Kyrie Quotes

Kyrie…you are so fucking beautiful.” His voice was low, reverent. “And you are mine.

No alaram clock needed. My passion wakes me up.. !

I didn't mean for any of this to happen." "Any of what?" "Any of that." He pointed at the bed, as I had. "That was something...beautiful. Something miraculous and incredible. I never expected that. I never expected to fall for you, Kyrie St. Claire. But I have.

You're stunning, Kyrie. Whether you're done up in Dior and jewels, or just woken up in a sundress and messy hair, you are, very honestly, the most lovely woman I've ever know. You don't need fancy hair and makeup to take my breath a way away, Kyire. You just have to be you.

Kyrie...I need to feel you. Need to kiss your skin. I have to taste your beauty.

You don’t need fancy hair or makeup to take my breath away, Kyrie. You just have to be you.

Oh, my fucking god, Valentine..." "Yes?" "Just...describing you, is all." "I'm your fucking god, Kyrie?" "Yes!

But you won’t tell me what it is?” “No.” “Why?” “Because I’m afraid to, Kyrie. Because I’ve been waiting a very long time to bring you into my life, and now that I have you, I’m jealous of the time I get to spend with you.

I wasn’t…some sort of dangerous criminal, Kyrie.

God is no respecter of either persons or names - Dieu or Gott or Kyrie or Adonai or Wakantanka. He is the Great Spirit whose pity we ask.

Kyrie ! The radiance of the intellect. I ought to profess Greek, the language of the mind.

We shouldn't have to do it- set ourselves on fire to change the way things are. But I think maybe to be a girl in this world sometimes you have to burn. Sometimes it's how we light the way.

Kyrie…you taste so good, Kyrie. I’m going to lick your sweet, perfect pussy until you beg me stop, but I won’t stop. I’ll keep licking you until you can’t take it anymore, and then, when you’ve come so hard and so many times that you think you’re about to die, I’ll make you come again. Have you ever come so many times you passed out, Kyrie? That’s what I’m going to do to you. Right now. Tonight. I’m going to eat your sweet wet little pussy until you pass out.

This is what I know of pride. I know that it keeps the secrets of cruel men. I know that it holds us in the shadows, because we are too proud to admit we need help. I know that pride values a man's reputation over a woman's life. It calls her selfish for speaking up, even when she speaks the truth. Especially then.

If the hero dies, they call it a Greek tragedy, but when the heroine dies, it's a romance. Now I only want stories where girls are the heroes, and our fates are neither written in the stars nor held in the palm of a man's hand, but are entirely our own.

Why kill yourself trying to meet everyone else's expectation of perfect?

I know all too well how painful it is to be constantly aroused, Kyrie. I've been hard for you since the moment I woke up. Since the moment I met you, honestly. I'm always hard for you, Kyrie. I ache for you every moment of every day. I wake up at night, having dreamed of burying my cock inside you, and when I wake up I'm mere moments for coming all over myself like a horny teenager. I am desperate to be inside you, Kyrie. This torture is for both of us.

When the legacy is anger, the inheritance is fear.

All women have a goth phase, we all need to mourn. Some of us just choose to show it on the outside.

I’d been kissed before. Many times. There were awkward and sloppy kisses, those tension-fraught moments of fumbling intensity as a teenager. There were more skilled kisses, passionate and intentional. There were kisses that stole my breath, kisses that merged seamlessly with the shedding of clothes and the joining of bodies. But never, before this moment, had there ever been a kiss that stole my will to pull away, that devoured my capacity for thought, that removed my ability to resist, to feel anything but the kiss.

I love orgasms. I say a prayer of thanks to God for them every day.” “You say a prayer of thanks for orgasms?” Elle asked. “Of course. I mean, they’re a gift from God, right? A woman doesn’t need to have an orgasm to get pregnant, right?” “Right.” “So if they have nothing to do with reproduction, then why do women have them?” Kyrie asked. She raised her hand and pointed a finger up at the ceiling, at the sky, where God lived. “Orgasms are God’s way of saying He’s sorry about periods and cramps.

SHERIFF THOMAS: You know what I mean, Ms. Logan. It did. What are we going to do, take everyone’s guns away just because one girl died?

I'm exhausted and freezing I'm not in the mood for any more of the half-hearted atonements of grown men.

It wasn't fair that Cassie's name would forever be known for how she died. Instead of her laughter, her poetry, her voice.

Sometimes anxiety is intuition.

I feel responsible too. For my mother. For the girls. For every worried impulse I don't act on. I think that's all anxiety is, really. Responsibility.

Holy fucking Jesus toast, Kyrie.

So what were you doing there?”  Here’s the frustrating thing about Nate, one of those things that happy memories conveniently glossed over.  A lot of times, you had to ask him a question more than once to get a straight answer.  He loved to answer questions you’d never asked, or to answer a question with another question.   “Do I really have to answer that, Kyrie?” See? “Don’t you trust me?”  See?!

Women who are told their obedience is more important than their voice, not by their husbands, but by their mothers, their friends. Women willing to watch each other get hurt for the sake of image and tradition.

I have killed for my mother. I’ve killed for survival, out of compulsion, to sate cravings, and even, at times, fun. But the decisive difference is that I wouldn’t just kill for Kyrie—I would give my life. Hell, I’d even let her take it.

Lord Tierney was furious. But when he saw how his sister had suffered, his anger shifted instead toward Rome. “If it weren’t for this new menace on the horizon,” he thundered, “I’d declare war on those haughty deceivers this instant!” Marcus stepped forward. “Kyrie, I don’t think—" “Then don’t!

What do you learn at school, then?" "We learn about the Prophet and his three hundred authenticated miracles,and about Abraham and Isaac and Jonah and Omar and Ali and Hind and Fatima and the saints, and sometimes the big battles of Saladin against the barbarians. And we recite the Holy Koran because we have to learn al-Fatihah by heart." "What's that?" "It's the beginning." "What's it like?" Karatavuk closed his eyes and recited:'Bismillah al-rahman al-rahim...' When he's finished he opened his eyes, and mopped his forehead. "It's difficult" he observed. "I didn't understand any of it" complained Mehmetcik. " It sounds nice though. was it language?" "Of course it was language, stupid. It's Arabic." "What's that then?" "It's what Arabs speak. And it's what God speaks, and that's why we have to learn to recite it. It's something about being merciful and the Day of Judgement and showing us the right path, and if anything is going wrong, or you're worried, or someone's sick, you just have to say al-Fatihah and everything will probably be all right." "I didn't know that God spoke language." observed Mehmetcik. Father Kristoforos speaks to him in Greek, but we don't understand that either." "What do you learn, then." "We learn more than you," answered Mehmetcik self-importantly. "We learn about Jesus Son of Mary and his miracles and St Nicholas and St Dmitri and St Menas and the saints and Abraham and Isaac and Jonah and Emperor Constantine and Alexander the Great and the Marble Emperor, and the great battles against barbarians, and the War of Independence, and we learn reading and writing and adding up and taking away and multiplication and division." "Don't you learn al-Fatihah,then?" "When things go wrong we say 'Kyrie elesion'. and we've got a proper prayer as well." "What's that like?" Mehmetcik screwed up his eyes in unconcious imitation of his friend, and recited: 'Pater imon, o en tois ouranis, agiasthito to onoma sou, eltheto i vasileia sou..' When Mehmetcik has finished, Karatavuk asked, "What's that about, then? is that some kind of language?" "It's Greek. It's what we speak to God.I don't know exactly what it means, it's something about our father who is in heaven and forgive us our daily bread, and led us not into temptation, but it doesn't matter if we don't understand it, because God does" "Maybe," pondered Karatavuk, " Greek and Arabic are actually the same language, and that's how God understands us, like sometimes I'm Abdul and sometimes I'm Karatavuk, and sometimes you're Nico and sometimes you're Mehmetcik, but it's two names and there's only one me and there's only one you, so it might be all one language that's called Greek sometimes and Arabic sometimes.

Sometimes, late at night, the words are only whispers– Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God. The quiet is kindness and gratitude and calm–Have mercy on me, a sinner. And I fall asleep like that, the words of the Jesus Prayer melting from English to Greek– Kyrie Iesou Christe. Floating around me– Yie tou Theou. Swimming apart from me– Eleison me.

Seed Thought Everything in the Universe has its own song. A chorus of frogs. The wind in the trees. Songs inspire the soul to remember how to love. Ave Maria opens the heart to compassion. Kyrie Eleison awakens forgiveness. Shalom Aleichem beckons the tired soul to rest. Om restores harmony and unity. Music is a powerful connection to our Source.

Maybe fear is the toll women pay to exist in this world at all.

The things that once meant everything to Vivian meant nothing now.

I imagine this kind of thing happens every single day, but sometimes things are ordinary and incredible all at once.

Instead of playing it cool, my body decided the best thing to do at that moment was to inhale some toothpaste and spend the next three minutes choking on it. Thankfully, they were all three in the shower, so they didn’t realize that their sudden nudity had caused the biggest queen on campus to have a three-minute coughing fit. I still haven’t recovered from that moment. I don’t think I ever will. Sorry, Kyrie.

It would have been so easy to stay mad, to dwell on it all night, but I’ve seen how that kind of anger builds on itself. I get to decide for myself what things I’ll carry, and anger isn’t going to be one of them.

I like the crows because they can’t be shut behind a door, or hidden behind blinds. People can’t turn away and shake their heads and say, ‘It isn’t our problem.’ I like the crows because they refuse to be ignored.

If you don't know Beck's humor, or Vivian's grace. Their riotous, righteous anger. That's what girls are made of. I would know, because I've seen it and because, for a brief time, I was made of all those things, too. And I have also seen the way they bent time and space, like their grief held a gravity that could not be denied. And when it gave in, the strangest thing happened. It let me come back to them, for a time, perhaps just long enough to remind the world what we girls are capable of. Like when Cassandra saw the future, when Ariadne escaped the maze, when Circe cursed the men, and Helen started a war, when Medusa was hunted, and Andromeda was sacrificed for her city. If you already know the truth about girls (if you've been lucky enough to see it) then you already know it is possible for three girls to be at the center of the their own stories- to be at the center of everything. You already know that we can be heroes.

What happens when you tell little boys every day of their lives that they must be the most? The fastest, the tallest, or the strongest. Maybe you tell them to be bravest, like that's better. Like they won't take their fear and bury it down deep in an effort to please you. But there isn't so much room at the top, and while it might feel like disappointment when they're seven, it starts to feel like failure when they're seventeen. And then some of them become a different most. They become the meanest. The loudest. The angriest.

This is what I know of pride. I know that it keeps the secrets of cruel men. I know that it holds us in the shadows, because we are too proud to admit we need help. I know that pride values a men's reputation over a woman's life. It calls her selfish for speaking up, even when she speaks the truth. then.

But some things should fall apart. They should burn themselves out, like a candle that's run its wick to the bottom. It's dangerous to wish for such a thing, though, because some flames are too selfish to extinguish themselves. There are flames that would set the whole world on fire if it were the only way to kepp burning.

When the great Greek cry breaks into the Latin of the Mass, as old as Christianity itself, it may surprise some to learn that there are a good many people in church who really do say kyrie eleison and mean exactly what they say. But anyhow, they mean what they say rather more than a man who begins a letter with "Dear Sir" means what he says. "Dear" is emphatically a dead word; in that place it has ceased to have any meaning. It is exactly what the Protestants would allege of Popish rites and forms; it is done rapidly, ritually, and without any memory even of the meaning of the rite. When Mr. Jones the solicitor uses it to Mr. Brown the banker, he does not mean that the banker is dear to him, or that his heart is filled with Christian love, even so much as the heart of some poor ignorant Papist listening to the Mass.

Lefty hands a coin to the old lady selling candles, lights one, stands it upright in sand. He takes a seat in a back pew. And in the same way my mother will later pray for guidance over my conception, Lefty Stephanides, my great-uncle (among other things) gazes up at the unfinished Christ Pantocrator on the ceiling. His prayer begins with words he learned as a child, Kyrie eleison, Kyrie eleison, I am not worthy to come before Thy throne, but soon it veers off, becoming personal with I don’t know why I feel this way, it’s not natural . . . and then turning a little accusatory, praying You made me this way, I didn’t ask to think things like . . . but getting abject finally with Give me strength, Christos, don’t let me be this way, if she even knew . . . eyes squeezed shut, hands bending the derby’s brim, the words drifting up with the incense toward a Christ-in-progress. He prayed for five minutes. Then came out, replaced his hat on his head, and rattled the change in his pockets.

I’ve barely touched you, barely began to kiss you, only begun to learn the secrets of your body, but already you react so beautifully. Kyrie…Kyrie…you are so beautiful. Such a precious thing, and I simply cannot wait to make you sing, to make your body hum and shiver for me.

It’s a terrible thing to not be who God called you to be. I think that’s the cause for most of the suffering in all the world,” Kyrie said. “People trying to be who they aren’t supposed to be or not getting to be who they should be.

Did you like that?” Elle asked. “I liked the kiss after you bit me. And the bite, too.” “What would you say if I said I would do it again, but only if you let me bite you again?” “I’d say…bite me.” “What if I said I’d make you feel amazing but only after I hurt you? Would you let me hurt you?” “Yes.” “What do you think would happen if every time I hurt you I also made you feel good afterward?” “I don’t know. I guess I’d want you to hurt me so I could feel good.” “You’d associate pain with pleasure?” “I would.” “You’d want the pain because it meant you’d have pleasure, too?” “Probably.” “Would the pleasure mean more to you because you earned it?” “I think so.” “If I told you it turned me on to hurt you and then pleasure you in that order, what would you think?” “I would think you should do that to me then. Hurt me and then pleasure me.” Elle smiled. “That’s kink. It’s also kink when your deepest sexual fantasy is to be treated like a sex slave or punished by a teacher or tied up like a prisoner or spanked like a child.” “People do that?” “I do that,” Elle said. Kyrie held out her hand again to Elle. “Will you do it me?

I’m taking care of you.” “You’ll take care of me?” “Yes,” Elle whispered. “That’s what I want to do. You do what I tell you to do. And I’ll take care of you.” “Thank you,” Kyrie said.

Are you okay?” Elle asked, between kisses. “I think so.” “Scared?” “Ter r if ied.” “Good. I like that you’re scared,” Elle said. “Why?” The question caught her off guard. She didn’t have an answer for it. “I don’t know. I just do. Maybe…” She kissed Kyrie’s neck under her ear and over the pounding vein. “Maybe I want you to be afraid of me. That way your trust means more than if you weren’t afraid.

Among His own people, Jesus is tekton. For the centurion, Jesus is kyrie.

Have you ever come so many times you passed out, Kyrie? That’s what I’m going to do to you. Right now. Tonight.

Hear this, Kyrie: As you learn to trust me, as you give yourself to me, so will I learn to trust you, and give you myself.” 

How do you always know exactly what I need to hear the most, Kyrie?” he whispered, thumbing a stray lock of hair away from my face.  “Because we’re one person split into two bodies, Valentine. I know what you need to hear because it’s what I need to make you understand, what I need to say to you.” “I

Bitch is a sliver of word to my side. Sharp. Thick enough to hurt. But I hold my breath and pull it out. Cunt is different. Like a festering disease that settles in my gut. It lives there for months, and I can feel it there always. Heavy enough to remind me of when he said it the first time. Because it wasn't the hatred in his voice, but victory. I've got it, it said. A tone of near pride. He knew he'd found a word that I couldn't ignore, wouldn't forget. A word cruel enough to affect my sixteen year old self. Who had never been called a name like that before. But had heard it directed at her mother enough times to know how it should hurt. A word that reduces me to an assembly of parts, less than human. A word that makes me nothing but the object of his hatred, which means I'm nothing at all.

Van closetrolletjes heb ik destijds, een Paasmandje vervaardigd.

amount

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She felt in need of protection. She pictured the suits of armour in the Castle, and thought: my armour is of the twenty-first century variety. Claudia Sträter silk jacket and skirt, Kyrie Eleison suede boots.

mothers,

Kyrie Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison.

Perhaps you’ve been grievously wronged sexually and have lived a nightmare. But you long for light. The longing for goodness and peace is a blossom of light pulling you in the direction of more light. Kyrie eleison—​​​Lord, have mercy, you who bind up the brokenhearted.

Now everything is one shadow, and this shadow takes the shape of a closet. This closet takes the shape of a sanctuary. This sanctuary takes the shape of three girls who are flapping their wings but going nowhere.

If only she knew how much I’m holding back. All the words that I don’t say. Instead, I swallow the words whole, and the letters are pointy on their corners and sharp on their edges and they hurt going down. They stay there inside of me and make my stomach ache. Sometimes I think that if someone cut me open, the words would really be there. Like a whale that consumed too much garbage, and now her body is nothing but a time capsule for all the things humans throw away.

Sometimes the Greek words “Kyrie eleison” and “Christe eleison” are used. (No, they didn’t get them from the Mr. Mister song from the 1980s. It was the other way around.)

In a world that tells girls we shouldn't be angry, even as our lives are ripped from our grasps. When I throw the brick, I picture myself as a small child throwing pennies in a pond making wishes. So, tonight, I wish too, and the wish begins, "If only. . . If only this world loved living girls as much as it loved dead ones.

What could've happened to a girl like Kyrie to turn her into a killer? Women serial killers are a rare breed, rarer even than duos.

What could've happened to a girl like Kyrie to turn her into a killer? Women serial killers are a rare breed, rarer even than duos.

Three days. And in that time, I’ve found pieces of Mason in my daily lunches. Toenails in my yogurt. Testes buried in my tofu salad. Entrails in my travel mug of egg drop soup. When I approached Kyrie to inquire about her antics, her response was: “You said to dispose of the body… Digestion is a fantastic form of disposal, Jack.

Kyrie’s ability to mask her expression and blend into any environment is, admittedly, impressive. I should have realized this trait beforehand. So many tiny tells are coming to light as I study her today, and I realize how she even masked herself from me. It wasn’t hard; my ego did most of the work for her.

Kyrie didn’t start as a killer—she was made. And I helped make her.

Dear Father, dear Son, dear Spirit, The clock hands spin the dial at a maddening pace. The sun rises on the garden dial and the shadows of the stylus fall too spinning fast upon the Roman numerals that number my brief hours. My life is but a vapor that appears and then vanishes away. It is nothing more than the flight of a weaver's shuttle. It is the hurried trip of the sun gone fast across a shallow Attic sky. But never mind, I know two words that open heaven. And I shall speak the words amid the applause of gathering angels. And when I've said the words the gates will swing and the carpet to the throne will be as scarlet as forgiveness. And the words are kyrie elieson.

Like most young crossers, Kyrie didn’t have words for everything that was going on inside. “One thing,” Jacques urged. “Tell me one true thing.” Soft as a sigh, Kyrie answered, “Love you, Uncle Jackie.

Kieran is safe because of my lie. Kyrie is safe with Brutus. I’m as safe as I’ve ever been thanks to the bond growing angrier and more savage by the hour in my chest. We’ll survive until I can get us out.

The threefold Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison, Kyrie Eleison ('Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy') is so intensely used in Orthodox liturgy that its repetition can almost sound like a mantra; in the Western Church its appearance is much more restricted, but it is one of the fixtures in the preparatory sections of the Eucharist, the inspiration for much sacred music over the centuries.

De drogreden viert hoogtij, sterker dan het Tij ons nog ooit weder keren, zal mogen.

To anyone who dreamt of someone who would burn the world for them, who loved the villain, who rooted for the dark souls in their fairy tales… We hope Jack and Kyrie ignite your beautiful black hearts.