How To Show Line Breaks In Quotes

People enjoy inventing slogans which violate basic arithmetic but which illustrate “deeper” truths, such as “1 and 1 make 1” (for lovers), or “1 plus 1 plus 1 equals 1” (the Trinity). You can easily pick holes in those slogans, showing why, for instance, using the plus-sign is inappropriate in both cases. But such cases proliferate. Two raindrops running down a window-pane merge; does one plus one make one? A cloud breaks up into two clouds -more evidence of the same? It is not at all easy to draw a sharp line between cases where what is happening could be called “addition”, and where some other word is wanted. If you think about the question, you will probably come up with some criterion involving separation of the objects in space, and making sure each one is clearly distinguishable from all the others. But then how could one count ideas? Or the number of gases comprising the atmosphere? Somewhere, if you try to look it up, you can probably fin a statement such as, “There are 17 languages in India, and 462 dialects.” There is something strange about the precise statements like that, when the concepts “language” and “dialect” are themselves fuzzy.

It was not the sorrowful, lovely piece she had once played for Dorian, and it was not the light, dancing melodies she'd played for sport; it was not the complex and clever pieces she had played for Nehemia and Chaol. This piece was a celebration—a reaffirmation of life, of glory, of the pain and beauty in breathing. Perhaps that was why she'd gone to hear it performed every year, after so much killing and torture and punishment: as a reminder of that she was, of what she struggled to keep. Up and up it built, the sound breaking from the pianoforte like the heart-song of a god, until Rowan drifted over to stand beside the instrument, until she whispered to him, “Now,” and the crescendo shattered into the world, note after note after note. The music crashed around them, roaring through the emptiness of the theater. The hollow silence that had been inside her for so many months now overflowed with sound. She brought the piece home to its final explosive, triumphant chord. When she looked up, panting slightly, Rowan's eyes were lined with silver, his throat bobbing. Somehow, after all this time, her warrior-prince still managed to surprise her. He seemed to struggle for words, but he finally breathed, “Show me—show me how you did that.” So she obliged him.

Dear Daniel, How do you break up with your boyfriend in a way that tells him, "I don't want to sleep with you on a regular basis anymore, but please be available for late night booty calls if I run out of other options"? Lily Charlotte, NC Dear Lily, The story's so old you can't tell it anymore without everyone groaning, even your oldest friends with the last of their drinks shivering around the ice in their dirty glasses. The music playing is the same album everyone has. Those shoes, everybody has the same shoes on. It looked a little like rain so on person brought an umbrella, useless now in the starstruck clouded sky, forgotten on the way home, which is how the umbrella ended up in her place anyway. Everyone gets older on nights like this. And still it's a fresh slap in the face of everything you had going, that precarious shelf in the shallow closet that will certainly, certainly fall someday. Photographs slipping into a crack to be found by the next tenant, that one squinter third from the left laughing at something your roommate said, the coaster from that place in the city you used to live in, gone now. A letter that seemed important for reasons you can't remember, throw it out, the entry in the address book you won't erase but won't keep when you get a new phone, let it pass and don't worry about it. You don't think about them; "I haven't thought about them in forever," you would say if anybody brought it up, and nobody does." You think about them all the time. Close the book but forget to turn off the light, just sit staring in bed until you blink and you're out of it, some noise on the other side of the wall reminding you you're still here. That's it, that's everything. There's no statue in the town square with an inscription with words to live by. The actor got slapped this morning by someone she loved, slapped right across the face, but there's no trace of it on any channel no matter how late you watch. How many people--really, count them up--know where you are? How many will look after you when you don't show up? The churches and train stations are creaky and the street signs, the menus, the writing on the wall, it all feels like the wrong language. Nobody, nobody knows what you're thinking of when you lean your head against the wall. Put a sweater on when you get cold. Remind yourself, this is the night, because it is. You're free to sing what you want as you walk there, the trees rustling spookily and certainly and quietly and inimitably. Whatever shoes you want, fuck it, you're comfortable. Don't trust anyone's directions. Write what you might forget on the back of your hand, and slam down the cheap stuff and never mind the bad music from the window three floors up or what the boys shouted from the car nine years ago that keeps rattling around in your head, because you're here, you are, for the warmth of someone's wrists where the sleeve stops and the glove doesn't quite begin, and the slant of the voice on the punch line of the joke and the reflection of the moon in the water on the street as you stand still for a moment and gather your courage and take a breath before stealing away through the door. Look at it there. Take a good look. It looks like rain. Love, Daniel Handler

1. I told you that I was a roadway of potholes, not safe to cross. You said nothing, showed up in my driveway wearing roller-skates. 2. The first time I asked you on a date, after you hung up, I held the air between our phones against my ear and whispered, “You will fall in love with me. Then, just months later, you will fall out. I will pretend the entire time that I don’t know it’s coming.” 3. Once, I got naked and danced around your bedroom, awkward and safe. You did the same. We held each other without hesitation and flailed lovely. This was vulnerability foreplay. 4. The last eight times I told you I loved you, they sounded like apologies. 5. You recorded me a CD of you repeating, “You are beautiful.” I listened to it until I no longer thought in my own voice. 6. Into the half-empty phone line, I whispered, “We will wake up believing the worst in each other. We will spit shrapnel at each other’s hearts. The bruises will lodge somewhere we don’t know how to look for and I will still pretend I don’t know its coming.” 7. You photographed my eyebrow shapes and turned them into flashcards: mood on one side, correct response on the other. You studied them until you knew when to stay silent. 8. I bought you an entire bakery so that we could eat nothing but breakfast for a week. Breakfast, untainted by the day ahead, was when we still smiled at each other as if we meant it. 9. I whispered, “I will latch on like a deadbolt to a door and tell you it is only because I want to protect you. Really, I’m afraid that without you I mean nothing.” 10. I gave you a bouquet of plane tickets so I could practice the feeling of watching you leave. 11. I picked you up from the airport limping. In your absence, I’d forgotten how to walk. When I collapsed at your feet, you refused to look at me until I learned to stand up without your help. 12. Too scared to move, I stared while you set fire to your apartment – its walls decaying beyond repair, roaches invading the corpse of your bedroom. You tossed all the faulty appliances through the smoke out your window, screaming that you couldn’t handle choking on one more thing that wouldn’t just fix himself. 13. I whispered, “We will each weed through the last year and try to spot the moment we began breaking. We will repel sprint away from each other. Your voice will take months to drain out from my ears. You will throw away your notebook of tally marks from each time you wondered if I was worth the work. The invisible bruises will finally surface and I will still pretend that I didn’t know it was coming.” 14. The entire time, I was only pretending that I knew it was coming.

We have time for everything: to sleep, to run from one place to another, to regret having mistaken and to mistake again, to judge the others and to forgive ourselves we have time for reading and writing, for making corrections to our texts, to regret ever having written we have time to make plans and time not to respect them, we have time for ambitions and sicknesses, time to blame the destiny and the details, we have time to watch the clouds, advertisements or some ordinary accident, we have time to chase our wonders away and to postpone the answers, we have time to break a dream to pieces and then to reinvent it, we have time to make friends, to lose friends, we have time to receive lessons and forget them afterwards, we have time to receive gifts and not to understand them. We have time for them all. There is no time for just a bit of tenderness. When we are aware about to do this we die. I’ve learned that you cannot make someone love you; All you can do is to be a loved person. the rest … depends on the others. I’ve learned that as much as I care others might not care. I’ve learned that it takes years to earn trust and just a few seconds to lose it. I’ve learned that it does not matter WHAT you have in your life but WHO you have. I’ve learned that your charm is useful for about 15 minutes Afterwards, you should better know something. I’ve learned that no matter how you cut it, everything has two sides! I’ve learned that you should separate from your loved ones with warm words It might be the last time you see them! I’ve learned that you can still continue for a long time after saying you cannot continue anymore I’ve learned that heroes are those who do what they have to do, when they have to do it, regardless the consequences I’ve learned that there are people who love But do not know how to show it ! I’ve learned that when I am upset I have the RIGHT to be upset But not the right to be bad! I’ve learned that real friendship continues to exist despite the distance And this is true also for REAL LOVE !!! I’ve learned that if someone does not love you like you want them to It does not mean that they do not love you with all their heart. I’ve learned that no matter how good of a friend someone is for you that person will hurt you every now and then and that you have to forgive him. I’ve learned that it is not enough to be forgiven by others Sometimes you have to learn to forgive yourself. I’ve learned that no matter how much you suffer, The world will not stop for your pain. I’ve learned that the past and the circumstances might have an influence on your personality But that YOU are responsible for what you become !!! I’ve learned that if two people have an argument it does not mean that they do not love each other I’ve learned that sometimes you have to put on the first place the person, not the facts I’ve learned that two people can look at the same thing and can see something totally different I’ve learned that regardless the consequences those WHO ARE HONEST with themselves go further in life. I’ve learned that life can be changed in a few hours by people who do not even know you. I’ve learned that even when you think there is nothing more you can give when a friend calls you, you will find the strength to help him. I’ve learned that writing just like talking can ease the pains of the soul ! I’ve learned that those whom you love the most are taken away from you too soon … I’ve learned that it is too difficult to realise where to draw the line between being friendly, not hurting people and supporting your oppinions. I’ve learned to love to be loved.

I think of the beauty in the obvious, the way it forces us to admit how it exists, the way it insists on being pointed out like a bloody nose, or how every time it snows there is always someone around to say, “It’s snowing.” But the obvious isn’t showing off, it’s only reminding us that time passes, and that somewhere along the way we grow up. Not perfect, but up and out. It teaches us something about time, that we are all ticking and tocking, walking the fine line between days and weeks, as if each second speaks of years, and each month has years listening to forever but never hearing anything beyond centuries swallowed up by millenniums, as if time was calculating the sums needed to fill the empty belly of eternity. We so seldom understand each other. But if understanding is neither here nor there, and the universe is infinite, then understand that no matter where we go, we will always be smack dab in the middle of nowhere. All we can do is share some piece of ourselves and hope that it’s remembered. Hope that we meant something to someone. My chest is a cannon that I have used to take aim and shoot my heart upon this world. I love the way an uncurled fist becomes a hand again, because when I take notes, I need it to underline the important parts of you: happy, sad, lovely. Battle cry ballistic like a disaster or a lipstick earthquaking and taking out the monuments of all my hollow yesterdays. We’ll always have the obvious. It reminds us who, and where we are, it lives like a heart shape, like a jar that we hand to others and ask, “Can you open this for me?” We always get the same answer: “Not without breaking it.” More often than sometimes, I say go for it.

Many people who are now CEOs and millionaires have worked very hard, no question, but so have millions of people now living below the poverty line. Hard work is admirable, but statistics show it is not a magic potion that will transform your life.

What do they think has happened, the old fools, To make them like this ? Do they somehow suppose It's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't remember Who called this morning ? Or that, if they only chose, They could alter things back to when they danced all night, Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September ? Or do they fancy there's really been no change, And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight, Or sat through days of thin continuous dreaming Watching light move ? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange: Why aren't they screaming ? At death, you break up: the bits that were you Start speeding away from each other for ever With no one to see. It's only oblivion, true: We had it before, but then it was going to end, And was all the time merging with a unique endeavour To bring to bloom the million-petalled flower Of being here. Next time you can't pretend There'll be anything else. And these are the first signs: Not knowing how, not hearing who, the power Of choosing gone. Their looks show that they're for it: Ash hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines- How can they ignore it ? Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms Inside your head, and people in them, acting. People you know, yet can't quite name; each looms Like a deep loss restored, from known doors turning, Setting down a Iamp, smiling from a stair, extracting A known book from the shelves; or sometimes only The rooms themselves, chairs and a fire burning, The blown bush at the window, or the sun' s Faint friendliness on the wall some lonely Rain-ceased midsummer evening. That is where they live: Not here and now, but where all happened once. This is why they give An air of baffled absence, trying to be there Yet being here. For the rooms grow farther, leaving Incompetent cold, the constant wear and tear Of taken breath, and them crouching below Extinction' s alp, the old fools, never perceiving How near it is. This must be what keeps them quiet. The peak that stays in view wherever we go For them is rising ground. Can they never tell What is dragging them back, and how it will end ? Not at night? Not when the strangers come ? Never, throughout The whole hideous inverted childhood? Well, We shall find out. - The Old Fools

The more inaccurate the information your PFC incorporates, the worse the outcome. And as the scenarios become more worst-case (which tends to happen as the PFC starts to go off-line, ironically due to the ramping up of the anxiety), your fight/flight/freeze physiology can get triggered to the point that just thinking about these possible (but highly improbable) situations can make you feel that you’re in danger, even though the danger is only in your head. Voilà! Anxiety.

At first Paelen remained silent. But when the man repeated the question, he thought this would be a good time to start his own investigation. Breaking his silence, he replied, 'Subject.' 'That is not your name,' the man said. 'Perhaps not,' Paelen agreed. 'However, it is the name you have given me. One name is as good as any other, is it not?' 'I didn't call you Subject.' 'Yes, you did.' 'I don't think so,' the older man said. 'But you did,' Paelen insisted. 'Just now. You were speaking into that little black box and said, "Subject has multiple broken bones, which are healing at a remarkable rate." Then you said, "Subject is strong despite his small size and youthful outward appearance." So if it pleases you to call me Subject, then that shall be my name. I am Subject.' 'I don't want to call you Subject,' the man said, becoming irritated. 'I just want to know how we address you before we start with our other questions.' Paelen noticed that this man was easily flustered. He was worse than Mercury. And Mercury was always the easiest of the Olympians to upset. Lines of frustration and anger already showed on the man's face. His lips were pressed tightly together, and his brows were knitted in a deep frown. Paelen decided to push the man a little further to test him. 'You seem confused,' he said. 'If this happens so easily over the simple issue of my name, I am certain you would be far too challenged to understand the answers to any questions you might pose.' The man shook his head in growing frustration. 'I am not confused,' he said angrily. "And I know your nae isn't Subject. Subject isn't a name. It is what you are.' 'And yet you still insist on calling me it.' Paelen lay back against the pillows, enjoying the game. 'I do not understand you. You are obviously a man of questionable intelligence. Please leave.

It is so rare to have a new tent appear that Celia considers canceling her performances entirely in order to spend the evening investigating it. Instead she waits, executing her standard number of shows, finishing the last a few hours before dawn. Only then does she navigate her way through nearly empty pathways to find the latest edition to the circus. The sign proclaims something called the Ice Garden. and Celia smiles at the addendum below which contains an apology for any thermal inconvenience. Despite the name, she is not prepared for what awaits her inside the tent. It is exactly what the sign described. But it is so much more than that. There are no stripes visible on the walls, everything is sparkling and white. She cannot tell how far it stretches, the size of the tent obscured by cascading willows and twisting vines. The air itself is magical. Crisp and sweet in her lungs as she breathes, sending a shiver down to her toes that is caused by more than the forewarned drop in temperature. There are no patrons in the tent as she explores, circling alone around trellises covered in pale roses and a softly bubbling, elaborately carved fountain. And everything, save for occasional lengths of whet silk ribbon strung like garlands, is made of ice. Curious, Celia picks a frosted peony from its branch, the stem breaking easily. But the layered petals shatter, falling from her fingers to the ground, disappearing in the blades of ivory grass below. When she looks back at the branch, an identical bloom has already appeared. Celia cannot imagine how much power and skill it would take not only to construct such a thing but to maintain it as well. And she longs to know how her opponent came up with the idea. Aware that each perfectly structured topiary, every detail down to the stones that line the paths like pearls, must have been planned.

Kelly McGonigal, a health psychologist at Stanford University, warned about the dangers of stress for a full decade before she realized that maybe it was her advice, rather than stress itself, that was sending people to their graves faster. “I’m converting a stimulus [stress] that could be strengthening people into a source of disease.” With a breakthrough in her thinking, and some powerful new research, McGonigal made a complete turnaround. Turns out, stress might just be our friend. Just as you put stress on a muscle to make it stronger (by lifting weights or running), emotional stress can make us physically and psychologically stronger too. McGonigal now highlights new research showing that when you change your mind about stress, you can literally change your body’s physical reaction to it. In an eight-year study, adults who experienced a “lot of stress” and who believed stress was harmful to their health had a 43% increase in their risk of dying. (That sure stressed me out.) However, people who experienced an equal amount of stress but did not view stress as harmful were no more likely to die! McGonigal says that physical signs of stress (a pounding heart, faster breathing, breaking out in a sweat) aren’t necessarily physical evidence of anxiety or signs that we aren’t coping well with pressure. Instead, we can interpret them as indications that our body is energized and preparing us to meet the next challenge. The bottom line is, science has now proven that how you think about stress matters—the story you attach to stress. Telling yourself it’s good for you instead of harmful could mean the difference between a stress-induced heart attack at 50 or living well into your 90s.

(Murmurs) The ghostly words that I hear from the ones that speak to me are saying something like- ‘Look out for the stars that shine for you in hope. But- be aware to not fall into the deception. Do not mistake a star for a black hole, in the days of days, and the times of time, where the banners will be the red blood your loved one will have to shed. This will show the light upon the fault line. When their vials break free upon you and them. This may pull you around while looking at the ground. If you see this coming it is already too late for them to run, your loved one will be under the rains of fire, with the fight of freedom, and honor, with dust and sun. Remember you will have some loss indoors, yet the footprints have been made, and the boots will bring you and them home. Think of keeping the angels near. Yet always look up even when you are knocked down by life. The stars that we know, and love may just fall to us in a cloud of white dust, and life as we know it may not be here, and surely nothing will be clear.’ I do not know what it means- do you? Should I be scared? What are they telling me? Is this in my future? (Spirit and evil life) It is interesting how you can find your Angel, and how they can find you. I still believe it is a blessing to be able to see an angel. However, the sisters must have heard the voices of hope and how they have spoken down on me, and they are going to try to reverse it and use it against me like a hex like they have been doing all these days in the past. This makes me believe, they have dark powers for themselves… for them to know my abilities, which come from the divine. They must have some kind of inkling or something. As I said, I think the sisters and the clan took things way too far, and it got out of hand. They were in the moment of high ecstasy with their erotic acts, they had complete authority over their meek victim.

Jane, the captain, and the colonel begged out of cards, sat by the window, and made fun of Mr. Nobley. She glanced once at the garden, imagined Martin seeing her now, and felt popular and pretty--Emma Woodhouse from curls to slippers. It certainly helped that all the men were so magnificent. Unreal, actually. Austenland was feeling cozier. “Do you think he hears us?” Jane asked. “See how he doesn’t lift his eyes from that book? In all, his manners and expression are a bit too determined, don’t you think?” “Right you are, Miss Erstwhile,” Colonel Andrews said. “His eyebrow is twitching,” Captain East said gravely. “Why, so it is, Captain!” the colonel said. “Well observed.” “Then again, the eyebrow twitch could be caused by some buried guilt,” Jane said. “I believe you’re right again, Miss Erstwhile. Perhaps he does not hear us at all.” “Of course I hear you, Colonel Andrews,” said Mr. Nobley, his eyes still on the page. “I would have to be deaf not to, the way you carry on.” “I say, do not be gruff with us, Nobley, we are only having a bit of fun, and you are being rather tedious. I cannot abide it when my friends insist on being scholarly. The only member of our company who can coax you away from those books is our Miss Heartwright, but she seems altogether too pensive tonight as well, and so our cause is lost.” Mr. Nobley did look up now, just in time to catch Miss Heartwright’s face turn away shyly. “You might show a little more delicacy around the ladies, Colonel Andrews,” he said. “Stuff and nonsense. I agree with Miss Erstwhile, you are acting like a scarecrow. I do not know why you put on this act, Nobley, when around the port table or out in the field you’re rather a pleasant fellow.” “Really? That is curious,” Jane said. “Why, Mr. Nobley, are you generous in your attentions with gentlemen and yet taciturn and withdrawn around the fairer sex?” Mr. Nobley’s eyes were back on the printed page, though they didn’t scan the lines. “Perhaps I do not possess the type of conversation that would interest a lady.” “You say ‘perhaps’ as though you do not believe it yourself. What else might be the reason, sir?” Jane smiled. Needling Mr. Nobley was feeling like a very productive use of the evening. “Perhaps another reason might be that I myself do not find the conversation of ladies to be very stimulating.” His eyes were dark. “Hm, I just can’t imagine why you’re still unmarried.” “I might say the same for you.” “Mr. Nobley!” cried Aunt Saffronia. “No, it’s all right, Aunt,” Jane said. “I asked for it. And I don’t even mind answering.” She put a hand on her hip and faced him. “One reason why I am unmarried is because there aren’t enough men with guts to put away their little boy fears and commit their love and stick it out.” “And perhaps the men do not stick it out for a reason.” “And what reason might that be?” “The reason is women.” He slammed his book shut. “Women make life impossible until the man has to be the one to end it. There is no working it out past a certain point. How can anyone work out the lunacy?” Mr. Nobley took a ragged breath, then his face went red as he seemed to realize what he’d said, where he was. He put the book down gently, pursed his lips, cleared his throat. No one in the room made eye contact. “Someone has issues,” said Miss Charming in a quiet, singsongy voice. “I beg you, Lady Templeton,” Colonel Andrews said, standing, his smile almost convincingly nonchalant, “play something rousing on the pianoforte. I promised to engage Miss Erstwhile in a dance. I cannot break a promise to such a lovely young thing, not and break her heart and further blacken her view of the world, so you see my urgency.” “An excellent suggestion, Colonel Andrews,” Aunt Saffronia said. “It seems all our spirits could use a lift.

• No matter how open we as a society are about formerly private matters, the stigma around our emotional struggles remains formidable. We will talk about almost anyone about our physical health, even our sex lives, but bring depression, anxiety or grief , and the expression on the other person would probably be "get me out of this conversation" • We can distract our feelings with too much wine, food or surfing the internet, • Therapy is far from one-sided; it happens in a parallel process. Everyday patients are opening up questions that we have to think about for ourselves, • "The only way out is through" the only way to get out of the tunnel is to go through, not around it • Study after study shows that the most important factor in the success of your treatment is your relationship with the therapist, your experience of "feeling felt" • Attachment styles are formed early in childhood based on our interactions with our caregivers. Attachment styles are significant because they play out in peoples relationships too, influencing the kind of partners they pick, (stable or less stable), how they behave in a relationship (needy, distant, or volatile) and how the relationship tend to end (wistfully, amiably, or with an explosion) • The presenting problem, the issue somebody comes with, is often just one aspect of a larger problem, if not a red herring entirely. • "Help me understand more about the relationship" Here, here's trying to establish what’s known as a therapeutic alliance, trust that has to develop before any work can get done. • In early sessions is always more important for patients to feel understood than it is for them to gain any insight or make changes. • We can complain for free with a friend or family member, People make faulty narratives to make themselves feel better or look better in the moment, even thought it makes them feel worse over time, and that sometimes they need somebody else to read between the lines. • Here-and-now, it is when we work on what’s happening in the room, rather than focusing on patient's stories. • She didn't call him on his bullshit, which this makes patients feel unsafe, like children's whose parent's don’t hold them accountable • What is this going to feel like to the person I’m speaking to? • Neuroscientists discovered that humans have brain cells called mirror neurons, that cause them to mimic others, and when people are in a heightened state of emotion, a soothing voice can calm their nervous system and help them stay present • Don’t judge your feelings; notice them. Use them as your map. Don’t be afraid of the truth. • The things we protest against the most are often the very things we need to look at • How easy it is, I thought, to break someone’s heart, even when you take great care not to. • The purpose on inquiring about people's parent s is not to join them in blaming, judging or criticizing their parents. In fact it is not about their parents at all. It is solely about understanding how their early experiences informed who they are as adults so that they can separate the past from the present (and not wear psychological clothing that no longer fits) • But personality disorders lie on a spectrum. People with borderline personality disorder are terrified of abandonment, but for some that might mean feeling anxious when their partners don’t respond to texts right away; for others that may mean choosing to stay in volatile, dysfunctional relationships rather than being alone. • In therapy we aim for self compassion (am I a human?) versus self esteem (Am I good or bad: a judgment) • The techniques we use are a bit like the type of brain surgery in which the patient remains awake throughout the procedure, as the surgeons operate, they keep checking in with the patient: can you feel this? can you say this words? They are constantly calibrating how close they are to sensitive regions of the brain, and if they hit one, they back up so as not to damage it.

Preacher was working on his second tray when he glanced up and saw that little blond head, peeking at him from the bottom of the stairs. “Hi,” Preacher said. “You sleep?” Christopher nodded. “Good,” he said. “Feel better?” Chris nodded again. Watching the boy’s face, Preacher slowly pushed a fresh-baked cookie across the counter with one finger until it was at the edge. It was a good minute before Chris took one step toward the cookie. Almost another full minute before his little hand touched it, but he didn’t take it. Just touched it, looking up at Preacher. “Go ahead. Tell me if it’s any good.” Chris slowly pulled the cookie off the counter and to his mouth, taking a very small, careful bite. “Good?” Preacher asked. And he nodded. So Preacher set him up a glass of milk right where the cookie had been. The boy nibbled that cookie in tiny bites; it took him so long to finish it that Preacher was pulling out the second cookie sheet and taking off the cookies before he was done. There was a stool on the other side of the counter near the milk and eventually Chris started trying to get up. But he had some stuffed toy in his grip and couldn’t make the climb, so Preacher went around and lifted him up. Then he went back to his side of the counter and pushed another cookie toward him. “Don’t pick it up yet,” Preacher said. “It’s kind of hot. Try the milk.” Preacher started rolling peanut butter dough into balls, placing them on the cookie sheet. “Who you got there?” he asked, nodding toward the stuffed toy. “Bear,” Christopher said. He reached his hand toward the cookie. Preacher said, “Make sure it’s not too hot for your mouth. So—his name’s just Bear?” Christopher nodded. “Seems like maybe he’s missing a leg, there.” Again the boy nodded. “Doesn’t hurt him, though.” “That’s a break. He ought to have one, anyway. I mean, it wouldn’t be the same as his own, but it would help him get by. When he has to go for a long walk.” The kid laughed. “He don’t walk. I walk.” “He doesn’t, huh? He should have one for looks, then.” He lifted one of his bushy black brows. “Think so?” Christopher lifted the small, worn brown bear. “Hmm,” he replied thoughtfully. He bit the cookie and immediately opened his mouth wide and let the sloppy mouthful fall onto the counter. For a second his look was stricken. Maybe terrified. “Hot, huh?” Preacher asked, not reacting. He reached behind him, ripped off a paper towel and whisked away the spit-out. “Might want to give it about one more minute. Have a drink of milk there. Cool down the mouth.” They communed in silence for a while—Preacher, Chris, the three-legged bear. When Preacher had all his little balls rolled, he began mashing them with his fork, perfect lines left, then right. “What’s that yer doing?” Christopher asked him. “Making cookies. First you mix the dough, then you roll the balls, then you smash them with the fork, nice and easy. Then they go in the oven.” He peered at Chris from underneath the heavy brows. “I bet you could do this part. If you were careful and went nice and slow.” “I could.” “You’d have to come around here, let me lift you up.” “’Kay,” he said, putting his bear on the counter, getting off his stool and coming to Preacher. Preacher lifted him up to sit on the edge of the counter. He helped him hold the fork and showed him how to press down. His first solo attempt was a little messy, so Preacher helped him again. Then he did it pretty well. Preacher let him finish the tray, then put it in the oven. “John?” the boy asked. “How many of them we gotta do?” Preacher smiled. “Tell you what, pardner. We’ll do as many as you want,” he said. Christopher smiled. “’Kay,” he said. *

When something in society goes so wrong, that something is often a product of one very large agreement instead of the various small disagreements that consume the political sphere. Looming over the fights about which administration is to blame for housing becoming so unstable and what percentage increase this or that program is entitled to sits the inconsistency of America spending about $70 billion a year subsidizing homeownership through tax breaks like deferred taxes on capital gains and the mortgage interest deduction (MID), which allows homeowners to deduct the interest on their home loan from their federal income taxes. Together these tax breaks amount to a vast upper-middle-class welfare program that encourages people to buy bigger and more expensive houses, but because their biggest beneficiaries are residents of high-cost cities in deep blue redoubts like New York and California, even otherwise liberal politicians fight any attempt to reduce them. These programs are also entitlements that live on budgetary autopilot, meaning people get the tax breaks no matter how much they cost the government. Contrast that with programs like Section 8 rental vouchers, which cost about $20 billion a year, have been shown to be highly effective at reducing homelessness, and cost far less than the morally repugnant alternative of letting people live in tents and rot on sidewalks, consuming police resources and using the emergency room as a public hospital. That program has to be continually re-upped by Congress, and unlike middle-class homeowner programs, when the money runs out, it’s gone. This is why many big cities either have decades-long lines for rental vouchers or have closed those lines indefinitely on account of excess demand. The message of this dichotomy, which has persisted for decades regardless of which party is in charge and despite the mountains of evidence showing just how well these vouchers work, is that America is willing to subsidize as much debt as homeowners can gorge themselves on but that poor renters, the majority of whom live in market-rate apartments, are a penny-ante side issue unworthy of being prioritized.

Semi-Charmed Life" Doo doo doo, doo doo-doo doo... I'm packed and I'm holding I'm smiling, she's living, she's golden She lives for me, says she lives for me Ovation, her own motivation She comes round and she goes down on me And I make her smile, like a drug for you Do ever what you wanna do, coming over you Keep on smiling, what we go through One stop to the rhythm that divides you And I speak to you like the chorus to the verse Chop another line like a coda with a curse Come on like a freak show takes the stage We give them the games we play, she said... I want something else to get me through this Semi-charmed kinda life, baby, baby I want something else, I'm not listening when you say good-bye Doo doo doo, doo doo-doo doo... The sky was gold, it was rose I was taking sips of it through my nose And I wish I could get back there, someplace back there Smiling in the pictures you would take Doing crystal meth, will lift you up until you break It won't stop, I won't come down I keep stock with a tick-tock rhythm, a bump for the drop And then I bumped up, I took the hit that I was given Then I bumped again, then I bumped again I said... How do I get back there to the place where I fell asleep inside you How do I get myself back to the place where you said... I want something else to get me through this Semi-charmed kinda life, baby, baby I want something else, I'm not listening when you say good-bye I believe in the sand beneath my toes The beach gives a feeling, an earthy feeling I believe in the faith that grows And the four right chords can make me cry When I'm with you I feel like I could die And that would be alright, alright And when the plane came in, she said she was crashing The velvet it rips in the city, we tripped on the urge to feel alive Now I'm struggling to survive, Those days you were wearing that velvet dress You're the priestess, I must confess Those little red panties they pass the test Slide up around the belly, face down on the mattress one And you hold me, and we're broken Still it's all that I wanna do, just a little now Feel myself, heading off the ground I'm scared, I'm not coming down No, no And I won't run for my life She's got her jaws now locked down in a smile But nothing is alright, alright And I want something else to get me through this life Baby, I want something else Not listening when you say Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye Doo doo doo, doo doo-doo doo... The sky was gold, it was rose (Doo doo doo, doo doo-doo doo...) I was taking sips of it through my nose (Doo doo doo, doo doo-doo doo...) And I wish I could get back there (Doo doo doo, doo doo-doo doo...) Someplace back there, in the place we used to start (Doo doo doo, doo doo-doo doo...) I want something else (Doo doo doo, doo doo-doo doo...) Third Eye Blind (1997)

Luke said that he was surprised when I showed up at his room. That he hadn’t meant to give me the wrong idea. That he would never have taken it beyond just kissing. And he looked so genuine. So trustworthy. So sorry about what had happened. He almost convinced me that I’d misread his signals.” Hallelujah pauses. “The whole time, I kept my mouth shut. I wish I hadn’t. But I was still so humiliated. And I felt guilty. I made out with him. I liked it. And no one made me go to his room.” Her voice breaks. She has to swallow past a lump in her throat. “I know Luke’s not a good guy. I know what he did isn’t my fault. It’s his. But still, none of it would’ve happened if I hadn’t gone to his room.” She’s almost there. Almost done. Almost heard. Something deep inside her hurts like it hasn’t hurt in a long time. But she knows that this gash had to reopen in order to heal. That’s how wounds work. They need air. “I knew I’d get punished, and I did. My parents grounded me. I was put on youth group probation. But I honestly thought Luke’s lies would just fade away if I kept a low profile. There’s always gossip about someone. This time it was me.” ... “Luke is still telling people about what supposedly happened that night,” Hallelujah says. “And he makes fun of me. All the time. What I look like, what I say, my name. And he does this thing at church: whenever we sing a hymn with my name in it, he sings it like he’s hooking up with me. He sings the word ‘hallelujah’ at me. He moans it. And I hate it.” That’s one of the reasons she stopped singing: his voice, his fake grunts of satisfaction, ruining the music she loved so much. “You said,” she says to Jonah, “he wanted to keep me upset. To keep me from telling anyone what really happened. Well, it worked.” She pauses. “Until now.” “Until now,” Rachel repeats. Then she curses. “I can’t believe him. I can’t believe he got away with it.” “I let him get away with it,” Hallelujah says softly. “No. He’s the one who crossed the line. And okay, maybe you could’ve spoken up sooner. But if no one pushed you for your side of the story, that’s on them.” Rachel yawns and stretches. “And when we get home, we’re going to set the record straight.

I need to warm up,” she blurted, and plunged in without another word, playing as softly as she could. Once she had started seeing the notes in her mind again, when muscle memory had her fingers reaching for those familiar chords, she began. It was not the sorrowful, lovely piece she had once played for Dorian, and it was not the light, dancing melodies she’d played for sport; it was not the complex and clever pieces she had played for Nehemia and Chaol. This piece was a celebration—a reaffirmation of life, of glory, of the pain and beauty in breathing. Perhaps that was why she’d gone to hear it performed every year, after so much killing and torture and punishment: as a reminder of what she was, of what she struggled to keep. Up and up it built, the sound breaking from the pianoforte like the heart-song of a god, until Rowan drifted over to stand beside the instrument, until she whispered to him, “Now,” and the crescendo shattered into the world, note after note after note. The music crashed around them, roaring through the emptiness of the theater. The hollow silence that had been inside her for so many months now overflowed with sound. She brought the piece home to its final explosive, triumphant chord. When she looked up, panting slightly, Rowan’s eyes were lined with silver, his throat bobbing. Somehow, after all this time, her warrior-prince still managed to surprise her. He seemed to struggle for words, but he finally breathed, “Show me—show me how you did that.” So she obliged him.

We prepare for victory or defeat at the start of each day. When you get up in the morning, you have to set your mind in the right direction. You may feel discouraged. You may feel the blahs, thinking, I don’t want to go to work today. Or I don’t want to deal with these children. Or I’ve got so many problems. If you make the mistake of dwelling on those thoughts, you are preparing to have a lousy day. You’re using your faith in the wrong direction. Turn it around and say, “This will be a great day. Something good will happen to me. God has favor in my future, and I’m expecting new opportunities, divine connections, and supernatural breakthroughs. When you take that approach, you prepare for victory, increase, and restoration. God says to the angels, “Did you hear that? They’re expecting My goodness. They’re expecting to prosper in spite of the economy. They’re expecting to get well in spite of the medical report. They’re expecting to accomplish their dreams even though they don’t have the resources right now.” When you begin each day in faith, anticipating something good, God tells the angels to go to work and to arrange things in your favor. He gives you breaks, lines up the right people, and opens the right doors. That’s what allows God to show up and do amazing things. Sometimes you will see major improvements in your life if you just make that minor adjustment. You would not only have more energy, you would also have a better attitude, and you would be more productive. You would see new doors open. You would meet new friends. You would get some of those breakthroughs you’ve been praying for if you would just get up in the morning and, instead of preparing for defeat, prepare for victory. Prepare for increase. Prepare for God’s favor. You have to set the tone at the start of each day. If you leave your mind in neutral, the negative thoughts will start to come just by default.

Dating with an eye toward marriage changes not just when you date and who you date but also how you date. Since the end goal is marriage, you want to do things in dating that will set you up for success in your future marriage—whether that’s with the person you’re dating currently or with someone else in the future if it doesn’t work out with this person. That means having healthy boundaries in dating and not crossing inappropriate lines physically or emotionally. You want to treat them well even if you break up with them, and thereby avoid having any angry exes show up at your wedding. It also means using your single time wisely. If you are not ready to date, or are not currently dating for whatever reason, that doesn’t mean you’re stuck waiting passively. You can do yourself and your future spouse a big favor by working to unpack some of your baggage so you won’t have to carry it with you into marriage. As I’ve often said, there are no married people problems—just single people problems carried into marriage.

I’m sort of nervous you’ll find out Even though I want you to I’m sort of nervous you’ll be angry Even though I know that’s not you We’ve been through this all before And you never made me feel unsure But still A hush had fallen over the crowd as soon as she began to sing and Julie marveled at how different this atmosphere was from the raucous one the boys had described to her from their visit to the club. She wondered if Caleb would be satisfied with her slow and emotional song choice but if he was dissatisfied with her he didn’t show it on his face. He merely glanced around at the rapt expressions of the lifers and smirked. Julie allowed her eyes to slide over to her friends who were both watching her with knowing looks. She knew that the sadness in her lyrics was reflected in their eyes, that they felt sorry for her and that they ached for Luke too. She forced her gaze away from them, needing to focus on getting through the song and finding it almost impossible in the face of their pity. I’m sort of hopeful you’ll find out Even though that’s not fair I’m sort of hopeful you'll guess Even though I’m so scared I don’t know what the right choice is And part of me wants you to insist But still Despite all of the circumstances that made singing this particular song in this particular venue absolutely loaded down with baggage she found herself slipping into the zone she always occupied when performing. She could feel the heady rush of doing what she was meant to do in front of people hanging on her every word. She wished Luke was there to sing with her but she had also never been so glad that he wasn’t. She gripped the mic stand and raised her voice to new heights as she began the chorus. How do I tell you this isn’t where I belong? How do I tell you this was a tragedy all along? That we never had a chance At a happy ending at all Just a few brief stolen moments Between your heart and mine How do I tell you? How do I tell you? Goodbye She could hear emotion breaking through into her voice but she didn’t care. The ghost band once again seemed to sense what she had heard in her head and the music built and built before suddenly dropping to next to nothing. A few chords on the piano were all that accompanied the final verse as she gave it her all. I’m sort of happy we happened Even though I know the memories Will hurt I’m sort of happy we met here Even if it took a curse I know that I’ve made mistakes And some of them are hard to shake But still Julie allowed herself to truly see the audience for the first time. They were still watching her with awed expressions but something about the lighting in the club seemed different. There was a soft golden glow settling over the whole room. Julie blinked and the glow was gone. She barely had time to wonder if she had imagined it before the band came back in full force for the final chorus. How do I tell you this isn’t where I belong? How do I tell you this was a tragedy all along? That we never had a chance At a happy ending at all Just a few brief stolen moments Between your heart and mine How do I tell you? How do I tell you? Goodbye The band fell away again and Julie’s voice echoed through the ballroom alone on the final lines. How do I tell you? Goodbye

Within several minutes, we’re at the front of the line. I assume we’re going to keep walking, but the young English couple in front of us has me take their picture, and then they offer to take ours. I open my mouth to decline, but Bruno bursts out with a “Grazie!” and unhooks the camera from my neck, handing it to the woman. He leads me to the bench and we sit, the sides of our legs touching. My stomach clenches. This is the kissing bench. Not a single couple before us has smiled for the camera. They kiss for the camera. My eyes lock on the lens like a deer in the headlights. I force a smile, a big one, with teeth. My head nearly vibrates with the strain. This is fine. We’re going to break the trend and smile. Absolutely no kissing. The woman lifts my camera to her face. “One, two--” On two, Bruno reaches behind me and cups the back of my head in his hand, turning me to face him. His other hand is on my cheek. His lips press onto mine. The camera clicks. “WOOOOOO!” echoes around us. One person claps. Bruno pulls away but stares into my eyes for a moment before hopping up and getting my camera back for me. My head is spinning. I’ve been kissed. In Italy. By an Italian! I remain seated, stupefied, until a couple shoos me away for their turn, and soon we’re walking the next section of the path along with the English couple. Bruno chats with them--heavy accent enforced--but their words turn to garble. All I hear is He kissed me. Bruno I-don’t-even-know-how-to-pronounce-his-last-name kissed me! And it was short. Too short. No. Too long. Shouldn’t have happened. Chiara will kill us if she finds out. But she won’t find out. I’ll hide the picture from her. I’ll delete the picture! No, I have to show Morgan. And I want proof for myself. I’ll just make sure Chiara doesn’t see it. It only happened because it’s what you do at the kissing bench when you’re sitting next to the hottest Italian boy you’ve ever seen. I just have to stay away from that bench.

Nothing but total capitulation by the Sandinistas would suffice for Reagan. Thus, as the ICJ related, revolutionary leader and then Nicaraguan president Daniel Ortega made it clear that he would give in to all of Reagan’s stated demands (i.e., that he would send home the Cuban and Russians advisers and not support the FMLN guerillas in El Salvador) in return for only “one thing: that they don’t attack us, that the United States stop arming and financing … the gangs that kill our people, burn our crops and force us to divert enormous human and economic resources into war when we desperately need them for development.”10 But Reagan would not relent until the Sandinistas and Ortega were out of power altogether. Ultimately, Reagan’s terror campaign would work, with the Nicaraguan people finally crying uncle in 1990, and voting the Sandinistas out of power. The Sandinistas would be voted back in, however, in 2007, and they remain the governing party to this day, with Daniel Ortega as president. Meanwhile, the United States continues to punish Nicaragua, the most stable and prosperous country in Central America after successfully breaking off from US domination, for its impertinence in overthrowing the Somoza dictatorship, having the audacity to survive the Contra War which claimed fifty thousand lives, voting back in the Sandinistas, and for now working with the Chinese to build the canal that the United States has coveted for so long. Thus, as I write these lines, the US Senate is considering passage of the “Nica Act,” already passed by the House, which would cut Nicaragua off from multilateral loans (e.g., from the World Bank, IMF). This, apparently, will show Nicaragua and other countries what they get for deciding to go their own way.

As I opened the discussion, one of the men, Amir Mateen, rather condescendingly suggested I sit like a prop and let them set the theme. Clearly he mistook me for the young girls who would merely complement the older, silver-haired analysts. I ignored him. As I continued my line of questioning, he rather rudely rebuked me in the break, calling for me to be replaced. I couldn’t believe he was saying it right in front of me. “This young girl has no clue how to run the show,” he called out. I said nothing, and sent a message to the Managing Director, Ahmed Zuberi, asking to remove the guests immediately, or I would walk away. The gentlemen were both removed and replaced by my pre-booked guests. This was my first taste of what it was like to stick to the script handed over by higher authorities. A year later, at PMLN leader Daniyal Aziz’s house, the same man would apologise profusely to me in public for his rudeness.

So again, why are you climbing a tree?” Christine asked as she shielded her eyes from the sun. She and everyone else sat around on blankets watching Kellen help Stevie put her gear on. “I wanted to learn how to do it, and Kellen fixed up this dead tree for me. I want to show off my new skills, too, because Linden made fun of me,” Stevie said and struck a pose. “Be still, I’m trying to connect the climb line to your saddle,” Kellen said, focused on the task. Kenzie climbed onto Trent’s shoulders and made a face. “Uncle Linden says Aunt Stevie’s gonna break her butt.” “Thanks, Linden,” Stevie said and shot him a look. “She won’t.” Kyle laughed. “I’ve never seen so much safety equipment in my life. Kell, you forgot to bubble wrap her butt before you put the saddle on.” “Where’d you get them giant pads from?” Walt asked. “They’re the ones the track team at the school used to use for pole vaulting.” Kellen adjusted the chinstrap on Stevie’s helmet. “This is our exercise tree.” Stevie patted the trunk. “I want iron legs like Kellen’s, so she topped it for me, cut most of the branches off, and put out the pads. See how she spoils me?” “Yeah, she gave you what looks like fifty feet of dead tree,” Kyle said with a grin. “Most people just get flowers.” Trent snorted. “Nothing says love like a fifty-foot stump.” Kellen double-checked her own gear just in case Stevie got into trouble and she had to go up for her. “Okay, babe, don’t go past the fifteen-foot mark, trust your saddle when your legs get tired, pay attention to the depth of your spikes.” She patted Stevie’s cheek and whispered, “Now show them your monkey.