Home Breaker Quotes

When people grow up in a home where extramarital sex is condoned, they’re much less likely to regard it as a deal-breaker. Jacqueline Bouvier’s father, ‘Black Jack,’ confided in her about his female conquests, even going so far as to play a game with Jackie when he visited her at boarding school. She would point to a classmate’s mother, and Jack would respond, ‘Yes’ or ‘Not yet’ — answering the silent question, had he slept with that one?

But drunkenly, or secretly, we swore, Disciples of that astigmatic saint, That we would never leave the island Until we had put down, in paint, in words, As palmists learn the network of a hand, All of its sunken, leaf-choked ravines, Every neglected, self-pitying inlet Muttering in brackish dialect, the ropes of mangroves From which old soldier crabs slipped Surrendering to slush, Each ochre track seeking some hilltop and Losing itself in an unfinished phrase, Under sand shipyards where the burnt-out palms Inverted the design of unrigged schooners, Entering forests, boiling with life, Goyave, corrosol, bois-canot, sapotille. Days! The sun drumming, drumming, Past the defeated pennons of the palms, Roads limp from sunstroke, Past green flutes of the grass The ocean cannonading, come! Wonder that opened like the fan Of the dividing fronds On some noon-struck sahara, Where my heart from its rib cage yelped like a pup After clouds of sanderlings rustily wheeling The world on its ancient, Invisible axis, The breakers slow-dolphining over more breakers, To swivel our easels down, as firm As conquerors who had discovered home.

All's ringing, roaring, grinding, breakers' crash - and silence all at once, release: it means he is tiptoeing over pine needles, so as not to startle the light sleep of space. And it means he is counting the grains in the blasted ears; it means he has come again to the Daryal Gorge, accursed and black, from another funeral. And again Moscow, where the heart's fever burns. Far off the deadly sleighbell chimes, someone is lost two steps from home in waist-high snow. The worst of times...

Mojica was driving home from his lab one evening when he came up with the name CRISPR, for “clustered regularly interspaced short palindromic repeats.

RNA, on the other hand, actually goes out and does real work. Instead of just sitting at home curating information, it makes real products, such as proteins.

And when she laughed… Fucking bottle that shit up and sell it to all the lonely men out there because it felt like coming home.

Most of us someday will have detection devices in our home that will allow us to check for viruses and many other conditions.

She felt at home in the lab. It was a quiet temple for individual persistence and contemplation. She could be creative and independent as she pursued a path toward her own discoveries.

DNA doesn’t do much work. It mainly stays at home in the nucleus of our cells, not venturing forth. Its primary activity is protecting the information it encodes and occasionally replicating itself.

Last-Minute Message For a Time Capsule I have to tell you this, whoever you are: that on one summer morning here, the ocean pounded in on tumbledown breakers, a south wind, bustling along the shore, whipped the froth into little rainbows, and a reckless gull swept down the beach as if to fly were everything it needed. I thought of your hovering saucers, looking for clues, and I wanted to write this down, so it wouldn't be lost forever - - that once upon a time we had meadows here, and astonishing things, swans and frogs and luna moths and blue skies that could stagger your heart. We could have had them still, and welcomed you to earth, but we also had the righteous ones who worshipped the True Faith, and Holy War. When you go home to your shining galaxy, say that what you learned from this dead and barren place is to beware the righteous ones.

System 2 and the electrical circuits in your home both have limited capacity, but they respond differently to threatened overload. A breaker trips when the demand for current is excessive, causing all devices on that circuit to lose power at once. In contrast, the response to mental overload is selective and precise: System 2 protects the most important activity, so it receives the attention it needs; “spare capacity” is allocated second by second to other tasks. In our version of the gorilla experiment, we instructed the participants to assign priority to the digit task. We know that they followed that instruction, because the timing of the visual target had no effect on the main task. If the critical letter was presented at a time of high demand, the subjects simply did not see it. When the transformation task was less demanding, detection performance was better.

Developers and entrepreneurs may someday be able to use CRISPR-based home testing kits as platforms on which to build a variety of biomedical apps: virus detection, disease diagnosis, cancer screening, nutritional analyses, microbiome assessments, and genetic tests. “We can get people in their homes to check if they have the flu or just a cold,” says Zhang.

There was a man, of humble lands Who rode to war, at honours call And in that war, the blood did feed The lands, the trees, and growing seeds There were people, as old as the seas As old as the mountains as rooted as trees And though the war, was not their own Chains drew them in and chains made them bleed Tired and weary, the man did become Through fire and blood, the man he did roam Till a killer made their home in his bones A dealer of death who longed to go home And on one faithful winter’s eve, The man met the people as old as the seas As old as the mountains as rooted as trees And on one faithful winter’s eve The man’s faith was shaken, his hands they were stained And so this man set on his path The path to become the breaker of chains

I belong to myself. Always. Eternally. Without question. My own safe house. My own sheltered harbor. I am my own solid ground. I am the lighthouse beacon. I call the ships safely home from sea. I am the North Star and the compass. I am my own port in the wildest storm. I am the spell caster and the spell breaker. I am a witch of alchemy and transformation. I am the pages in the grimoire of knowledge, I am the source of all the magic ever known. I am the kiss that wakes us all from slumber. I am the white horse knight in shining armor. I am my own happily ever after fairytale godmother. I am my own rest stop on the longest journey of living. The final destination on every treasure map I will ever need. I am my own primary relationship, my own till death do us part. I am my own center and saving grace, my own best-kept secret. I am the lineage of wisdom itself, the home of my own belonging. I am my own. And my own. And always my own.

Women now were expected to quit work when they started having babies. The postwar U.S. government made this clear. There was no more state-sponsored child care. In a postwar, Cold War America, child care was viewed with suspicion, as the kind of thing communists used to raise their children collectively. The U.S. government began doing the opposite of its wartime recruiting; it made propaganda-type films telling women it was important to leave their jobs, return home, and tend their households.

System 2 and the electrical circuits in your home both have limited capacity, but they respond differently to threatened overload. A breaker trips when the demand for current is excessive, causing all devices on that circuit to lose power at once. In contrast, the response to mental overload is selective and precise: System 2 protects the most important activity, so it receives the attention it needs; “spare capacity” is allocated second by second to other tasks. In our version of the gorilla experiment, we instructed the participants to assign priority to the digit task.

He became the only person I’ve ever encountered who moved from France to North Carolina in order to learn more about food. He enrolled at North Carolina State in Raleigh and got his master’s degree in the science of pickle and sauerkraut fermentation. He went on to get his doctorate there, married a food scientist he met in class, and followed her to Madison, Wisconsin, when she went to work at the Oscar Mayer meat company. Madison is also home to a Danisco unit that produces hundreds of megatons of bacteria cultures for fermented dairy products, including yogurt. Barrangou took a job there as a research director in 2005.3

Whether at home or in church, your thoughts and your conduct should be always in harmony with the spirit and purpose of the Sabbath. Places of amusement and recreation, while at proper times may serve a needed end, are not conducive of spiritual growth and such places will not keep you “unspotted from the world” but will rather deny you the “fulness of the earth” promised to those who comply with the law of the Sabbath. [See D&C 59:9, 16.] You who make the violation of the Sabbath a habit, by your failure to “keep it holy,” are losing a soul full of joy in return for a thimble full of pleasure. You are giving too much attention to your physical desires at the expense of your spiritual health. The Sabbath breaker shows early the signs of his weakening in the faith by neglecting his daily family prayers, by fault-finding, by failing to pay his tithes and his offerings; and such a one whose mind begins to be darkened because of spiritual starvation soon begins also to have doubts and fears that make him unfit for spiritual learning or advancement in righteousness. These are the signs of spiritual decay and spiritual sickness that may only be cured by proper spiritual feeding.

The Basis of Temptation Because Adam sinned, every person is born into this world physically alive and spiritually dead (Ephesians 2:1). Since from birth we had neither the presence of God nor the knowledge of His ways, we learned to live our lives independent of God. Rather than having our needs met through a living relationship with our loving heavenly Father, we sought to meet our own needs. We developed patterns of thought and habits of behavior which centered our interests on ourselves. When we were born again we became spiritually alive, but our self-centered flesh patterns and mental strongholds remained opposed to the leading of the Holy Spirit. Consequently we are still tempted to look to the world, the flesh, and the devil to meet our basic needs and carnal desires instead of looking to Christ, who promises to meet all our needs according to His riches in glory (Philippians 4:19). Every temptation is an enticement to live independently of God. The power of temptation is directly related to the strength of the mental strongholds and the carnal desires which were developed when we learned to live independently of God. For example, if you were raised in a Christian home where dirty magazines and television programs of questionable moral value were not allowed, the power of sexual temptations in your life will not be as great as for someone who grew up exposed to pornographic materials. The person who was raised in an environment of immorality and sexual permissiveness will experience a greater struggle with sexual temptation after becoming a Christian simply because these mental strongholds were well-established before he was born again. You are less likely be tempted to commit some gross immorality if your legitimate needs to be loved and accepted were met by caring parents who also protected you from exposure to the values of this fallen world.

But after her father had left, she had learned how to scrape and claw for every bit of food and power she’d had. She’d dealt with men three times more intimidating than him, knowing if she hadn’t come home, her mother’s death would’ve been on her hands too.

The New Palace had been a home, a sanctuary, a school, a training yard. Now it was a prison, a hunting ground, an executioner's block.

And so the invasion had begun, but no one could say that it had begun well. The air force and navy seemed not to have affected the enemy at all. Most outfits had come ashore late and in the wrong place. With shocking ease, the enemy’s nearly invisible resistance nests were cutting down Americans all across the beach—men with names like Wilczek, Hoback, Sullivan, Di Paola, Schenk, and Stevens, who spun onto the sand to die. If fate spared them scant moments for final reflection, they surely thought of home: Canarsie, or Bedford, or Farmville, or Hell’s Kitchen, or anyplace where someone would grieve. They must have thought what a waste it was—they could have done anything, anything at all . . . if only . . . And then the surging tide enveloped their bodies in the frothy surf, and the relentless breakers lifted them and tumbled them forward, ever forward, to deposit them ultimately in neat lines at the high-water mark—a place they were not able to reach in life, but where they would soon answer final roll call.

The wind stirred his loose hair and Sorasa assessed him for the first time since her memory failed. Since the deck of the Tyri ship caught fire, and someone seized her around the middle, plunging them both into the dark waves. She did not need to guess to know who. Dom’s clothing was torn but long dry. He still wore the leather jerkin with the undershirt, but his borrowed cloak had been left to feed the sea serpents. The rest of him looked intact. He had only a few fresh cuts across the backs of his hands, like a terrible rope burn. Scales, Sorasa knew. The sea serpent coiled in her head, bigger than the mast, its scales flashing a dark rainbow. Her breath caught when she realized he wore no sword belt, nor sheath. Nor sword. “Dom,” she bit out, reaching between them. Only her instincts caught her, her hand freezing inches above his hip. His brow furrowed again, carving a line of concern. “Your sword.” The line deepened, and Sorasa understood. She mourned her own dagger, earned so many decades ago, now lost to a burning palace. She could not imagine what Dom felt for a blade centuries old. “It is done,” he finally said, fishing into his shirt. The collar pulled, showing a line of white flesh, the planes of hard muscle rippling beneath. Sorasa dropped her eyes, letting him fuss. Only when something soft touched her temple did she look up again. Her heart thumped. Dom did not meet her gaze, focused on his work, cleaning her wound with a length of cloth. It was the fabric that made her breath catch. Little more than a scrap of gray green. Thin but finely made by master hands. Embroidered with silver antlers. It was a piece of Dom’s old cloak, the last remnant of Iona. It survived a kraken, an undead army, a dragon, and the dungeons of a mad queen. But it would not survive Sorasa Sarn. She let him work, her skin aflame beneath his fingers. Until the last bits of blood were gone, and the last piece of his home tossed away. “Thank you,” she finally said to no reply.

Thank you for coming with me.” She knew it was no small thing. Dom was Monarch of Iona now, the leader of an enclave shattered by war and betrayal. He should have been at home with his people, helping them restore what was nearly lost forever. Instead, he looked grimly down a sand dune, his clothes poorly suited to the climate, his appearance sticking sticking out of the desert like the sorest of thumbs. While so many things had changed, Dom’s ability to look out of place never did. He even wore his usual cloak, a twin to the one he lost months ago. The gray green had become a comfort like nothing else, just like the silhouette of his familiar form. He loomed always, never far from her side. It was enough to make Sorasa’s eyes sting, and turn her face to hide in her hood for a long moment. Dom paid it no notice, letting her recover. Instead, he fished an apple from his saddlebags and took a noisy bite. “I saved the realm,” he said, shrugging. The least I can do is try to see some of it.” Sorasa was used to Elder manners by now. Their distant ways, their inability to understand subtle hints. The side of her mouth raised against her hood, and she turned back to face him, smirking. “Thank you for coming with me,” she said again. “Oh,” he answered, shifting to look at her. The green of his eyes danced, bright against the desert. “Where else would I go?” Then he passed the rest of the apple over to her. She finished the rest without a thought. His hand lingered, though, scarred knuckles on a tattooed arm. She did not push him away. Instead, Sorasa leaned, so that her shoulder brushed his own, putting some of her weight on him. “Am I still a waste of arsenic?” he said, his eyes never moving from her face. Sorasa stopped short, blinking in confusion. “What?” “When we first met.” His own smirk unfurled. “You called me a waste of arsenic.” In a tavern in Byllskos, after I dumped poison in his cup, and watched him drink it all. Sorasa laughed at the memory, her voice echoing over the empty dunes. In that moment, she thought Domacridhan was her death, another assassin sent to kill her. Now she knew he was the opposite entirely. Slowly, she raised her arm and he did not flinch. It felt strange still, terrifying and thrilling in equal measure. His cheek was cool under under her hand, his scars familiar against her palm. Elders were less affected by the desert heat, a fact that Sorasa used to her full advantage. “No,” she answered, pulling his face down to her own. “I would waste all the arsenic in the world on you.” “Is that a compliment, Amhara?” Dom muttered against her lips. No, she tried to reply. On the golden sand, their shadows met, grain by grain, until there was no space left at all.

The sun crept into my room when I woke, still tangled with her. Her soft hair was wrapped around us, and my heart ached in my chest. I could never ask Sid to give up her dreams, but I would try my fucking hardest to convince her to take a chance on me. That we were worth everything. Sidney, with her contagious laugh and sassy mouth, had created a gravitational pull that I never wanted to escape. The way she laughed, how she tilted her head when she pieced something together, and now the way she cuddled into my arms. All of it reminded me of home, one that I wanted to keep coming back to. I could feel the void filling up, and I was petrified of the downturn coming toward us. She was worth any compromise or sacrifice. Now I had to prove to her I was worth the same. I had her, she had me, and that was enough. Nothing else mattered. We could make everything work, right? There had to be a way. If she wasn’t so freaking stubborn, maybe we could.

they usually have a lot of life lessons in parallel or similar life events happening at the same time. They usually have opposite characteristics in some of their personal traits but complement each other in all the ways that they are different. Their lives can parallel and merge in and out of each other’s lives

I will try.’” That’s what you said in the forest,” Charlie muttered. “That you would try to believe.” A scoff burst from Garion’s lips and he put the sword aside. “I’m surrounded by immortals about to assault a dragon’s nest. I certainly believe you now.” Charlie only shook his head. “I need you to believe in me, too,” he replied. “Help me to believe in myself. And help me stay alive.” Still glaring at the dead grass, Garion gritted his teeth. “That’s what I’m trying to do, my darling.” “I’m not going anywhere.” It came out too harsh, too loud. Impossible to ignore. Finally Garion raised his eyes. He looked torn between frustration and anger. The killer in him was there, small but enough to see. Amhara were trained to survive, to make it home to the citadel even in failure. Garion warred with his own instincts, Charlie knew. Not for the realm, but for me. “You can run, but I—” Charlie forced out, his voice faltering. He looked to the horizon again, and the black ruins. Then to the camp, the Elders, to Corayne lingering at their edges. She stood out like a sore thumb, a mortal girl in the middle of the end of the world. It was easy for Charlie to draw a little strength from her own. “If I run, I still die here,” he said, feeling his own heart twist. “Part of me. The part you love.” Garion put his hand to his neck. “You think that now but—” “I tasted the shame of it before.” Charlie forced off the Amhara with a swipe. His cheeks flamed. “When I ran from Gidastern. I know what it feels like to think the worst of your own self. To be consumed by regret. And I won’t do it again. I won’t leave her.” Charlie willed Garion to see the resolve he felt as much as feared. “Stop giving me the chance to give up,” he finally murmured, looking back to the horizon.

I sought his giggles beneath the ashes where all his dreams found home...

Upon incarnation of souls, an energetic spark splits into two complete, whole and individual souls. Throughout each twin soul’s evolutionary journey, they parallel, creating a mirrored reflection for each other – forcing the other to see what it is they each need to work on within themselves.

A mechanically minded intellect, a seasoned soldier, a code breaker and expert strategist, a Chinese scholar, a Buddhist monk, a bandit chief, and an Englishwoman more at home on horseback than in a salon. All talking battle strategy. It sounded like the beginning to a bizarre joke.

Fads and crazes also garnered public attention for those Americans who craved the glare of the spotlight. Some people sought to perform feats so bizarre that no one else had ever done them, while others attempted to do something more times than anyone else ever had. For example, an Indiana high school student made headlines by chewing 40 sticks of gum while singing “Home, Sweet Home” and, between stanzas, chugging a gallon of milk. A New Jersey youth, subsisting only on eggs and black coffee, won a $150 contest by staying awake for 155 hours, continuously listening to the radio. A Boston man choked down 75 raw eggs in 10 minutes. A Chicago man slurped 1,260 feet of spaghetti in three hours. A Minnesota man gulped 85 cups of coffee (or five gallons) in seven hours and 15 minutes. A Texas man won a $500 bet by spending 30 days rolling a peanut up Pikes Peak with his nose.5 Journalists and critics often denigrated these media-hungry record breakers, but during the 1920s, millions of Americans, particularly college students, participated in

It was hard for me to believe that I had graduated from High School the week before and was now a crewmember on a Dutch ship. This was my first job aboard ship and now I found myself heading down the Hudson River, past the Statue of Liberty. There wasn’t much time for sightseeing since the dinner chimes had been rung and the few passengers we had, were coming into the dining room. No one had explained my duties but I watched the other stewards and followed suit. I must have been a fast learner since amazingly enough all went well, and before I knew it the dining room was empty and it was cleanup time. I’m certain that having worked in my uncle’s restaurants helped but I’m glad I survived without any mishaps. I knew that tomorrow would go even smoother now that I understood the routine. I really don’t know if getting a job aboard a foreign ship was easier in the “50’s” or was it that the ship needed another steward and I was willing to be a strike breaker? No one on the ship mentioned the strike and everyone treated me as just another member of the crew. Mostly everyone aboard spoke Dutch and amazingly enough I understood them. Dutch being a Germanic language was very similar to the German spoken in the lowlands, which included Hamburg. It didn’t take long before I was answering and then conversing with the crew…. Although I was on the bottom rung of the ladder I felt right at home. My bunk was at the top of a three bunk stack in the crew’s quarters, high up against the chain locker. The bathroom, called the “head” in English, didn’t have toilets or urinals. Instead I had to perfect my aim as I balanced myself over a hole in the deck. Fortunately there were places for my feet and handholds to help me stabilize myself in this balancing act. With no partitions for modesty I soon lost my inhibitions and became deft at this. At least they furnished the paper and considering it all, life was good!

LOOKING FOR THE KINGDOM The north shore of Kauai is one of the most beautiful places on earth, and the pastures above the cliffs overlooking Anini Beach are some of the last open lands in that paradise. From those verdant meadows you can look out on the whales and dolphins playing in the Pacific, watch the breakers roll in and crash over the reef below. It is an enchanting place that casts an Eden-like spell on even the most cynical tourist. A friend of ours has been advocating for the protection of those gorgeous meadows; he took us there last winter to see a view that may soon be available only to the very rich. The pastures have already been marked out for small five-acre “ranchettes,” each plot going for several million; add to that the home required by the development and the bill will run more than $20 million. “The young rich have discovered Kauai,” our friend told us. “Zuckerberg has a home here; so do the guys from Apple and Google. This is the place to be.” We stood there watching the gulls and frigate birds soaring on the warm updrafts, drinking in the beauty only money can apparently buy. It had been raining; a rainbow appeared over the lush cliffs to our right. The untouched beauty of the place feels like it has been held in time since the islands were formed; unblemished beauty. Forgetting what the promise means, my heart began to ache again for life as it was meant to be, and I started to scramble internally trying to figure out how we could grab our own little slice of Eden. “They are looking for the kingdom,” Stasi said. “They are trying to buy the kingdom.” And with that, the spell was broken. Suddenly the emptiness of it all became clear—not the longing for heaven on earth, but the grasping to buy it, to arrange for our piece of it apart from the palingenesia. Now, most of the human race doesn’t have the kind of money that allows them to purchase paradise—we sure don’t—but that doesn’t stop our ravenous hunger or desperate searching

The term “twin flame” refers to an “individual” twin soul seeking “self-transformation” along one’s “personal path” in attempt to learn one’s “own” life lessons so that one can master one’s “own” portion of a joint mission – a contract that you make with your other half at the time of inception, creating the power of two that is greater than one.

Here is Formula #5. If you ask me, “What I do for a living?” - I will use Formula #5 which is: “I show people how to ______ + solve a problem.” Now, this gets easy. You are going to recognize these problems. Ready? * I show people how to fire their boss. * I show people how to get an extra paycheck. * I show people how to get stop commuting and work at home. * I show people how to choose their own hours to work. Do you see how we are solving problems?