forgotten? Have they made you, for this brief houyr, forget? Ghosts and Wolves hunt at night. They thin we cower, waiting for the light? Alone we are broken, bereaved, afraid. together we will hunt. In the darkness, we will usher them into the final darkness. Alone we were weak and frightened. That time is past. Together, today, we are the Nightbringers.

I’m gonna lay this out for you, so pay attention, because I need you to hear me.” His response is instant and strong, and he steps closer, holding my eyes hostage. “I don’t want you to think Paige is here with me tonight. She’s not, but she is my friend, and I need to make sure she makes it home safely. I don’t want you to stay here because I’m thinking you came here for me tonight, and if I’m completely honest with you right now, I don’t want to share you with the person who I’m damn sure has just realized that. So, if you came for me, come with me.” He pauses, but only for a second. “Because I was on my way to you just the same.” Noah takes a deep breath, nodding to himself. “I’m coming off a loss today, make my night feel like a win. Come with, Juliet." Noah

I threw the carving of my goddess as high and far as I could, into the sky above the waves, and watched its arcing path through the air. As it fell, I saw a golden shape come diving toward the plummeting image, a huge eagle that seized the monster’s tooth in his talons. The feathers on his breast skimmed the sea before he soared back into the sky and flew away. “Did you see that, La--Glaucus?” Milo’s voice sounded in my ear. He’d woken from his nap and come up behind me unexpectedly. I almost jumped overboard with surprise. “It’s a good sign, isn’t it? Or is it predicting that something’s waiting to snatch us away? If that’s so, I swear I won’t let it touch you. But is it a good sign after all? Ah, what does it mean?” “You worry too much, Milo,” I said as if I had no such worries of my own. “If every hero stopped to think about all the what-ifs in his path, none of us would ever take one step beyond our own doorways.” “But you saw what it did,” Milo protested. “The eagle is Lord Zeus’s bird. We can’t just ignore it. Ah, what does it mean?” “What it means,” I said, smiling, “is that you and I have just seen either the world’s most unmistakable omen or the world’s most nearsighted eagle.” May the gods stand by us, I thought as I laughed and Milo stared at me in dismay. May they favor and guide us, but may they never hold us hostage through our fears. “Don’t look at me like that,” I told him, wiping sea spray from my eyes. “I haven’t said anything wrong. I love the gods and honor them, but I’m not their slave. Neither are you. From now on we’re going to make our own omens.” I took his hand, and when he pulled it away, I took it again. This time he let me. We were free.

Your work as a writer, when you are giving everything you have to your characters and to your readers, will periodically make you feel like the single parent of a three-year-old, who is, by turns, wonderful, willful, terrible, crazed, and adoring. Toddlers can make you feel as if you have violated some archaic law in their personal Koran and you should die, infidel. Other times they'll reach out and touch you like adoring grandparents on their deathbeds trying to memorize your face with their fingers...Your three-year-old and your work in progress teach you to give. They teach you to get out of yourself and become a person for someone else. This is probably the secret to happiness. So that's one reason to write. Your child and your work hold you hostage, suck you dry, ruin your sleep, mess with your head, treat you like dirt, and then you discover they've given you that gold nugget you were looking for all along.

Be all right, Nina willed silently, hoping her thoughts could somehow cut through the air, speed over the waters of the Ketterdam harbors, and reach her friend. Stay safe and whole and wait for us. Nina hadn’t been on Vellgeluk when Van Eck had taken Inej hostage. She’d still been trying to purge the parem from her body, caught in the haze of suffering that had begun on the voyage from Djerholm. She told herself to be grateful for the memory of that misery, every shaking, aching, vomiting minute of it. The shame of Matthias witnessing it all, holding back her hair, dabbing her brow, restraining her as gently as he could as she argued, cajoled, screamed at him for more parem. She made herself remember every terrible thing she’d said, every wild pleasure offered, each insult or accusation she’d hurled at him. You enjoy watching me suffer. You want me to beg, don’t you? How long have you been waiting to see me like this? Stop punishing me, Matthias. Help me. Be good to me and I’ll be good to you. He’d absorbed it all in stoic silence. She clutched tight to those memories. She needed them as vivid and bright and cringe-inducing as possible to fight her hunger for the drug. She never wanted to be like that again.

Perhaps we underestimated your mother,” he said. “I can’t imagine she would have made it so easy for anyone to find.” “A World War isn’t enough of a hurdle?” Etta asked, rubbing her hand over her face. “Okay, okay…we just have to think this through.…” “I do have an idea, but I’m afraid it’s terrible,” Nicholas said, surveying the lock on the gate and giving it another hard tug. “A bad idea is better than no idea,” Etta said. “I’m glad you feel that way, because this is an exquisitely bad one.” He turned toward her. “We can go around the back of the museum and I can lift you over the gate. You can then slip into the museum and hold any guards or curators inside hostage, until they give up the information about the location of the statues.” “Hold them hostage?” she repeated. “Don’t you know? That’s how real pirates like Blackbeard made most of their money. He ransomed whole cities,” he said. “I’ll even teach you how to use the revolver.” Despite herself, Etta smiled. “I really appreciate the faith you have in my criminal abilities. But even if I find someone in there, I doubt they’ll be good for anything other than calling the police to pick me up. It seems like the kind of information people would do anything to protect

Everyone around you is just doing their best to make it through today. Because tomorrow will come, and you have to repeat the same day over and over again.  As a kid, you go into the grocery store, and it feels like a never-ending castle filled with different rooms. You feel like every time you enter, there’s always something new to discover. But as an adult, you’ll start to get mad when they change the aisles around because now you can't find the damn oranges!  I never imagined that I would one day be employed in the magical grocery store my family and I went to every Saturday. I never imagined that the place I swore I’d never end up, would soon become the place where I was stuck. Emotionally and physically. As I watch customers trickle in and out, I create stories for each of them. The guy holding flowers and staring at his watch is probably late for a date. The young woman reading the get well soon greeting cards might have had someone close to her get hurt—or maybe they're sick.  All the stories I create for these people make me happy. They’re out in the world. They’re living whereas I’m only existing. I have nobody to share my oranges with. I have nobody to blow out candles in front of. I’m directionless and alone. This big magical place I once thought of is now holding me hostage. I had love once. I had people around me once. I had someone to grocery shop with on the weekends and laugh with when our groceries dropped through the bag. I once had someone to argue with over who was allowed to push the cart. I once had someone who would peel my oranges for me when we got home. Now, my oranges sit and rot in the bowl on my small kitchen table. I have to throw them away most of the time. Yet, I still buy them because it reminds me of something I once had. Is that all life is?

You can’t just abduct me and hold me for hostage! And hostage for what? Who do you think you are? My brother is one of the most powerful men in England! When he catches up to you, he’ll slit your belly and strangle you with your own entrails! Do you know what you’ve done?” The Irishman just shrugged, unconcerned, and shoved his other arm into his coat sleeve. “Does your sister Mrs. Lord know that I’m here? Does your brother-in-law, Captain Lord? The admiral, Sir Elliott?” “Don’t be stupid, of course not.” “Does anyone know?” “Not yet.” “Who are you? In actuality?” “Ruaidri O’ Devir, ma’m, just as ye thought.” He picked up a tricorne hat and headed for the door. “I wish to know why I am here!” He stopped then, his patience exhausted, and looked her straight in the eye. “Your brother developed an explosive which he’s about to sell to your country. My country needs it so we can win this miserable struggle with yours. Since I doubt England or your brother are going to just hand it over to us, ye’re my payment for it. A ransom, if ye will. Understand?” “What do you mean your country? Ireland is not at war with England… you are mad.” “No, Sunshine. I’m not mad. I’m a commissioned captain in America’s Continental Navy if ye must know, and because John Adams decided there’s nobody in the Navy as audacious, reckless or downright foolish as I am, he chose me to come and get that explosive. Ye’re my ransom. If yer family wants ye back, they’ll hand it over as well as the formula on how t’ create it. Now are ye finished? I’ve a ship to see to.” She stared at him, aghast. “Your sister is married to a captain in the Royal Navy… her brother-in-law is a famous admiral… you would dare do this right under all their noses?” He smiled then, his long lashes throwing shadow against his cheekbones in the dim orange glow of the lantern and in that moment, he looked almost handsome. Almost. “Indeed, I would.” The smile spread. “Indeed, I have.

If you love someone...tell them often. If you haven't had time for loved ones... make it. If you've been holding someone hostage through anger...free them & yourself. If someone crosses your mind...reach out. Time waits for no one. Most of us have more time behind us than we do in front of us so live, love, laugh every chance you get. Create memories that outlive you!

You are forever held hostage once you care so much. The

It interests me that there is no end of fictions, and facts made over in the forms of fictions. Because we class them under so many different rubrics, and media, and means of delivery, we don't recognize the sheer proliferation and seamlessness of them. I think at some level of scale or perspective, the police drama in which a criminal is shot, the hospital in which the doctors massage a heart back to life, the news video in which jihadists behead a hostage, and the human-interest story of a child who gets his fondest wish (a tourist trip somewhere) become the same sorts of drama. They are representations of strong experience, which, as they multiply, began to dedifferentiate in our uptake of them, despite our names and categories and distinctions... I say I watch the news to "know". But I don't really know anything. Certainly I can't do anything. I know that there is a war in Iraq, but I knew that already. I know that there are fires and car accidents in my state and in my country, but that, too, I knew already. With each particular piece of footage, I know nothing more than I did before. I feel something, or I don't feel something. One way I am likely to feel is virtuous and "responsible" for knowing more of these things that I can do nothing about. Surely this feeling is wrong, even contemptible. I am not sure anymore what I feel. What is it like to watch a human being's beheading? The first showing of the video is bad. The second, fifth, tenth, hundredth are—like one's own experiences—retained, recountable, real, and yet dreamlike. Some describe the repetition as "numbing". "Numbing" is very imprecise. I think the feeling, finally, is of something like envelopment and even satisfaction at having endured the worst without quite caring or being tormented. It is the paradoxically calm satisfaction of having been enveloped in a weak or placid "real" that another person endured as the worst experience imaginable, in his personal frenzy, fear, and desperation, which we view from the outside as the simple occurrence of a death... I see: Severed heads. The Extra Value Meal. Kohl-gray eyelids. A holiday sale at Kohl's. Red seeping between the fingers of the gloved hand that presses the wound. "Doctor, can you save him?" "We'll do our best." The dining room of the newly renovated house, done in red. Often a bold color is best. The kids are grateful for their playroom. The bad guy falls down, shot. The detectives get shot. The new Lexus is now available for lease. On CNN, with a downed helicopter in the background, a peaceful field of reeds waves in the foreground. One after another the reeds are bent, broken, by boot treads advancing with the camera. The cameraman, as savior, locates the surviving American airman. He shoots him dead. It was a terrorist video. They run it again. Scenes from ads: sales, roads, ordinary calm shopping, daily life. Tarpaulined bodies in the street. The blue of the sky advertises the new car's color. Whatever you could suffer will have been recorded in the suffering of someone else. Red Lobster holds a shrimp festival. Clorox gets out blood. Advil stops pain fast. Some of us are going to need something stronger.

The Coming Out Dawn has ushered in Yet another era Whilst the sun sets on the other Bidding it farewell Rotating like the globe Each era getting its time to shine Like a star as it should Fulfilling its destiny before the sun sets Ushering out yet another era Shuttered for too long Shunned Dismissed Scattered underground among thorns Bristles,debris and twigs Among inhabitable bats, rats and stones Stalactites as chandeliers Stalagmites as cedar floors Mustaches touching their feet Beards touching the ground Disheveled unshaven hairs covered their entire bodies The people looked around They noticed their sharp resemblance To the animals living above them Surely the people thought... They must have evolved from these creatures living above them And as time passes they outgrew their long tails “Oh God!” Pleaded the people “Did You not make room for us too?” God heard the pleas of the people and pitied them And God showed the people mercy Grateful were the people Pale from the dark shelter of the caves and unshaven hairs They were guided to a place where they could share in the land The people thanked God for taking them to green pastures They set up systems On the money the people put God first and boldly proclaimed “In Almighty God We Trust" The people established a Holiday specifically to thank God for remembering them God prospered the people He brought out from the underground caves As time passes the people became selfish, greedy and violent The underground people forgot how God took them out of the dark caves The people from below forgot God's mercy Because the people lived among the stony caves They knew not how to make the land productive The people sought expertise exploitively The people concocted and instituted bitter irrational laws To hold the experts as hostages against their will Experts brought great success The experts grew crops that were traded profitably Experts were unpaid Even with the huge booming success of the crops they grew The people that came out from below the caves Unrelentingly wants everything above the caves As the era rotates From one era to the next Like each era is destined to be Until the era's sun sets

If you think you can coerce me into a goddamned marriage by holding my reputation hostage, Spencer, you are far stupider than I thought. This is Colombo, remember; this is my town. Would it cause a scandal? Sure. But a few months and a few large donations to various charities, and maybe a huge party, is all I need to make everyone forget. No. This bullshit ends now. I want you gone by tomorrow.

But in the end, always, you become a hostage to who you are, to what you want or what you can’t say, to what fascinates you, what breaks you down and holds you under; the sense (or nonsense) you feel compelled to build, the truth or meaning you try so desperately to find.

Your three-year-old and your work in progress teach you to give. They teach you to get out of yourself and become a person for someone else. This is probably the secret to happiness. So that’s one reason to write. Your child and your work hold you hostage, suck you dry, ruin your sleep, mess with your head, treat you like dirt, and then you discover they’ve given you that gold nugget you were looking for all along.

You can’t have a child and not experience terror and heartache in some way. Your little hijacker will hold you hostage for the rest of your life, and there’s no getting around that—not by placing the child for adoption, not by abandoning the child, not by being as perfect a mother as possible. Your heart, naked and vulnerable, is now in the form of another person, and your life is never completely your own again.

Anger in Parents A fool gives full vent to his anger. (Proverbs 29:11 CSB) Anger in parents is a grace killer in your home. Anger in parenting can stem from a variety of personal agendas, when parents seek compliance, obedience, personal comfort, respect, the good opinion of others, reputation, etc. What we know is that angry responses in parenting are never about a love and concern for a child. Here are some things that anger does in parenting: Anger instills in a child a fear of a person rather than a fear of God. It incites animosity rather than trust. Anger teaches children that any sin and failure will cause hostility from God. They worry that God responds to them in similar ways. Anger crushes your children’s spirit. They feel shame and worldly guilt instead of life-giving faith that produces change. It produces condemnation, not conviction. Anger embitters your children and alienates them from you and possibly other adults. You can combat this by reining in your own emotions so that anger, fear, and frustration do not control your discipline. Don’t be easily offended. Though it is right for kids to know that their words can impact you, we do not want to hold them hostage to our emotional irregularities or insecurity. Invite feedback and critiques from your children. Let them say the hard things they need to say to you. Ask how things felt to them. Ask what you could have said or done to help them in the moment. Pray with them and for them. We should pray that we are not a stumbling block to our children, but a pathway to hope and the good news.

I had a new sense of awareness now--of my own mother, of Addison and Nicole, Monica, Grammy . . . even of Grady's ex-wife. You can't have a child and not experience terror and heartache in some way. Your little hijacker will hold you hostage for the rest of your life, and there's no getting around that--not by placing the child for adoption, not by abandoning the child, not by being as perfect a mother as possible. Your heart, naked and vulnerable, is now in the form of another person, and your life is never completely your own again. It was worth it. It was so worth it.

You better start talking before I start screaming.” “You’ll probably start screaming when I give you the answer, though.” I growl again. He says, “Okay. Here’s the truth. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. My backup plan was to kidnap you and hold you hostage until you fell in love with me from Stockholm Syndrome.

I tell them that the word “search” has meant a daring existential journey, not a finger tap to already existing answers; that “friend” is an embodied mystery that can be forged only face-to-face and heart-to-heart; and that “recognition” is the glimmer of homecoming we experience in our beloved’s face, not “facial recognition.” I say that it is not OK to have our best instincts for connection, empathy, and information exploited by a draconian quid pro quo that holds these goods hostage to the pervasive strip search of our lives. It is not OK for every move, emotion, utterance, and desire to be catalogued, manipulated, and then used to surreptitiously herd us through the future tense for the sake of someone else’s profit. “These things are brand-new,” I tell them. “They are unprecedented. You should not take them for granted because they are not OK.

You don’t want an easy marriage. You want the magnet that drives you up the wall sometimes. The one who holds your feelings hostage both deep in your core and right on the surface. That one person who keeps you wild.

A gaze as sharp as thorns hooks into me, holds me hostage. “I told you, I’ll be the villain for you.” Resolve bolsters my spine. “Yes. But so will I.

When it comes to gender, I ask men and women to unite, despite the damage men have inflicted on women for thousands of years and still do. Nevertheless, it is in our interest, all of us, to understand the system of patriarchy. It is in everyone’s interest to dismantle a superstructure that holds both sexes hostage. In the same way, I believe it is in everyone’s interest to remember that we all make up the relational biosphere we inhabit. It is in everyone’s interest to once and for all step beyond the Great Lie of superiority and inferiority, shame and grandiosity, victim and perpetrator. We live as a culture with unhealed collective trauma.

If there’s one thing I learned from watching my dad pine over my mom, it’s that there are some people you don’t get over, ever. Some people get in so deep, they just stay with you, holding part of your heart hostage long after they’re gone. You can move on, sure, I’d love it if my dad did, but they’ll still have that little piece of you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I think Seeley is that for me.

Lieke, will you accept this flawed heart of mine-my temper, my Empatience, my odd timing of serious questions and be my wife?" Joyful tears stuck in my throat, holding my voice hostage so that all I could do was nod. Connor slipped the sapphire ring back onto my finger. Placing my hand over his heart and reaching my lips up to his, I whispered my answer. "Until the stars fall, Connor, I live for you and you alone.

Words were more effective than bullets. Bullets killed quickly. Words buried deep in your consciousness and would hold you hostage forever.

Yes, I could tell from your manners that you’re out of practice when it comes to human relations. Your social graces are rather rusty. Most men take a woman out to eat before holding her hostage in their excessive mansions.

A runaway calendar will keep you from simplifying your life. It holds you hostage to tangible things—meetings, appointments, and projects—without giving proper priority to the intangibles: who you are becoming, your relationships with family and friends, your connectedness to God. Without conscious intervention, this pattern of chronically overscheduling ensures that the priorities you care about most will take a backseat to the urgent priorities of others every time.

That winter remains in my mind as one great blizzard of verbiage. It started with the insolvency of the Employment and Workforce Commission. The Commission had been running through funds budgeted for unemployment benefits at an alarming rate, and nobody had noticed that it was about to run out completely. The Commission blamed the legislature, the legislature blamed the Commission, and the governor blamed the legislature and the Commission, but especially the Commission. The Commission, it turned out, would have to apply for federal money to avoid a shortfall, and for the application to be legal the governor would have to sign it. It was a perfect set-up for him. He refused to sign the application unless the Commission agreed to his demands, one of which was an independent audit. The Commission delayed. The deadline approached; if it were to pass, the Commission would be unable to issue unemployment checks. There was great outrage from the people known for great outrage. Everybody (well, everybody in the state’s media—but it felt like everybody everywhere) was talking about “playing chicken.” The governor was “playing chicken” with the Employment and Workforce Commission; there was a “game of chicken” going on between the state’s chief executive and its workforce agency. The governor was also said to be “holding the unemployed hostage” in his vainglorious attempt to get what he wanted from a government agency; sometimes he was said to be “holding the unemployed hostage to his libertarian ideology” or “holding a state agency hostage for political gain.” The State actually combined these two images in one of its editorials: “You do not play chicken with the lives of 77,000 laid-off citizens, holding them hostage for your own political purposes.” No, I supposed, you do not.

What you say in anger holds you hostage; only after anger has departed do you see the chains.

I’m falling in love with you, Nathan.” At her words he groaned and wrapped both arms around her, holding her to his heart. "Sweetheart, I’m right there with you. And I swear I’ll catch you if you’ll trust me enough to let yourself fall the rest of the way.” She smiled, kissed the center of his chest where his heart beat strong and steady beneath her lips. “I do trust you.” He’d earned her trust in giving him her heart, as well her body.

Now normally,” the man said, cradling his weapon in one arm while scratching the blond beard covering the lower half of his face with his free hand, “me and Mad Dog”—he dipped his chin toward the soldier holding Umar hostage—“and the rest of the boys wouldn’t hesitate to just go ahead and let you eat a bullet.” And, as if on cue, four more soldiers emerged from the undergrowth, quiet as ghosts. “But as it happens, there are some folks back in the States who are just itchin’ to ask you a few questions.

But there is no way we can move forward together if you’re going to hold me hostage to the past.

Women rise up! Speak up. Look up. Within you is all the light the world needs to scare away the darkness that holds it hostage.

Then her brain caught up with her body and a trickle of uncertainty slid through her. She stilled, heart pounding, body aching with the most intense desire she’d ever known. Nathan stopped and raised his head to look down at her, his hand still cupping her breast. He was breathing as hard as she was, his eyes glittering with a hunger so raw it sliced her inside. When she didn’t say anything he started to remove his hand but she tightened her grip and held him there as she gazed into his eyes. “I can’t be just another notch on your belt, Nathan,” she whispered in an agonized voice. Not with him, it would crush her. If that’s all she was to him, she would rather stop things here than continue. She’d already battled long and hard to overcome feeling cheap and used. She wouldn’t do it again for any man, not even Nathan. The anguished look on his face made her feel terrible for saying it, but she’d had to make it clear. “No,” he insisted, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers and closing his eyes. She could feel the urgency in him, the way it strung his muscles tight, the fingers in her hair sliding open to cradle the back of her skull. The protective, possessive gesture made her melt and lean into his hold. “No, you’re not, I swear to God you’re not.

Releasing a slow breath, she raised her chin and finally turned her gaze on Qureshi. The moment their gazes connected she felt a surge of power go through her. Throughout her nine hellish months of captivity, she’d been forbidden to look him in the eye. She’d known better than to even try, because she’d known what would happen to her if she did. But they weren’t in Afghanistan anymore and he was no longer the one calling the shots. She held the authority now. Her life, her opinions, had value here. And her voice, silenced for so long, would now speak for all the victims unable to. Her voice would not only be heard here in this courtroom—it would be his undoing. Qureshi stared back at her with an insolent, almost bored disdain on his scratched face, making it clear what he thought of her. To him she was nothing but an infidel whore, a commodity less valuable than a goat or mule, to be bought and sold whenever it suited him, handed out to one of his soldiers as a prize of war. Well this infidel whore is about to bury you, you son of a bitch. Holding that cold, hateful gaze in the taut, hushed silence that filled the courtroom, she sent him another silent message. Let him see it in her eyes. You didn’t break me. I’m no longer afraid of you. You no longer have the power to hurt me or anyone I care about. And by God, I’ll make sure you never have the chance to hurt anyone else again.

Wait.” A sliver of ice ran down her back. “Where’s Driggs?” The others looked around. “Driggs,” she called out, her voice becoming higher and more panicked. “Driggs!” The whiteness turned into a blur as she waded and dug through the snow, her hands freezing. Zara got him, she knew it. And she’d hold him hostage this time, especially now that she knew what he could do. She’d torture him, turn Lex into her slave, and then Damn him as soon as he had served his purpose as leverage. Lex’s eyes melted into a mess of tears, both from the stinging cold and the unthinkable possibilities running through her mind. Her throat was raw from yelling, her voice becoming raspier and more desperate. “Driggs!” And then she saw a hand. The hand was connected to an arm. And the arm was connected to the rest of him, sitting in the ditch next to the road and silently waving. Relief turned to anger. Very quickly. “Are you kidding me?” she exploded, stumbling toward him. “Why didn’t you answer? Was that supposed to be funny? I thought you were—” “Sorry,” he said, holding up something white and furry. “I landed on a rabbit.” Well, that cinched it. A wet-haired Driggs sitting in a snowdrift and petting a bunny was officially the most adorable thing Lex had ever seen. She grabbed his head and gave him a kiss, then smacked him, causing the bunny to hop off. “Don’t you ever do that again.

You are the most extraordinary woman in the world,” he whispered. “By the way, I accept your proposal of marriage, Dr. Banyon,” he said, capturing her lips again as their bodies began to move as one across the dance floor. “Though I’m somewhat annoyed you beat me to it.” He grinned at her look of surprise. Then, his right hand releasing her waist, Sean pulled out a slender, velvet box from his pocket. Their feet stilled as he opened it for her. Nested inside was a marquis diamond. It flashed, reflecting the lights shining from above. Lily’s hand trembled beneath his as he slipped the ring onto her finger. “I was working out the kinks in my plan to abduct you,” he told her. “I was going to hold you hostage until you agreed to my every demand.” “And they are?” “To love me forever.” “You are too easy, McDermott,” she teased. “How about we abduct each other? I know this lovely cottage in the Bahamas we can rent for a couple weeks.” “This sounds very tempting.” His fingers splayed across her lower back, pressing her against him. “We could work on your project—” “That’s right. And start on another one—one I think you’ll be quite enthusiastic about.” Smiling, she leaned closer to whisper in his ear. Pulling back slightly, she thrilled at the naked hunger stamped on his face. “It seems the grandmothers would like to be ‘great,’ ” she added with a grin. “Well, then, we’d better get to work right away.

Hostage? She’s holding me hostage. She has my guts in her hands. I don’t care about the company, I care about her. She’s my life, do you understand? Have you ever loved a woman? Have you ever held her at night so tight because you couldn’t sleep thinking something might happen to her? Have you ever built a future around a woman? Ever thought of every tomorrow, every year, every decade with her? Dreamed of your old age holding her hand? I can only function with her in my life. I can only breathe if I know she’s there. I gave her my fucking soul and she threw it away. Months ago, maybe years ago. She made a decision to throw me away. She’s prepared for this divorce, and I’m swinging in the wind. Raw. With nothing. No defenses. Now what am I supposed to do?” I stood and threw my coat over my shoulders. “This is not about money. It’s not about some publishing company. Not for me. If I don’t do this, I have no chance of recovery. I’m as good as dead.” ~Adam

Well, you know you can’t hold someone hostage if they’re a willing prisoner.

Jake stayed right next to her, his hold at once protective and possessive. There was no doubt in her mind that she loved this man. “How did you get it?” She didn’t

Nothing should be worth more to you than its value in helping you live your life. If you are willing to slough off the past, even at a loss, you are keeping yourself free, and your world continues to grow. If you insist on holding to some abstract valuation, you are being held hostage by that possession, and you are trapped in a prison of your own devising.

A runaway calendar will keep you from simplifying your life. It holds you hostage to tangible things—meetings, appointments, and projects—without giving proper priority to the intangibles: who you are becoming, your relationships with family and friends, your connectedness to God. Without conscious intervention, this pattern of chronically overscheduling ensures that the priorities you care about most will take a backseat to the urgent priorities of others every time. GRABBING

Well-Watered Gardens “The LORD will always lead you. He will satisfy your needs in dry lands and give strength to your bones. You will be like a garden that has much water, like a spring that never runs dry.” ISAIAH 58:11 NCV Exhausted and weary to the bone, the writer walked into the prayer time barely able to summon any pleasure in the proceedings. The previous year had been grueling, and while she still clung to her faith in Jesus Christ, she had very little strength left. Empty and dry, she could barely make it through the motions of living. She came to the prayer room from a meeting with her agent, who had refused to drop her as a client. Frustrated at her lack of purpose and unable to write out of her desert-like existence, she sat facing the friend who had agreed to pray for her. Soon after prayer began, the dam holding her emotions hostage broke deep within. Tears flowed, and the Lord poured assurance after promise after confirmation over her head in the form of more life-giving water. God wasn’t done with her yet. Hope pushed through the dry soil, turning lush and green in the showers of life-giving water. Two months later she stared in amazement at Isaiah 58:11. Almost word for word, the verse matched what her friend had prayed, proving once again that God’s Word is living and powerful. Thank You so much, Father, for sending Your Holy Spirit to wash us with the water of Your unchanging Word and to refresh us in the showers of blessings and mercies that are new every morning.

I go to slide past him, and while that is definitely something I accomplish, I also succeed in rubbing my ass against his dick. His hands fly to my hips, gripping them tightly and holding me hostage. My breath stalls while my heart rockets up into my throat. “Careful, bella,” he warns darkly. “You may not have forgiven me yet, but I have plenty of methods to ask for it.” The only response I’m capable of is an embarrassing wheeze. He squeezes me tighter. “I can get on my knees again and show you a blessing from a different type of god,” he purrs, his accent thickening and only making the words sound more salacious. That. Is. Illegal.

This isn’t you holding me hostage, is it?” “You are my hostage.” “I’m your girlfriend.” “Fiancée,” I remind her. “But no, this isn’t a hostage situation. Even if you’re giving me some ideas for what to do with you and my belt later.

Waiting for something from them holds you hostage to what the other person might not ever be willing to give. But if you want to move on? Heal? Lay down what hurts? It’s 100 percent your choice to make. The steps needed are yours to take. It’s what can be yours when you feel what you feel, think what

There's no love waiting for you. There's something massive, and powerful, you can feel it . . . but I still don't know how to accurately describe how you feel it, because it's more than just knowledge. It would be physical, too, if you had a body, except you don't. Or maybe it's a different kind of body, or maybe you just haven't yet shaken off the memory of the one you had, so it feels like you're still subject to the same expectations of gravity and pain. Even though there's no love, you are wanted there. The main thing you're aware of is this pervading sense of greed. You're like one gold coin in a vault full of them, spilling over with them. You're there to be hoarded. I don't know why, I couldn't tell you why. Maybe it only wants you because it can have you. Or maybe it'll have some other use for you eventually, and for now you're in some kind of holding pen. But . . . the sense of claustrophobia, and betrayal . . . they're just devastating. You can feel that all around you, too . . . like a scream that got so loud you can't even hear it anymore, it just rips through you like an electric current . . . And the only reason you know it's not Hell, or that maybe Heaven and Hell are the same thing, is because you can hear the singing, for lack of a better word, because it's not songs, or structured. But it's beautiful. Sure—it's Heaven, right? It seems to come from all around you, but it's far away at the same time. Maybe it won't be so bad, you're thinking, if I get to listen to this. But pretty soon, you realize it's not for you. And a little while after that, you start to notice the strain in it. Like that tone in a hostage's voice when he's reading a statement about how well his captors are treating him, except he's reading it with a gun at his head. And then you realize the worst thing of all: What you're hearing are the ones that have learned to beg . . .

Your emotions will get you killed here.” He said that as though she was afraid of dying. If someone pointed a gun at her head, she would probably welcome the bullet. And the devil that he was, he knew her thoughts. “How will you find your answers if you don’t live, hmmm?” Fucking bastard. He was holding answers hostage over her head, forcing her to continue to live. He had been doing it for years.

you alone can’t be the reason I stay, or even 50 percent of the reason. I can’t—shouldn’t—define my willingness to live based on how much or little you love me, don’t you see? That’s holding you hostage. It’s emotional blackmail. It’s not fair to you or me.

Blink twice if you’re in trouble. If he’s blackmailing you or holding a family member hostage, we can go to the authorities. I promise, they can help.

Tasha, I’m sorry that you’ve been hurt, but I was not the one who hurt you,” he said, taking a half step closer to her. “Don’t use what I do for a living as an excuse to walk away from what could be a good thing, what could be the best thing either of us have ever had in our lives.” “I’m not—” “And don’t, for one second, let that douche Brad hold your heart hostage any longer. You’ve held onto that for long enough. Let go.

Instead, recognize that investing intelligently is about controlling the controllable. You can’t control whether the stocks or funds you buy will outper-forms the market today, next week, this month, or this year; in the short run, your returns will always be hostage to Mr. Market and his whims. But you can control: your brokerage costs, by trading rarely, patiently, and cheaply your ownership costs, by refusing to buy mutual funds with excessive annual expenses your expectations, by using realism, not fantasy, to forecast your returns7 your risk, by deciding how much of your total assets to put at hazard in the stock market, by diversifying, and by rebalancing your tax bills, by holding stocks for at least one year and, whenever possible, for at least five years, to lower your capital-gains liability and, most of all, your own behavior.

When you hit a dead end in Life, you will feel clueless and helpless. Hold that feeling for a while. But don’t allow that feeling to hold you hostage. Soon, work on overcoming the shock of the setback, turn around and keep walking. The essence of intelligent living lies in continuing to walk. No matter what happens, don’t allow yourself to be pinned down for too long. Just keep walking. When you keep flowing with Life, the path always unfolds. And Life takes you to where you belong, where you must eventually arrive.

There are, of course, a million tiny and ridiculous ways a person can get sidetracked and carried away off the main trail. But in the end, always, you become a hostage to who you are, to what you want or what you can't say, to what fascinates you, what breaks you down and holds you under; the sense (or nonsense) you feel compelled to build, the truth or meaning you try so desperately to find.

Svengali Girl (After Simon Says) Svengali girl says, ‘You can’t wear white, it makes you look fat.’ So we all wear black whilst she wears white. Svengali girl says, ‘We aren’t talking to the new girl, she’s weird.’ So we hurt this girl who did no wrong but is brand new to old ways. Svengali girl says, ‘If you are poor, you can’t hang out with us.’ So we all start putting value on saving face rather than on who we are. Svengali girl says, ‘I know you like him, but he’s out of your league.’ And we obediently stop liking him so she can date him. Svengali girl says, ‘Those shorts are too small for you.’ And we watch her buy them for herself instead. Svengali girl says ‘You’d be pretty if you had nicer eyes.’ And we learn to look at the ground when talking. Svengali girl is hurt when you call her cruel. She tells you she’s the only one who cares about you. She quietly threatens she will break you. She whispers rumours to hold you hostage. Who says women are too soft to know how to be vicious? We can do the most violent things to each other whilst making hardly a sound.

We kept mankind alive, yet we allowed men to despise us and to worship our destroyers. We allowed them to worship incompetence and brutality, the recipients and the dispensers of the unearned. By accepting punishment, not for any sins, but for our virtues, we betrayed our code and made theirs possible. Dagny, theirs is the morality of kidnappers. They use your love of virtue as a hostage. They know that you’ll bear anything in order to work and produce, because you know that achievement is man’s highest moral purpose, that he can’t exist without it, and your love of virtue is your love of life. They count on you to assume any burden. They count on you to feel that no effort is too great in the service of your love. Dagny, your enemies are destroying you by means of your own power. Your generosity and your endurance are their only tools. Your unrequited rectitude is the only hold they have upon you. They know it. You don’t. The day when you’ll discover it is the only thing they dread. You must learn to understand them. You won’t be free of them, until you do.

You almost beat a man to death with a can of chicken on Ganymede,” Naomi replied. “Gonna hold a little girl hostage for some food? Fuck him. If he was here, I’d smash him again right now.