L Love You So Much Quotes

I hug him tightly. “I can’t imagine my life without you, Christian. I love you so much it frightens me.” “Me, too,” he breathes. “My life would be empty without you. I love you so much.

I love your bed." I rolled onto my stomach, smiling. "I love it so much I'd marry it if I could." Seth laughed out loud. "You'd marry my bed?" "Mmm.

I hate you, what he really meant was I love you. I l still love you so much that I hate you for it

I love you," I said, our lips brushing. "I love you so very much.

It feels like nobody in the history of the world has loved another person as much as I love you. I love you so much it hurts. You make me smile, you make me laugh, you make me burn.

You are going to do some really stupid and mean things in the name of love. Don’t be so hard on yourself when things don’t turn out. You are a good person that loved deeply. Anybody worth having will know that hurting someone is not showing someone who you really are. You’re a sensitive person that showed the depth of your love, by the depth of your pain. Fairytale love will show you only one face. Real love will show you as many faces as it takes to get you to see how much that person really wanted you in their life.

You’re weird.” “I know.” I lifted my head so my chin rested on his chest. “But you love me?” His lips tipped up at the corners. “I love you as much as a kid loves Santa.” I laughed. “That’s serious.” “Hardcore,” he murmured.

Love is so much uglier than hate because when you hate, you’re not confused. When you’re in love, you’re dumb.

Do not let yourself be bothered by the inconsequential. One has only so much time in this world, so devote it to the work and the people most important to you, to those you love and things that matter. One can waste half a lifetime with people one doesn't really like, or doing things when one would be better off somewhere else.

A woman or man of value doesn’t love you because of what he or she wants you to be or do for them. He or she loves you because your combined souls understand one another, complements each other, and make sense above any other person in this world. You each share a part of their soul's mirror and see each other’s light reflected in it clearly. You can easily speak from the heart and feel safe doing so. Both of you have been traveling a parallel road your entire life. Without each other's presence, you feel like an old friend or family member was lost. It bothers you, not because you have given it too much meaning, but because God did. This is the type of person you don't have to fight for because you can't get rid of them and your heart doesn't want them to leave anyways.

It has always been simple, but making it hard was always your way of avoiding pain. If you want to change your life, you have to change what you are doing. It wasn't his fault, her fault, their fault or the circumstances. It was your inability to choose. So, life chose for you. Somewhere in that crazy mind of yours time stopped. You thought someone would rescue you, but they didn't. You have to rescue yourself. This is not a fire you can put out; you have to walk through it, in order to reach life. Getting burned is apart of growth, didn't you know?

When people want to win they will go to desperate extremes. However, anyone that has already won in life has come to the conclusion that there is no game. There is nothing but learning in this life and it is the only thing we take with us to the grave—knowledge. If you only understood that concept then your heart wouldn’t break so bad. Jealousy or revenge wouldn’t be your ambition. Stepping on others to raise yourself up wouldn’t be a goal. Competition would be left on the playing field, and your freedom from what other people think about you would light the pathway out of hell.

eat, baby. eat. chew. please. I know it hurts. I know it doesn’t feel good. please. I know your hunger is different than mine. I know it doesn’t taste the same as mine. imagine you could grow up all over again and pinpoint the millisecond that you started counting calories like casualties of war, mourning each one like it had a family. would you? sometimes I wonder that. sometimes I wonder if you would go back and watch yourself reappear and disappear right in front of your own eyes. and I love you so much. I am going to hold your little hand through the night. just please eat. just a little. you wrote a poem once, about a city of walking skeletons. the teacher called home because you told her you wished it could be like that here. let me tell you something about bones, baby. they are not warm or soft. the wind whistles through them like they are holes in a tree. and they break, too. they break right in half. they bruise and splinter like wood. are you hungry? I know. I know how much you hate that question. I will find another way to ask it, someday. please. the voices. I know they are all yelling at you to stretch yourself thinner. l hear them counting, always counting. I wish I had been there when the world made you snap yourself in half. I would have told you that your body is not a war-zone, that, sometimes, it is okay to leave your plate empty.

I'm sorry Elena. I know that you want to help, but put yourself in her shoes, everything that happened tonight was to save you and that's OK because she loves you so much. But somehow she's always the one who gets hurt.

I love you,” she whispered. “I love you so much that I hated you for a while. And now that I know that you are damaged, I love you even more. Perfect things are not relatable. Unbreakable is fascinating, but not lovable. You’re breakable, Dean Cole. I’m going to do my best to keep you whole.

The hardest part of letting go is the "uncertainty"--when you are afraid that the moment you let go of someone you will hate yourself when you find out how close you were to winning their affection. Every time you give yourself hope you steal away a part of your time, happiness and future. However, once in a while you wake up to this realization and you have to hold on tightly to this truth because your heart will tear away the foundation of your logic, by making excuses for why this person doesn't try as much as you. The truth is this: Real love is simple. We are the ones that make it complicated. A part of disconnecting is recognizing the difference between being desired and being valued. When someone loves you they will never keep you waiting, give their attention and affection away to others, allow you to continue hurting, or ignore what you have gone through for them. On the other hand, a person that desires you can't see your pain, only what they can get from you with minimal effort in return. They let you risk everything, while they guard their heart and reap the benefits of your feelings. We make so many excuses for the people we fall in love with and they make up even more to remain one foot in the door. However, the truth is God didn't create you to be treated as an option or to be disrespected repeatedly. He wants you to close the door. If someone loves you and wants to be in your life no obstacle will keep them from you. Remember, you are royalty, not a beggar.

Fuck, Blake,” he growls, pulling his face from mine. His lips drop to my neck, and I tilt my head to the side. “I love you so goddamn much.

Remember that, sweetheart. I love you so much that I have to hurt you.

You’re the love of my life, and I need you so much I can’t breathe without it.

I love you, Ivy. You know that? There’s only been you. There will only be you. I love you so fucking much.

He remembered having said to his uncle (with a solemn dogmatism better befitting a much younger man): "Surely it is possible to love with the head as well as the heart." Mr. Delagardie had replied, somewhat drily: "No doubt; so long as you do not end by thinking with your entrails instead of your brain.

Anyone can say 'I love you', however so many other sayings carry more weight in a relationship: “I understand what you went through because I went through it too.” “I believe you and in you.” “I see the pain you are going through and we will conquer this together.” “I don’t want to change you. I just want to help you become the best version of yourself.” “You matter to me, therefore I will be there for you always.” "I will never keep things from you because you have my respect and friendship. If I find out someone is putting you down, I will stand up for you. ” “Your character will always shine when I speak about you because to damage your name is to damage ours.” “I will go to the ends of the earth to save you from yourself or others.” “What you have to say is important to me because I see you’re hurting and that hurts me, so I am going to listen. Together we will solve this problem.” “I don’t care about your past. That was yesterday. Today, we are going to start over because people make mistakes, but they don’t have to pay for them for the rest of their life.” "How can I help you get through this?" “In sickness or in health...I meant it and I will search the world to find a way to keep you in it because you mean that much to me.” “I don’t want to be your parent. I want to be your best friend, lover, cheering section, playmate and fill all the important parts of your soul. Together we will fill the rest as equals.

Sometimes your inability to let go has nothing to do with real love and everything to do with what that person represents in your life. Why do you give them so much importance? Why do you believe that God doesn't love you enough that he would not bring someone else into your life? Why do you put up with less than you deserve?

I love you.” Rosie’s tears curtained her vision. “I love you, Baby LeBlanc,” I said. “So fucking much. You taught me how to love. How well did I do?” “A-plus,” she whispered. “You aced it. Can you promise me something?” “Anything.” “Live .” “Not without you.

So I’m telling you, Kami, I won’t miss you anymore. I won’t hurt for you. I won’t need you like I do. And I won’t love you. Loving you is what caused all this. It’s what ruined us. And I am so sorry for that. I hate myself for failing you. For not being enough to save you. But I won’t fail you again. If this is what you need—for me to never think of you again—then that is what I am going to do. I’ll forget you. I’ll stop loving you like I do. Because, dammit, I do. So much it fucking tears me apart.I hope this is what you want. I know I didn’t get it right the first time, but I promise to try like hell to make it better.Always (Never)

You stayed because you’d invested so much time in your relationship that it would be a waste to walk away.

To learn how to learn, you have to love learning—or you have to at least enjoy it—because so much learning is about being motivated to teach yourself.

How long your closet held a whiff of you, Long after hangers hung austere and bare. I would walk in and suddenly the true Sharp sweet sweat scent controlled the air And life was in that small still living breath. Where are you? since so much of you is here, Your unique odour quite ignoring death. My hands reach out to touch, to hold what's dear And vital in my longing empty arms. But other clothes fill up the space, your space, And scent on scent send out strange false alarms. Not of your odour there is not a trace. But something unexpected still breaks through The goneness to the presentness of you.

Love is so contaminated. It tarnishes all that is beautiful and corrupts the soul. Love is so much uglier than hate because when you hate, you’re not confused. When you’re in love, you’re dumb.

There is evidence that the honoree [Leonard Cohen] might be privy to the secret of the universe, which, in case you're wondering, is simply this: everything is connected. Everything. Many, if not most, of the links are difficult to determine. The instrument, the apparatus, the focused ray that can uncover and illuminate those connections is language. And just as a sudden infatuation often will light up a person's biochemical atmosphere more pyrotechnically than any deep, abiding attachment, so an unlikely, unexpected burst of linguistic imagination will usually reveal greater truths than the most exacting scholarship. In fact. The poetic image may be the only device remotely capable of dissecting romantic passion, let alone disclosing the inherent mystical qualities of the material world. Cohen is a master of the quasi-surrealistic phrase, of the "illogical" line that speaks so directly to the unconscious that surface ambiguity is transformed into ultimate, if fleeting, comprehension: comprehension of the bewitching nuances of sex and bewildering assaults of culture. Undoubtedly, it is to his lyrical mastery that his prestigious colleagues now pay tribute. Yet, there may be something else. As various, as distinct, as rewarding as each of their expressions are, there can still be heard in their individual interpretations the distant echo of Cohen's own voice, for it is his singing voice as well as his writing pen that has spawned these songs. It is a voice raked by the claws of Cupid, a voice rubbed raw by the philosopher's stone. A voice marinated in kirschwasser, sulfur, deer musk and snow; bandaged with sackcloth from a ruined monastery; warmed by the embers left down near the river after the gypsies have gone. It is a penitent's voice, a rabbinical voice, a crust of unleavened vocal toasts -- spread with smoke and subversive wit. He has a voice like a carpet in an old hotel, like a bad itch on the hunchback of love. It is a voice meant for pronouncing the names of women -- and cataloging their sometimes hazardous charms. Nobody can say the word "naked" as nakedly as Cohen. He makes us see the markings where the pantyhose have been. Finally, the actual persona of their creator may be said to haunt these songs, although details of his private lifestyle can be only surmised. A decade ago, a teacher who called himself Shree Bhagwan Rajneesh came up with the name "Zorba the Buddha" to describe the ideal modern man: A contemplative man who maintains a strict devotional bond with cosmic energies, yet is completely at home in the physical realm. Such a man knows the value of the dharma and the value of the deutschmark, knows how much to tip a waiter in a Paris nightclub and how many times to bow in a Kyoto shrine, a man who can do business when business is necessary, allow his mind to enter a pine cone, or dance in wild abandon if moved by the tune. Refusing to shun beauty, this Zorba the Buddha finds in ripe pleasures not a contradiction but an affirmation of the spiritual self. Doesn't he sound a lot like Leonard Cohen? We have been led to picture Cohen spending his mornings meditating in Armani suits, his afternoons wrestling the muse, his evenings sitting in cafes were he eats, drinks and speaks soulfully but flirtatiously with the pretty larks of the street. Quite possibly this is a distorted portrait. The apocryphal, however, has a special kind of truth. It doesn't really matter. What matters here is that after thirty years, L. Cohen is holding court in the lobby of the whirlwind, and that giants have gathered to pay him homage. To him -- and to us -- they bring the offerings they have hammered from his iron, his lead, his nitrogen, his gold.

Ask me what I want again,” I said softly, and she grinned, pressing her lips to my chest through my tee. “What do you want?” she murmured. Her hair smelled fantastic. Like flowers and how my fucking pillow was going to smell tonight. “Nothing. I’m done wanting things. I have everything I need now. Ask me how I feel.” “How do you feel?” “In love.” I breathed hard, burying my face in her hair. “I feel in love, and it’s you that I love. So fucking much.

There was this girl,” I said. "l mean-” All of a sudden I felt flustered, and added, ”We were just friends.” ”No such thing.” ”We were.” ”Look. Despite what you may have heard, people have sex all the time with people they don't love, or particulary care about, or sometimes can't even stand. So why in the world do people say that it's just friends, like it doesn't mean as much, if you're not having sex? Real friendship is true and forever and with all your heart. It's not Relationship Lite.

You will never be able to end any battle if the people involved are unable to see their own hypocrisy, or how their insecurity contributed to their problems. Wounded people often choose to play the victim, so they can restore their dignity in unhealthy ways. Sadly, they do this through feeling justified, by making bad choices or actions (that honestly no diety would want them to do). This inability to accept their part in their unhappiness keeps them from growing. They need your prayers more than your anger. Just walk away. Let it go and pray that one day they will understand your pain, as much as you do theirs. Remember: The sexiest woman alive is one that can walk away from a place that God doesn't want them to be. Do so with your head held high and forgive yourself and others. When you can do this, you will know what God's definition of class is-- YOU!

Life is full of so much that you refuse to let yourself experience. The blanketing comfort of love, the fulfillment of contagious laughter, the peace of finding true joy, the butterflies of uncontainable excitement…these are all things that make up life. They should never be taken for granted. You of all people should understand that, sweetheart.

Narcissistic Supply You get discarded as supply for one of two reason: They find you too outspoken about their abuse. They prefer someone that will keep stroking their ego and remain their silent doormat. Or, they found new narcissistic supply. Either way, you can count on the fact that they planned your devaluation phase and smear campaign in advance, so they could get one more ego stroke with your reaction. Narcissists are angry, spiteful takers that don't have empathy, remorse or conscience. They are incapable of unconditional love. Love to them is giving only when it serves them. They gaslight their victims by minimizing the trauma they have caused by blaming others or stating you are too sensitive. They never feel responsible or will admit to what they did to you. They have disordered thinking that is concerned with their needs and ego. It is not uncommon for them to hack their targets, in order to gain information about them. They enjoy mind games and control. This is their dopamine high. The sooner you distance yourself the healthier you will become. Narcissism can't be cured or prayed away. It is a mental disorder that turns the victims of its abuse into mental patients because it causes so much psychological manipulation.

Because that was the problem with society. It cared too much about who you fell in love with but never about the why. The why matters. The who is irrelevant (but the band was great, so there's that).

Gilbert had finally made up his mind that he was going to be a doctor. "It's a splendid profession," he said enthusiastically. "A fellow has to fight something all through life. . .didn't somebody once define man as a fighting animal?. . .and I want to fight disease and pain and ignorance. . .which are all members one of another. I want to do my share of honest, real work in the world, Anne. . . add a little to the sum of human knowledge that all the good men have been accumulating since it began. The folks who lived before me have done so much for me that I want to show my gratitude by doing something for the folks who will live after me. It seems to me that is the only way a fellow can get square with his obligations to the race." "I'd like to add some beauty to life," said Anne dreamily. "I don't exactly want to make people know more. . .though I know that is the noblest ambition. . .but I'd love to make them have a pleasanter time because of me. . .to have some little joy or happy thought that would never have existed if I hadn't been born." "I think you're fulfilling that ambition every day," said Gilbert admiringly. And he was right. Anne was one of the children of light by birthright. After she had passed through a life with a smile or a word thrown across it like a gleam of sunshine the owner of that life saw it, for the time being at least, as hopeful and lovely and of good report.

I think timing is better left up to God to decide then religious leaders. I once met a man that brought his wife flowers in the hospital. They held hands, kissed and were as affectionate as any cute couple could be. They were both in their eighties. I asked them how long they were married. I expected them to tell me fifty years or longer. To my surprise, they said only five years. He then began to explain to me that he was married thirty years to someone that didn’t love him, and then he remarried a second time only to have his second wife die of cancer, two years later. I looked at my patient (his wife) sitting in the wheelchair next to him smiling. She added that she had been widowed two times. Both of her marriages lasted fifteen years. I was curious, so I asked them why they would even bother pursuing love again at their age. He looked at me with astonishment and said, “Do you really think that you stop looking for a soulmate at our age? Do you honestly believe that God would stop caring about how much I needed it still, just because I am nearing the end of my life? No, he left the best for last. I have lived through hell, but if I only get five years of happiness with this woman then it was worth the years of struggle I have been through.

I haven’t had any adventures. Things have happened to me, events, incidents, anything you like. But not adventures. It isn’t a matter of words; I am beginning to understand. There is something I longed for more than all the rest - without realizing it properly. It wasn’t love, heaven forbid, nor glory, nor wealth. It was…anyway, I had imagined that at certain moments my life could take on a rare and precious quality. There was no need for extraordinary circumstances: all I asked for was a little order. There is nothing very splendid about my life at present: but now and then, for example when they played music in the cafés, I would l look back and say to myself: in the old days, in London, Meknés, Tokyo, I have known wonderful moments, I have had adventures. It is that which has been taken away from me now. I have just learnt, all of a sudden, for no apparent reason, that I have been lying to myself for ten years. Adventures are in books. And naturally, everything they tell you about in books can happen in real life, but not in the same way. It was to this way of happening that I attached so much importance.

I’m kind of hoping it will end like this. You made me happy. Very happy. But…you deserve everything. Wife, kids, a white picket fence.” “And I’ll have all of it. With you.” “You know that can’t happen with me.” “Then it can’t happen with anyone. There won’t be a next Rosie. And there won’t be another story like ours. This is it, Rose LeBlanc. And this is us. If there is no you, then there is no me.” “You know, I always hated Romeo and Juliet . The play. The movie. The very idea. It was tragic, all right. Tragically stupid. I mean, they were what? Thirteen? Sixteen? What a waste of life, to kill yourself because your family wouldn’t let you get hitched. But Romeo and Juliet were right. I was the next eleven years killing myself slowly while I grieved for you. Then you came back, and I still thought it was just a fascination. But now that I know…” “Now that I know that it can only ever be you, you’re going to get better for me so Earth won’t explode. Can you do that, Sirius? I promise not to leave this room until you get out. Not even for a shower. Not even to get you your chocolate chip cookies. I’ll get someone to drive all the way to New York and bring them for you.” “I love you.” Rosie’s tears curtained her vision. “I love you, Baby LeBlanc,” I said. “So fucking much. You taught me how to love. How well did I do?” “A-plus,” she whispered. “You aced it. Can you promise me something?” “Anything.” “ Live .” “Not without you.” “And have kids. Lots of them. They’re fun.” “Rosie…” “I’m not afraid. I got what I wanted from this life. You .” “Rosie.” “I love you, Earth. You were good to me.” “Rose!” Her eyes closed, the door opened, the sound on her monitor went off, and my heart disintegrated. Piece. By piece. By piece.

I am not a man who often expresses is emotions, Miss Linton." "You don't say?" "But I must admit I was... somewhat concerned for you." I had to work hard to keep a smile from my face." "Somewhat concerned? Dear God, really?" Abruptly, he turned to me, his eyes blazing with cold fire. "Dammit! Do not joke, Miss Linton!" I looked up at him, the picture of innocence drawn by a five-year-old with absolutely no artistic talent. "I wouldn't dare!" Stepping towards me, he reached out, until one of his hands gently touched my cheek. "I..." He swallowed, and tried again. "I might be slightly... irrationally infatuated with you." Warmth spread deep inside me. And on my face, a grin did. "Irrationally infatuated? Dear me!" His jaw clenched. "All right, all right! I may even have certain... impulses towards you that border on caring about you." "You don't say?" I raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, I am so glad to hear that you feel a certain amount of friendship towards me." His dark gaze pierced me accusingly. But I was enjoying this far too much to stop. I wouldn't make it easy for him. "Friendship is not the right word, Miss Linton," he bit out between clenched teeth, every word like a shard of burning ice. "My impulses towards you... they might go slightly beyond the platonic." "Oh, so they are Aristotelian?" "Mr Lin-" He swallowed, hard. "I mean Miss Linton, we are not discussing philosophy here!" I batted my eyelashes at him. "Indeed? Then pray tell, what are we discussing?" "I... I..." "You can say it, you know," I told him. "The word isn't poisonous." "I... have feelings towards you." "Clearly. I knew that from the first day from the way you shouted at me and pelted me with threats." "Not those kinds of feelings!" "What kind, then?" "I feel... affection towards you." "You're nearly there," I encouraged him, my smile widening. "Just four little letters. The word starts with L. Go on. You can do it." "You're enjoying this, Miss Linton, aren't you?" "Very much so." "Oh, to hell with it!"... His mouth took mine in a fast, fierce, bruising kiss... Finally he broke away, and with the remnants of his breath whispered: "I love you!

God wants you to have so much more. He wants you to have a supernatural love, one that sustains when both of you give up. You can’t have that with someone who lacks faith. It’s just not possible.

There is so much love in your heart that you could heal the entire planet. But just for now let us use this love to heal you. Feel a warmth beginning to glow in your heart center, a softness, a gentleness. Let this feeling begin to change the way you think and talk about yourself.

Leaning into Ash, I cupped his cheek. Those frigid eyes landed on me. “I love you,” I whispered. “I love your protectiveness. I love that you see me. That I’m important to you. That I matter. I love you so very much for that.

His fingers splayed out while my heart slammed against his hand. "How did i ever stay away from you ? I heard this calling out for me everyday." I could feel is breath across my face,his words so sad,filled with so much regret."Did you here mine?" "yes",I breathed out as my whole body began to shake under his."My heart only beat because I could still feel your love.It was the only thing i had.

It was that summer, too, that I began the cutting, and was almost as devoted to it as to my newfound loveliness. I adored tending to myself, wiping a shallow red pool of my blood away with a damp washcloth to magically reveal, just above my naval: queasy. Applying alcohol with dabs of a cotton ball, wispy shreds sticking to the bloody lines of: perky. I had a dirty streak my senior year, which I later rectified. A few quick cuts and cunt becomes can't, cock turns into back, clit transforms to a very unlikely cat, the l and i turned into a teetering capital A. The last words I ever carved into myself, sixteen years after I started: vanish. Sometimes I can hear the words squabbling at each other across my body. Up on my shoulder, panty calling down to cherry on the inside of my right ankle. On the underside of a big toe, sew uttering muffled threats to baby, just under my left breast. I can quiet them down by thinking of vanish, always hushed and regal, lording over the other words from the safety of the nape of my neck. Also: At the center of my back, which was too difficult to reach, is a circle of perfect skin the size of a fist. Over the years I've made my own private jokes. You can really read me. Do you want me to spell it out for you? I've certainly given myself a life sentence. Funny, right? I can't stand to look myself without being completely covered. Someday I may visit a surgeon, see what can be done to smooth me, but now I couldn't bear the reaction. Instead I drink so I don't think too much about what I've done to my body and so I don't do any more. Yet most of the time that I'm awake, I want to cut. Not small words either. Equivocate. Inarticulate. Duplicitous. At my hospital back in Illinois they would not approve of this craving. For those who need a name, there's a gift basket of medical terms. All I know is that the cutting made me feel safe. It was proof. Thoughts and words, captured where I could see them and track them. The truth, stinging, on my skin, in a freakish shorthand. Tell me you're going to the doctor, and I'll want to cut worrisome on my arm. Say you've fallen in love and I buzz the outlines of tragic over my breast. I hadn't necessarily wanted to be cured. But I was out of places to write, slicing myself between my toes - bad, cry - like a junkie looking for one last vein. Vanish did it for me. I'd saved the neck, such a nice prime spot, for one final good cutting. Then I turned myself in.

Practical advice.—People who read much must always keep it in mind that life is one thing, literature another. Not that authors invariably lie. I declare that there are writers who rarely and most reluctantly lie. But one must know how to read, and that isn't easy. Out of a hundred bookreaders ninety-nine have no idea what they are reading about. It is a common belief, for example, that any writer who sings of suffering must be ready at all times to open his arms to the weary and heavy-laden. This is what his readers feel when they read his books. Then when they approach him with their woes, and find that he runs away without looking back at them, they are filled with indignation and talk of the discrepancy between word and deed. Whereas the fact is, the singer has more than enough woes of his own, and he sings them because he can't get rid of them. L’uccello canta nella gabbia, non di gioia ma di rabbia, says the Italian proverb: "The bird sings in the cage, not from joy but from rage." It is impossible to love sufferers, particularly hopeless sufferers, and whoever says otherwise is a deliberate liar. "Come unto Me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." But you remember what the Jews said about Him: "He speaks as one having authority!" And if Jesus had been unable, or had not possessed the right, to answer this skeptical taunt, He would have had to renounce His words. We common mortals have neither divine powers nor divine rights, we can only love our neighbours whilst they still have hope, and any pretence of going beyond this is empty swagger. Ask him who sings of suffering for nothing but his songs. Rather think of alleviating his burden than of requiring alleviation from him. Surely not—for ever should we ask any poet to sob and look upon tears. I will end with another Italian saying: Non è un si triste cane che non meni la coda... "No dog so wretched that doesn't wag his tail sometimes.

You're so much more than I deserve, than I dared to want. This isn't about saving me, is it? It's about saving you too.

Right, Mommy? That’s what brave is, being scared and doing what’s right anyway because you love someone so, so much?

Rye touched her face tenderly.  The effort to control himself was maddening. "I love you so much and someday I want this to be right and special.

There isn’t so much love in the world that you can turn it away when it’s offered.

I love you so much that I hated you for a while. And now that I know that you are damaged, I love you even more. Perfect things are not relatable. Unbreakable is fascinating, but not lovable.

Good morning on the 7th of July. while still in bed my thoughts turn towards you my Immortal Beloved, now and then happy, then sad again, waiting whether Fate might answer us. – I can only live either wholly with you or not at all, yes, I have resolved to stray about far away until I can fly into your arms, and feel at home with you, and send my soul embraced by you into the realm of the Spirits. – Yes, unfortunately it must be. – You will compose yourself, all the more since you know my faithfulness to you, never can another own my heart, never – never. – Oh God why do I have to separate from someone whom I love so much, and yet my life in V[ienna] as it is now is a miserable life. – Your love makes me at once most happy and most unhappy. – At my age, I would now need some conformity regularity in my life – can this exist in our relationship? – Angel, I just learned that the post goes every day – and I must therefore conclude so that you get the l[etter] straightway – be patient, only through quiet contemplation of our existence can we achieve our purpose to live together – be calm – love me – today – yesterday. – What yearning with tears for you – you – you – my life – my everything – farewell – oh continue to love me – never misjudge the most faithful heart of your Beloved L. Forever thine forever mine forever us.

There are so many things to regret in your lifetime, but loving someone is not one of them. You gave the purest part of your soul to someone else. It takes courage to risk your heart in a world where very few people take risks. The lesson of lost love is not found in regret. It is found in understanding how much love you truly are capable of. One day, the right person will comes along and you will recognize real love because their love will resemble something you once gave away.

Stay strong, beautiful. I’ll be right here waiting for you when you wake up. I love you so much. Forget everything else and concentrate on you and our baby. Don’t worry, we’ll work out the rest.

I want you to be so fucking deadly that no one dares to look at you the wrong way. You're my equal in every single way. No one can come close to challenging me like you do. And I love it so fucking much.

Miss Peyton,” Lillian Bowman asked, “what kind of man would be the ideal husband for you?” “Oh,” Annabelle said with irreverent lightness, “any peer will do.” “Any peer?” Lillian asked skeptically. “What about good looks?” Annabelle shrugged. “Welcome, but not necessary.” “What about passion?” Daisy inquired. “Decidedly unwelcome.” “Intelligence?” Evangeline suggested. Annabelle shrugged. “Negotiable.” “Charm?” Lillian asked. “Also negotiable.” “You don’t want much,” Lillian remarked dryly. “As for me, I would have to add a few conditions. My peer would have to be dark-haired and handsome, a wonderful dancer…and he would never ask permission before he kissed me.” “I want to marry a man who has read the entire collected works of Shakespeare,” Daisy said. “Someone quiet and romantic—better yet if he wears spectacles— and he should like poetry and nature, and I shouldn’t like him to be too experienced with women.” Her older sister lifted her eyes heavenward. “We won’t be competing for the same men, apparently.” Annabelle looked at Evangeline Jenner. “What kind of husband would suit you, Miss Jenner?” “Evie,” the girl murmured, her blush deepening until it clashed with her fiery hair. She struggled with her reply, extreme bashfulness warring with a strong instinct for privacy. “I suppose…I would like s-s-someone who was kind and…” Stopping, she shook her head with a self-deprecating smile. “I don’t know. Just someone who would l-love me. Really love me.” The words touched Annabelle, and filled her with sudden melancholy. Love was a luxury she had never allowed herself to hope for—a distinctly superfluous issue when her very survival was so much in question. However, she reached out and touched the girl’s gloved hand with her own. “I hope you find him,” she said sincerely. “Perhaps you won’t have to wait for long.

I love you Freda,” he breathes. “It feels like nobody in the history of the world has loved another person as much as I love you. I love you so much it hurts. You make me smile, you make me laugh, you make me burn.

I hug him tightly. “I can’t imagine my life without you, Christian. I love you so much it frightens me.” “Me, too,” he breathes. “My life would be empty without you. I love you so much.” ― E.L. James, Fifty Shades Darker

It scares me a little,” she confessed. “Whatever’s happening in my heart when I’m around you…it scares me.” “It scares me too, but I know one thing for certain,” I said, placing my fingers beneath her chin and raising it so we were looking into each other’s eyes. “What’s that?” “I’m going to love loving you as much as I loved hating you

You are not a one dimensional human being. You are not your social media etiquette, a picture, a few things said under stress or through misunderstanding. You are much more. You are a fearless and wonderful soul who loves greatly. The people that matter are the ones that see all the dimensions of your soul, not just the superficial. They will climb inside that box with you not because they are not sure if they will ever find your uniqueness in another person. They do so because they feel safe enough to share their uniqueness with you. They see your faults and know that they have them also. They feel the walls lowered and the freedom of being themselves. Honesty is never guarded or regretted. That is what makes that box home.

You know there are some people, like Matthew and Mrs. Allen, that you can love right off without any trouble. And there are others, like Mrs. Lynde, that you have to try very hard to love. You know you ought to love them because they know so much and are such active workers in the church, but you have to keep reminding yourself of it all the time or else you forget.

I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make this work. I don’t want to lose what I live for; you and our son. I never thought it was possible to love two people as much as I do you two. I love you both so much it hurts. Please, don’t take away my reason for living.

So fucking beautiful," Sawyer whispered, his voice almost breaking, the desire evident in his tone. "Let me love you," he muttered in a husky voice, and his choice of words temporarily stunned me. I felt the weight of his penetrative stare, which conveyed how much he meant his words. Too soon.

One day about a month ago, I really hit bottom. You know, I just felt that in a Godless universe, I didn't want to go on living. Now I happen to own this rifle, which I loaded, believe it or not, and pressed it to my forehead. And I remember thinking, at the time, I'm gonna kill myself. Then I thought, what if I'm wrong? What if there is a God? I mean, after all, nobody really knows that. But then I thought, no, you know, maybe is not good enough. I want certainty or nothing. And I remember very clearly, the clock was ticking, and I was sitting there frozen with the gun to my head, debating whether to shoot. [The gun fires accidentally, shattering a mirror] All of a sudden, the gun went off. I had been so tense my finger had squeezed the trigger inadvertently. But I was perspiring so much the gun had slid off my forehead and missed me. And suddenly neighbors were, were pounding on the door, and, and I don't know, the whole scene was just pandemonium. And, uh, you know, I-I-I ran to the door, I-I didn't know what to say. You know, I was-I was embarrassed and confused and my-my-my mind was r-r-racing a mile a minute. And I-I just knew one thing. I-I-I had to get out of that house, I had to just get out in the fresh air and-and clear my head. And I remember very clearly, I walked the streets. I walked and I walked. I-I didn't know what was going through my mind. It all seemed so violent and un-unreal to me. And I wandered for a long time on the Upper West Side, you know, and-and it must have been hours. You know, my-my feet hurt, my head was-was pounding, and-and I had to sit down. I went into a movie house. I-I didn't know what was playing or anything. I just, I just needed a moment to gather my thoughts and, and be logical and put the world back into rational perspective. And I went upstairs to the balcony, and I sat down, and, you know, the movie was a-a-a film that I'd seen many times in my life since I was a kid, and-and I always, uh, loved it. And, you know, I'm-I'm watching these people up on the screen and I started getting hooked on the film, you know. And I started to feel, how can you even think of killing yourself. I mean isn't it so stupid? I mean, l-look at all the people up there on the screen. You know, they're real funny, and-and what if the worst is true. What if there's no God, and you only go around once and that's it. Well, you know, don't you want to be part of the experience? You know, what the hell, it's-it's not all a drag. And I'm thinkin' to myself, geez, I should stop ruining my life - searching for answers I'm never gonna get, and just enjoy it while it lasts. And, you know, after, who knows? I mean, you know, maybe there is something. Nobody really knows. I know, I know maybe is a very slim reed to hang your whole life on, but that's the best we have. And then, I started to sit back, and I actually began to enjoy myself.

Ask me what I want again,' I said softly, and she grinned, pressing her lips to my chest through my tee. 'What do you want?' 'Nothing. I'm done wanting things. I have everything I need now. Ask me how I feel.' 'How do you feel?' 'In love.' I brethed hard, burying my face in her hair. 'I feel in love, and it's you that I love. So fucking much.

People with trust issues also have faith and humility issues. You can't ask the world to rise to your expectations, yet not meet that same standard for others. The notion that God didn't hurt me, but you did becomes an illogical argument for many. People who are trying to love you feel that they can never meet your definition of love because it is one sided or has rules that don't apply to you, as well. This is when the teachings of Christ become distorted. Forgiveness, compassion, love, kindness and second chances becomes a game. People in your life feel they must win it to receive it, which is far from the unconditional love God gives us. In the end, the person with trust issues find themself on a journey of perfection seeking out people incapable of mistakes like the last person or hurting their self esteem. Sadly, they miss the blessings of growth that come through humbly accepting they are also flawed and make mistakes. They miss the blessings of faith because they don't invite God into their heart, so he can help them overcome their cycle of pain. They miss the peace that comes from forgiveness and being forgiven. But most of all, they miss out on the beautiful people God brings into their life who love them so much.

Tell me again how much you don’t want me, my star. I do so love the way you lie.

...it’s not so you can keep it to yourself. No matter what it is, no matter how much it may hurt you in the end,” she took a deep breath, “you must share it.

Real life isn’t like those comic books you love so much.

There are moments when your heart breaks an swells at the same time. When there is so much love flooding in and out of your soul that you wonder if the tide will whisk you along with it.

By this my Father is glorified, that you bear much fruit and so prove to be my disciples. As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love. These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full. —JOHN 15:8–11

I'm sorry l haven 't talked to you in so long. I feel l've been lost... no bearings, no compass. I kept crashing into things, a little crazy, I guess. l've never been lost before. You were my true north. l could always steer for home when you were my home. Forgive me for being so angry when you left. l still think some mistake's been made... and l'm waiting for God to take it back. But l'm doing better now. The work helps me. Most of all, you help me. You came into my dream last night with that smile that always held me like a lover... rocked me like a child. All l remember from the dream is a feeling of peace. l woke up with that feeling and tried to keep it alive as long as l could. l'm writing to tell you that l'm on a journey toward that peace. And to tell you l'm sorry about so many things. l'm sorry l didn't take better care of you so that you never spent one minute being cold or scared or sick. I'm sorry I didn't try harder to find the words to tell you what I was feeling. I'm sorry I never fixed the screen door. I fixed it now. I'm sorry I ever fought with you. I'm sorry I didn't apologize more. I was too proud. I'm sorry I didn't bring you more compliments on everything you wore and every way you fixed your hair. I'm sorry I didn't hold on to you with so much strength that even God couldn't pull you away. All my love.

Thank you so much for giving me your heart and your soul. It was the greatest gift a man could receive. But now, I have to give it back. My life is ending, but yours carries on. You can’t go through life without love, and you have too much of it to give. If love finds you again, don’t fight it. Don’t let grief hold you back. Love is a risk, there are no guarantees. But, in the end, it is always, always worth it.

Je t'aime tellement que je passerais l'éternité à essayer de te trouver, juste pour passer un moment avec toi." (I love you so much that I would spend eternity trying to find you, just to spend a while with you).

Hey, doll face…” “Haidyn?” I yank the phone from Kashton’s hands and look at the screen to see it’s a video. He’s sitting on my couch, dressed in nothing but a pair of jeans. The phone is propped up against something on the coffee table. I place my hand over my mouth to hold in my sob at the sight of him. This was last night…when I saw my phone on the coffee table when he stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in my living room. “This isn’t how I wanted to tell you goodbye. But in our life, we rarely get what we want.” A soft smile tugs at his lips. “You were my exception.” He bows his head, his right hand twirling his wedding ring around his finger as he looks at it. “I knew that you were too good for me the moment I first saw you. That I’d never live up to the man you’d deserve. So I let you go…but when you were placed back in my life, I couldn’t stop myself.” He looks back at the phone and gives a soft smile. Back in his life? “I’ve done a lot of unforgivable shit in my life, but the best thing I ever did was make you my wife. I wish I could have done it differently. You deserved so much more than what I gave you. I should have gotten down on one knee and begged you to spend the rest of your life with me. I should have told you how much you changed me. That you showed me what being alive truly felt like. I always felt like I was missing something…my life was boring. Same thing over and over. And then you walked into my life with that amazing smile and when I looked into your eyes—I saw a future that I never thought existed…not for a man like me, anyway.” A lump forms in my throat, and I blink to clear the tears from my eyes so I can see him on the screen. “I knew you’d never give a man like me the chance at forever. So I forced your hand. I had to have Adam help me.” I look up at Adam, and his green eyes are already on mine. Blinking the fresh tears away, I drop mine back to the phone. “Because I knew that’d be the only way I’d ever get you. And I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to be your husband.” He looks away from the camera as if he can’t look at me, and my chest tightens. How dare he leave me this memory? Why break my heart twice? When I found him in the living room and asked if he regretted marrying me…he had just left me this video. He knew then exactly what he was going to do. His blue eyes come back to the screen, meeting mine once again. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the forever you deserved, doll face. But I promise I gave you all I had left to offer.” The knot grows in my throat, and I can’t hold back the sob anymore as I remember what he said when I told him I chose to be with him forever. To some, forever is only a matter of seconds. “Please know that I loved you more than anything in this world…and when I walk out this door, I’m leaving a piece of myself behind with you because nothing short of forever would have been enough." He smiles, and I try to catch my breath. "You'll be safe at Carnage and my brothers will protect you." He leans forward and picks up the phone before speaking. "I love you, Charlotte.

Just admit your pussy is weeping for my cock.” “Sure,” she says, pushing her round ass back against my straining dick. “Just as soon as you admit your cock is dying to get inside my pussy.” Son of a bitch. As much as I want to make her come, proving the command I have over her body, I can’t reward her bratty behavior. That’s okay, though. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s playing the long game. “So stubborn,” I say in admonishment. Pulling out of her, I finger-paint a path down the side of her neck with her own arousal, then lap it up with my tongue—fuck, she tastes good—nice and slow, ending with a nip to her earlobe. Her sharp inhale makes my dick twitch before she spins around to face me.

You guys could handle this on your own. Why risk getting kicked out of your He-Man-Monster-Haters Club?" "Because we can't handle this on our own. At least I don't think we can." "You said yourself you already have some Prodigium working with you. Why not go to them?" "We have a handful," he said, frustration creeping into his voice. "And most of them suck. Look, just consider it a peace offering, okay? My way of saying I'm sorry for lying to you. And pulling a knife in your presence, even if it was just to open a damn window to get out before you vaporized me." Most girls got flowers. I got a dirt put used for demon raising. Nice. "Thanks," I replied. "But don't you want in on this?" He looked at me, and not for the first time, I wished his eyes weren't so dark. It would have been nice to have some idea of what was going on in his head. "That's up to you," he said. Mom always liked to say that we hardly ever know the decisions we make that change our lives,mostly because they're little ones. You take this bus instead of that one and end up meeting your soul mate, that kind of thing. But there was no doubt in my mind that this was one of those life-changing moments. Tell Archer no,and I'd never see him again. And Dad and Jenna wouldn't be mad at me, and Cal...Tell Archer yes, and everything suddenly got twistier and more complicated than Mrs. Casnoff's hairdo. And even though I'm a twisty and complicated girl, I knew what my answer had to be. "It's too much of a risk, Cross. Maybe one day when I'm head of the Council, and you're...well, whatever you're going to be for L'Occhio di Dio, we could work on some kind of collaboration." That brought up depressig images of me and Archer sittig across a boardroom table, sketching out battle plans on a whiteboard, so my voice was a little shaky when I continued. "But for now, it's too dangerous." And not just because basically everyone in our lives would want to kill us if they found out, I thought. But because I was pretty sure I was still in love with him, and I thought he might feel something similar for me, and there was no way we could work together preventing the Monster Apocalypse/World War III without that becoming an issue. Not that I could say any of that. Archer's face was blank as he said, "Cool. Got it." "Cross," I started to say, but then his eyes slid past me and went wide with horror. At the same time, I became aware of a slithering noice behind me. That just could not be good; in my experience, nothing pleasant slithers. Still, I was not prepared for the nightmares climbing out of the crater.

the world can fascinate us so much as being near to God.… You cannot buy or wear or sell except that which is pleasing to the Lord. Jesus becomes Lord over your wants and desires. You love that which God loves and hate that which God hates…. If you can be fascinated

One afternoon in the fall of 2015, while I was writing this book, I was driving in my car and listening to SiriusXM Radio. On the folk music station the Coffee House, a song came on with a verse that directly spoke to me—so much so that I pulled off the road as soon as I could and wrote down the lyrics and the singer’s name. The song was called “The Eye,” and it’s written by the country-folk singer Brandi Carlile and her bandmate Tim Hanseroth and sung by Carlile. I wish it could play every time you open these pages, like a Hallmark birthday card, because it’s become the theme song of this book. The main refrain is: I wrapped your love around me like a chain But I never was afraid that it would die You can dance in a hurricane But only if you’re standing in the eye. I hope that it is clear by now that every day going forward we’re going to be asked to dance in a hurricane, set off by the accelerations in the Market, Mother Nature, and Moore’s law. Some politicians propose to build a wall against this hurricane. That is a fool’s errand. There is only one way to thrive now, and it’s by finding and creating your own eye. The eye of a hurricane moves, along with the storm. It draws energy from it, while creating a sanctuary of stability inside it. It is both dynamic and stable—and so must we be. We can’t escape these accelerations. We have to dive into them, take advantage of their energy and flows where possible, move with them, use them to learn faster, design smarter, and collaborate deeper—all so we can build our own eyes to anchor and propel ourselves and our families confidently forward.

It is difficult for me to wag my finger at you from so very far away, particularly as my heart aches for you but really, darling, you must pack up this nonsensical situation once and for all. It is really beneath your dignity, not your dignity as a famous artist and a glamorous star, but your dignity as a human, only too human being. Curly [the shaven-headed Brynner] is attractive, beguiling, tender and fascinating, but he is not the only man in the world who merits those delightful adjectives?… do please try to work out for yourself a little personal philosophy and DO NOT, repeat DO NOT be so bloody vulnerable. To hell with God damned ‘L’Amour.’ It always causes far more trouble than it is worth. Don’t run after it. Don’t court it. Keep it waiting off stage until you’re good and ready for it and even then treat it with the suspicious disdain that it deserves … I am sick to death of you waiting about in empty houses and apartments with your ears strained for the telephone to ring. Snap out of it, girl! A very brilliant writer once said (Could it have been me?) ‘Life is for the living.’? Well, that is all it is for… …Unpack your sense of humour, and get on with living and ENJOY IT. Incidentally, there is one fairly strong-minded type who will never let you down and who loves you very much indeed. Just try to guess who it is. XXXX.

He’s brought a sleeping bag, one of those big green bulky L.L. Bean ones. I look at it questioningly. Following my gaze, he turns red. “I told my parents I was going to help you study, then we might watch a movie, and if it got late enough, I’d crash on your living room floor.” “And they said?” “Mom said, ‘Have a nice time, dear.’ Dad just looked at me.” “Embarrassing much?” “Worth it.” He walks slowly over, his eyes locked on mine, then puts his hands around my waist. “Um. So . . . are we going to study?” My tone’s deliberately casual. Jase slides his thumbs behind my ears, rubbing the hollow at their base. He’s only inches from my face, still looking into my eyes. “You bet. I’m studying you.” He scans over me, slowly, then returns to my eyes. “You have little flecks of gold in the middle of the blue.” He bends forward and touches his lips to one eyelid, then the other, then moves back. “And your eyelashes aren’t blond at all, they’re brown. And . . .” He steps back a little, smiling slowly at me. “You’re already blushing—here”—his lips touch the pulse at the hollow of my throat—“and probably here . . .” The thumb that brushes against my breast feels warm even through my T-shirt. In the movies, clothes just melt away when the couple is ready to make love. They’re all golden and backlit with the soundtrack soaring. In real life, it just isn’t like that. Jase has to take off his shirt and fumbles with his belt buckle and I hop around the room pulling off my socks, wondering just how unsexy that is. People in movies don’t even have socks. When Jase pulls off his jeans, change he has in his pocket slips out and clatters and rolls across the floor. “Sorry!” he says, and we both freeze, even though no one’s home to hear the sound. In movies, no one ever gets self-conscious at this point, thinking they should have brushed their teeth. In movies, it’s all beautifully choreographed, set to an increasingly dramatic soundtrack. In movies, when the boy pulls the girl to him when they are both finally undressed, they never bump their teeth together and get embarrassed and have to laugh and try again. But here’s the truth: In movies, it’s never half so lovely as it is here and now with Jase.

Jesus Christ is not a cosmic errand boy. I mean no disrespect or irreverence in so saying, but I do intend to convey the idea that while he loves us deeply and dearly, Christ the Lord is not perched on the edge of heaven, anxiously anticipating our next wish. When we speak of God being good to us, we generally mean that he is kind to us. In the words of the inimitable C. S. Lewis, "What would really satisfy us would be a god who said of anything we happened to like doing, 'What does it matter so long as they are contented?' We want, in fact, not so much a father in heaven as a grandfather in heaven--a senile benevolence who as they say, 'liked to see young people enjoying themselves,' and whose plan for the universe was simply that it might be truly said at the end of each day, 'a good time was had by all.'" You know and I know that our Lord is much, much more than that. One writer observed: "When we so emphasize Christ's benefits that he becomes nothing more than what his significance is 'for me' we are in danger. . . . Evangelism that says 'come on, it's good for you'; discipleship that concentrates on the benefits package; sermons that 'use' Jesus as the means to a better life or marriage or job or attitude--these all turn Jesus into an expression of that nice god who always meets my spiritual needs. And this is why I am increasingly hesitant to speak of Jesus as my personal Lord and Savior. As Ken Woodward put it in a 1994 essay, 'Now I think we all need to be converted--over and over again, but having a personal Savior has always struck me as, well, elitist, like having a personal tailor. I'm satisfied to have the same Lord and Savior as everyone else.' Jesus is not a personal Savior who only seeks to meet my needs. He is the risen, crucified Lord of all creation who seeks to guide me back into the truth." . . . His infinity does not preclude either his immediacy or his intimacy. One man stated that "I want neither a terrorist spirituality that keeps me in a perpetual state of fright about being in right relationship with my heavenly Father nor a sappy spirituality that portrays God as such a benign teddy bear that there is no aberrant behavior or desire of mine that he will not condone." . . . Christ is not "my buddy." There is a natural tendency, and it is a dangerous one, to seek to bring Jesus down to our level in an effort to draw closer to him. This is a problem among people both in and outside the LDS faith. Of course we should seek with all our hearts to draw near to him. Of course we should strive to set aside all barriers that would prevent us from closer fellowship with him. And of course we should pray and labor and serve in an effort to close the gap between what we are and what we should be. But drawing close to the Lord is serious business; we nudge our way into intimacy at the peril of our souls. . . . Another gospel irony is that the way to get close to the Lord is not by attempting in any way to shrink the distance between us, to emphasize more of his humanity than his divinity, or to speak to him or of him in casual, colloquial language. . . . Those who have come to know the Lord best--the prophets or covenant spokesmen--are also those who speak of him in reverent tones, who, like Isaiah, find themselves crying out, "Woe is me! for I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips: for mine eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts" (Isaiah 6:5). Coming into the presence of the Almighty is no light thing; we feel to respond soberly to God's command to Moses: "Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground" (Exodus 3:5). Elder Bruce R. McConkie explained, "Those who truly love the Lord and who worship the Father in the name of the Son by the power of the Spirit, according to the approved patterns, maintain a reverential barrier between themselves and all the members of the Godhead.

A week ago,” I say, “I liked you so much I would have wanted to try to make this work.” I swallow a jagged, fist-sized lump, but still my voice has to scrape by to get out. “But now I think I might love you too much for that.” I’m surprised to hear myself say it. Not because I was unaware of how I felt—but because I’ve never been the first person to say the L-word. Not even with Jakob. “You don’t have to say anything,” I hurry to add. His jaw flexes against my temple. “Of course I love you, Nora. If I loved you any less, I’d be trying to convince you that you could be happy here. You have no idea how badly I wish I could be enough.

There are three ways you can live life—three again—remember that the great writers almost always do things in threes. You can live life as though it’s all a cosmic accident; we’re nothing but an irritating skin disease on the face of the earth. Maybe you can live your life as though everything’s a bad joke. I can’t.” They couldn’t, either, though for some of the kids who sat around the table that day not much had happened to make them think that life is anything else. “Or you can go out at night and look at the stars and think, yes, they were created by a prime mover, and so were you, but he’s aloof perfection, impassible, indifferent to his creation. He doesn’t care, or, if he cares, he only cares about the ultimate end of his creation, and so what happens to any part of it on the way is really a matter of indifference. You don’t matter to him, I don’t matter to him, except possibly as a means to an end. I can’t live that way, either.” Again there was general agreement. “Then there’s a third way: to live as though you believe that the power behind the universe is a power of love, a personal power of love, a love so great that all of us really do matter to him. He loves us so much that every single one of our lives has meaning; he really does know about the fall of every sparrow, and the hairs of our head are really counted. That’s the only way I can live.

It's an old story," Julia says, leaning back in her chair. "Only for me, it's new. I went to school for industrial design. All my life I've been fascinated by chairs - I know it sounds silly, but it's true. Form meets purpose in a chair. My parents thought I was crazy, but somehow I convinced them to pay my way to California. To study furniture design. I was all excited at first. It was totally unlike me to go so far away from home. But I was sick of the cold and sick of the snow. I figured a little sun might change my life. So I headed down to L.A. and roomed with a friend of an ex-girlfriend of my brother's. She was an aspiring radio actress, which meant she was home a lot. At first, I loved it. I didn't even let the summer go by. I dove right into my classes. Soon enough, I learned I couldn't just focus on chairs. I had to design spoons and toilet-bowl cleaners and thermostats. The math never bothered me, but the professors did. They could demolish you in a second without giving you a clue if how to rebuild. I spent more and more time in the studio, with other crazed students who guarded their projects like toy-jealous kids. I started to go for walks. Long walks. I couldn't go home because my roommate was always there. The sun was too much for me, so I'd stay indoors. I spent hours in supermarkets, walking aisle to aisle, picking up groceries and then putting them back. I went to bowling alleys and pharmacies. I rode buses that kept their lights on all night. I sat in Laundromats because once upon a time Laundromats made me happy. But now the hum of the machines sounded like life going past. Finally, one night I sat too long in the laundry. The woman who folded in the back - Alma - walked over to me and said, 'What are you doing here, girl?' And I knew that there wasn't any answer. There couldn't be any answer. And that's when I knew it was time to go.

But now I speculate re the ants' invisible organ of aggregate thought... if, in a city park of broad reaches, winding paths, roadways, and lakes, you can imagine seeing on a warm and sunny Sunday afternoon the random and unpredictable movement of great numbers of human beings in the same way... if you watch one person, one couple, one family, a child, you can assure yourself of the integrity of the individual will and not be able to divine what the next moment will bring. But when the masses are celebrating a beautiful day in the park in a prescribed circulation of activities, the wider lens of thought reveals nothing errant, nothing inconstant or unnatural to the occasion. And if someone acts in a mutant un-park manner, alarms go off, the unpredictable element, a purse snatcher, a gun wielder, is isolated, surrounded, ejected, carried off as waste. So that while we are individually and privately dyssynchronous, moving in different ways, for different purposes, in different directions, we may at the same time comprise, however blindly, the pulsing communicating cells of an urban over-brain. The intent of this organ is to enjoy an afternoon in the park, as each of us street-grimy urbanites loves to do. In the backs of our minds when we gather for such days, do we know this? How much of our desire to use the park depends on the desires of others to do the same? How much of the idea of a park is in the genetic invitation on nice days to reflect our massive neuromorphology? There is no central control mechanism telling us when and how to use the park. That is up to us. But when we do, our behavior there is reflective, we can see more of who we are because of the open space accorded to us, and it is possible that it takes such open space to realize in simple form the ordinary identity we have as one multicellular culture of thought that is always there, even when, in the comparative blindness of our personal selfhood, we are flowing through the streets at night or riding under them, simultaneously, as synaptic impulses in the metropolitan brain. Is this a stretch? But think of the contingent human mind, how fast it snaps onto the given subject, how easily it is introduced to an idea, an image that it had not dreamt of thinking of a millisecond before... Think of how the first line of a story yokes the mind into a place, a time, in the time it takes to read it. How you can turn on the radio and suddenly be in the news, and hear it and know it as your own mind's possession in the moment's firing of a neuron. How when you hear a familiar song your mind adopts its attitudinal response to life before the end of the first bar. How the opening credits of a movie provide the parameters of your emotional life for its ensuing two hours... How all experience is instantaneous and instantaneously felt, in the nature of ordinary mind-filling revelation. The permeable mind, contingently disposed for invasion, can be totally overrun and occupied by all the characteristics of the world, by everything that is the case, and by the thoughts and propositions of all other minds considering everything that is the case... as instantly and involuntarily as the eye fills with the objects that pass into its line of vision.

I try to explain. “Every time I’m af-af-afraid of something—” I hiccup “—you just t-take it away.” “Sweetheart, what were you afraid of?” “That I l-love you. That I f-feel so much for you in such a short time and I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to. I don’t know what would have happened to me if I hadn’t met you. I honestly don’t.” I sniffle and look down at the soggy tissue in my hands. “I’m not explaining myself very well.

Red rolls on the sand until her shoulder bumps into mine. She is laughing hysterically, and even though I keep a stoic face, I’m anything but. God, I fucking love this girl. “So…” She nuzzles into the crook of my neck, her arms flung over me. “Are you taking me to that fancy restaurant you booked for us last time we were in Miami?” “Hell no,” I snort. “That was before I realized you’re a McMeal kind of girl. I can treat you to a hot, sexy dinner date at Wendy’s if you’re up for it.” “Make it IHOP and you’re on. They have pancakes and hot chocolate.” “Classy girl. And I bet you’ll still put out afterwards.” “Damn right I will. I’m only using you for your body, Mr. Brennan.” “And for the cash. Don’t forget the cash.” “Nah, I make my own money, thank you very much.” She plants a kiss on my jaw, and I beam like an idiot, because she’s right.

I don’t know. I don’t know, Jess,” he said as a sob shuddered through him. “Because I am a damned fool. Fuck! I have everything I want right in front of me, I love you so damned much I can’t think straight, and then it’s like…I don’t know, like I’m so afraid of losing you, that I keep pushing you away so maybe I’ll stop caring as much and then it won’t hurt as bad if I do lose you. It’s so fucking twisted even I don’t understand it.

Huh,” I sighed into his mouth, “La petite mort.” He tore his lips from mine, frowning at me. “Say what, now?” “La petite mort,” I repeated. “A brief unconsciousness. A little death, in French. That’s what they call that beat after an orgasm, sometimes.” My French governess had told me that. Sam’s eyes twinkled with so much delight, my chest flared with pride. His smiles were like human handprints. Each one was just different enough to be completely unique. “You, Aisling Fitzpatrick, are a lovely torture.

read slowly, moving his lips over the words. “Everything is only for a day, both that which remembers and that which is remembered. “Observe constantly that all things take place by change, and accustom thyself to consider that the nature of the universe loves nothing so much as to change things which are and to make new things like them. For everything that exists is in a manner the seed of that which will be.” Lee glanced down the page. “Thou wilt die soon and thou are not yet simple nor free from perturbations, nor without suspicion of being hurt by external things, nor kindly disposed towards all; nor dost thou yet place wisdom only in acting justly.” Lee looked up from the page, and he answered the book as he would answer one of his ancient relatives. “That is true,” he said. “It’s very hard. I’m sorry. But don’t forget that you also say, ‘Always run the short way and the short way is the natural’—don’t forget that.” He let the pages slip past his fingers to the fly leaf where was written with a broad carpenter’s pencil, “Sam’l Hamilton.

No, Little Nightmare. In all the many years before you first terrified me, I never ... married." He raised an eyebrow as if to suggest more by the word. "That kind of knowledge of a person has its own kind of power. I have never felt so overcome that I have desired another person to know what makes me gasp with delight or sigh with pleasure. Knowledge is power. And I have kept that power to myself." He looked up at the stars before continuing. "It's so much harder to be cruel when you're in love. And so much easier to be betrayed.

Today.” Cas reached between us, curling his fingers under my chin. He brought my gaze to his. “It turned midnight just as I arrived. April 20th. Your birthday.” (...) Cas smiled. Just one dimple was visible, and that surprise gave way to a sweet rise of love, so much love that it almost hurt for my heart to be so full of it. “You remembered,” I whispered. “Apparently, someone had to,” he teased, sweeping his thumb over my cheek. His eyes fixed on mine. “And I would never forget, Poppy. I will be with you for each and every birthday.

Teach me.” The words escape me without thought, and I lift my pleading eyes to meet her puzzled expression . “I don’t know how to do this, Spence. How to love like you do. To live like you do.” I pause briefly, trying to figure a way to explain so she will understand. “Emotions such as trust and compassion, feelings of patience and empathy – those gifts that come so naturally for you – I’ve never been able to understand, much less exercise. I need you to teach me because I want to be able to give you everything you deserve. And you deserve someone as flawless as you.

Father reaches out to touch my scarf. “Your mother’s scarf,” he says softly. “She loved this so very much, you know. I remember her creative streak, how she refused to use the strong dye colours that we usually use for silk design. Instead, she preferred a shade of white, which would not sell as successfully in trade. She loved this scarf, the way it sat humbly around her neck and gave her senses of comfort and peace as she held you tight. You would often beg to wear it, Aisha.” I stroke the scarf subconsciously. A memory flashes in my mind of my mother’s shaking hands as she shaped spun silk into this beautiful scarf. My gentle mother, who coughed violently and shook, plagued she was with an illness that had deteriorated her immensely. I spent every moment I could with her, my heart knowing that each might be my last. “Beautiful Aisha, wear this scarf with your love,” said my mother one morning as she tied it around my neck. I stared at her, my lips wobbling as tears rolled down my cheeks. “I’ll wear it, always loving you, Mother,” I replied. My mother nodded, her eyes also filling with tears as she realised that I understood how little time we had left together.

And I will be your friend to the very end, but I want to wait for Prince Charming.” I smile hopefully. “He’s coming for me, I know it.” He stares at me. “How will you know? How will you know when you’ve met him?” I already know. “Because he won’t have to try to not sleep with anyone else . . . he will love me so much that the thought of sleeping with another would turn his stomach. Because that’s what love is. Putting another person above all else. Giving yourself over to them completely. Trusting your heart with the woman you love.” I see the confusion rolling around in his eyes. He can’t even comprehend what I’m explaining.

Jesus fucking Christ, Maverick! I know everything and I still don't care. That's how much I love you. That's how wound around the very fucking center of my soul you are. It's the same place you'll be until I close my eyes and take my last breath. You are rooted here"-he pounds his chest-"in the bowels of me so far I will never be rid of you. No matter how much I've tried. No matter how much I wanted to while I knew you were with him." His voice cracks. He stops. Pants. Pins me with a look that devastates me but not more than his confession or the tears I now see gleaming. "While he was the sun that lit your world, you were the darkness that shadowed mine.

I can’t believe you’re in the gym again,” Tink went on, stepping aside. “Why are you in here running so much? Are you preparing for the impending zombie apocalypse that I know nothing about? Because if you are, we need to find the nearest redneck to become best friends with, one that is hot in a dirty, rugged way. You know, the kind that probably smells like sweat and man, one with a complex background that makes you hate him at first, but slowly, over time, you grow to love him.” I stared at him. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.” “I have. I like to be prepared. Since we’re in the south, it shouldn’t be hard to find one. So, why are you in the gym so much?

Grateful! Good God! Am I never to get away from the bleat of that filmy adjective? I don’t want gratitude. I don’t want kindness. I don’t want sentimentality. I don’t even want love—I could make you give me that—of a sort. I want common honesty.’ ‘Do you? But that’s what I’ve always wanted—I don’t think it’s to be got.’ ‘Listen, Harriet. I do understand. I know you don’t want either to give or to take. You’ve tried being the giver, and you’ve found that the giver is always fooled. And you won’t be the taker, because that’s very difficult, and because you know that the taker always ends by hating the giver. You don’t want ever again to have to depend for happiness on another person.’ ‘That’s true. That’s the truest thing you ever said.’ ‘All right. I can respect that. Only you’ve got to play the game. Don’t force an emotional situation and then blame me for it.’ ‘But I don’t want any situation. I want to be left in peace.’ ‘Oh! but you are not a peaceful person. You’ll always make trouble. Why not fight it out on equal terms and enjoy it? Like Alan Breck, I’m a bonny fighter.’ ‘And you think you’re sure to win.’ ‘Not with my hands tied.’ ‘Oh!—well, all right. But it all sounds so dreary and exhausting,’ said Harriet, and burst idiotically into tears. ‘Good Heavens!’ said Wimsey, aghast. ‘Harriet! darling! angel! beast! vixen! don’t say that.’ He flung himself on his knees in a frenzy of remorse and agitation. ‘Call me anything you like, but not dreary! Not one of those things you find in clubs! Have this one, darling, it’s much larger and quite clean. Say you didn’t mean it! Great Scott! Have I been boring you interminably for eighteen months on end? A thing any right-minded woman would shudder at I know you once said that if anybody ever married me it would be for the sake of hearing me piffle on, but I expect that kind of thing palls after a bit. I’m babbling—I know I’m babbling. What on earth am I to do about it?’ ‘Ass! Oh, it’s not fair. You always make me laugh. I can’t fight—I’m so tired. You don’t seem to know what being tired is. Stop. Let go. I won’t be bullied. Thank God! there’s the telephone.

he knows deep down that he is nothing of what he claims to be. He knows he has never been loved. So he must draw you in if he can by getting you to assent to even the most seemingly insignificant thing: “Isn’t this plane great?” “Yes, Donald, this plane is great.” It would be rude to begrudge him that small concession. Then he makes his vulnerabilities and insecurities your responsibility: you must assuage them, you must take care of him. Failing to do so leaves a vacuum that is unbearable for him to withstand for long. If you’re someone who cares about his approval, you’ll say anything to retain it. He has suffered mightily, and if you aren’t doing all you can to alleviate that suffering, you should suffer, too.

Who’s Josie?” Alex asked, confused. “Uh . . .” I looked over at Deacon. “You want to do the honors? I know how much you love awkward conversations.” A wide smile broke out across his face. “Of course, especially when I’m not the center of the awkwardness.” Luke snorted. “So!” Deacon clapped his hands together as he faced Alex and Aiden. “Did you guys happen to notice a certain girl out on the quad when you did your magic doorway thing?” Aiden glanced at Alex. She raised a shoulder. “There were a lot of people out there that I hadn’t seen before.” She paused. “I noticed Boobs, though.” I slowly shook my head. “Um, that’s not who I’m talking about. Anyway,” Deacon said, his gray eyes light. “She’s pretty tall. Well, taller than you and everyone is practically taller than you, Alex. Has long blondish-brown hair. Kind of weird hair.” “Awesome hair,” Luke added. Alexander frowned silently. “She does. It’s like an array of colors. One moment it looks completely blonde. The next it’s long brown and then it changes again. It’s very cool,” Deacon continued, and I had to agree with him on that. “And when you see her, you’re going to think, wow, this girl looks familiar. You won’t be able to put a finger on it at first, but it’s going to nag at you and then, when it hits you, you’ll—” “Deacon,” Aiden warned. “Who is Josie?” His brother pouted for a second and then sighed. “Fine. She’s a demigod. Like, a born demigod. Powers unlocked and all, and she’s super-cool and really nice.” His gaze slid over to where I stood and his expression turned sly. “Isn’t that right, Seth?” I eyed him. “Right.” “You’re forgetting the best part.” Solos walked past the couch, sending me a long look. “Which god she came from.” Aiden seemed to get what wasn’t being said first. His eyes closed as he rubbed his fingers along his brow. “Gods.” “What?” Alex looked at him and then at me. “Whose kid is she?” “Apollo’s,” Deacon answered, his smile going up a notch when Alex’s gaze flew to him. “Yep. Josie is Apollo’s daughter.” Her mouth dropped open. “And that kind of makes you and her cousins? I guess?” Luke frowned. “I don’t know what exactly, but it does make you two related. Somehow. I don’t know how, but she does have some of your mannerisms. It gets really weird sometimes.

Yes, it’s red,” she said resignedly. “Now you see why I can’t be perfectly happy. Nobody could who had red hair. I don’t mind the other things so much—the freckles and the green eyes and my skinniness. I can imagine them away. I can imagine that I have a beautiful rose leaf complexion and lovely starry violet eyes. But I cannot imagine that red hair away. I do my best. I think to myself, ‘Now my hair is a glorious black, black as the raven’s wing.’ But all the time I know it is just plain red, and it breaks my heart. It will be my lifelong sorrow. I read of a girl once in a novel who had a lifelong sorrow, but it wasn’t red hair. Her hair was pure gold rippling back from her alabaster brow. What is an alabaster brow? I never could find out. Can you tell me?

Donald is not simply weak, his ego is a fragile thing that must be bolstered every moment because he knows deep down that he is nothing of what he claims to be. He knows he has never been loved. So he must draw you in if he can by getting you to assent to even the most seemingly insignificant thing: “Isn’t this plane great?” “Yes, Donald, this plane is great.” It would be rude to begrudge him that small concession. Then he makes his vulnerabilities and insecurities your responsibility: you must assuage them, you must take care of him. Failing to do so leaves a vacuum that is unbearable for him to withstand for long. If you’re someone who cares about his approval, you’ll say anything to retain it. He has suffered mightily, and if you aren’t doing all you can to alleviate that suffering, you should suffer, too.

My name is Claudine, I live in Montigny; I was born there in 1884; I shall probably not die there. My Manual of Departmental Geography expresses itself thus: "Montigny-en-Fresnois, a pretty little town of l, 950 inhabitants, built in tiers above the Thaize; its well-preserved Saracen tower is worthy of note .... "Tome, those descriptions are totally meaningless! To begin with, the Thaize doesn't exist. Of course I know it's supposed to run through the meadows under the level-crossing but you won't find enough water there in any season to give a sparrow a foot-bath. Montigny "built in tiers"? No, that's not how I see it; to my mind, the houses just tumble haphazard from the top of the hill to the bottom of the valley. They rise one above the other, like a staircase, leading up to a big chateau that was rebuilt under Louis XV and is already more dilapidated than the squat, ivy-sheathed Saracen tower that crumbles away from the top a trifle more every day. Montigny is a village, not a town: its streets, thank heaven, are not paved; the showers roll down them in little torrents that dry up in a couple of hours; it is a village, not even a very pretty village, but, all the same, I adore it. The charm, the delight of this countryside composed of hills and of valleys so narrow that some are ravines, lies in the woods-the deep, encroaching woods that ripple and wave away into the distance as far as you can see .... Green meadows make rifts in them here and there, so do little patches of cultivation. But these do not amount to much, for the magnificent woods devour everything. As a result, this lovely region is atrociously poor and its few scattered farms provide just the requisite number of red roofs to set off the velvety green of the woods. Dear woods! I know them all; I've scoured them so often. (...)

What Jesus teaches in regard to violence is so radical that it almost doesn’t even make sense. When we serve an Americanized version of Jesus, we tend to subconsciously imagine that Jesus would have said something to the effect of, “Don’t use violence unless you really and truly fear that your life may be in danger.” However, that isn’t what he taught—Jesus repeatedly taught that those who actually “follow” him must adopt a position of nonviolent love of enemies. This new ethic of nonviolence was not what people were expecting; the Mosaic Law had established principles that justified retributive violence (much like in our own culture), condoning tit-for-tat responses to injustices. Jesus insists, however, that the Kingdom he came to establish was going to operate by different principles from anything they had experienced previously, and that the use of previously justified violence had no place in this new movement God was starting.

I’m listening now, Kelly,” he forced out. “Tell me what happened. I’ll believe you. I swear.” But he knew. He already knew. So much of that day was replaying over and over in his head and suddenly he was able to see so clearly what he’d refused to see before. And it was killing him. His brother had lied to him after all. Not just lied but he’d carefully orchestrated the truth and twisted it so cleverly that Ryan had been completely deceived. Then she turned, her beautiful eyes haunted, defeated. “It doesn’t matter if you believe me anymore,” she whispered. “You wouldn’t believe me when it mattered. He tried to rape me. He assaulted me. He touched me. He hurt me. And when I fought him off and told him that I would tell you what he’d done, he told me he’d make sure you never believed a word of any of it. “And you know what the funny thing is? I told him he was wrong. I told him that you l-loved me and that you would make him pay for hurting me.” She broke off as another sob racked her. Oh God. Oh God. What had he done?

Part 3 Anna: St. Clair… Etienne: And that. Why don’t you call me Etienne any more? Anna: But … no one else calls you that. It was weird. Right? Etienne: No. It wasn’t And every time you say St. Clair, it’s like you’re rejecting me again. Anna: I have never rejected you. Etienne: But you have. And for Dave. Anna: And you rejected me for Ellie on my birhtday. I don’t understand. If you liked me so much, why didn’t you break up with her? Etienne: I’ve been confused. I’ve been so stupid. Anna: Yes. You have. Etienne: I deserve that. Anna: Yes. You do. But I’ve been stupid, too. You were right. About … the alone thing. Etienne: I’ve been thinking lately. About my mum and dad. How she gives in to him. How she won’t leave him. And as much as I love her, I hate her for it. I don’t understand why she won’t stand up for herself, why she won’t go for what she wants. But I’ve been doing t he same thing. I’m just like her. Anna: You aren’t like your mom. Etienne: I am. But I don’t want to be like that any more, I want what I want. I told my father’s friends that I’m studying at Berkeley next year. It worked. He’s really, really angry with me, but it worked. You told me to go for his pride. You were right. Anna: So.You’re moving to California? Etienne: I have to. Anna: Right. Because of your mom. Etienne: Because of you. I’ll only be a twenty-minute train ride from your school, and I’ll make the commute to see you every night. I’d take a commute ten times that just tob e with you every night. You’re the most incredible girl I’ve ever known. You’re gorgeous and smart, and you make me laugh lilke no one else can. And I can talk to you. And I know after all this I don’t deserve you, but what I’m trying to say ist hat I love you, Anna. Very much.Oh God, And I’ve mucked things up again, haven’t I? I didn’t mean to attack you like this. I mean I did but … all right. I’ll leave. Or you can go down first, and then I’l come down, and I promise I’ll never bother you again… Anna: No. Etienne: I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Anna: Please stopl apologizing, Etienne. Etienne: Say my name again Anna: Etienne. Etienne: Anna? Anna: Yes? Etienne: Will you please tell me you love me? I’m dying here.

The incredible specified complexity of life becomes obvious when one considers the message found in the DNA of a one-celled amoeba (a creature so small, several hundred could be lined up in an inch). Staunch Darwinist Richard Dawkins, professor of zoology at Oxford University, admits that the message found in just the cell nucleus of a tiny amoeba is more than all thirty volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica combined, and the entire amoeba has as much information in its DNA as 1,000 complete sets of the Encyclopedia Britannica!2 In other words, if you were to spell out all of the A, T, C, and G in the unjustly called primitive amoeba (as Dawkins describes it), the letters would fill 1,000 complete sets of an encyclopedia! Now, we must emphasize that these 1,000 encyclopedias do not consist of random letters but of letters in a very specific orderjust like real encyclopedias. So heres the key question for Darwinists like Dawkins: if simple messages such as Take out the garbageMom, Mary loves Scott, and Drink Coke require an intelligent being, then why doesnt a message 1,000 encyclopedias long require one?

This Sarah Perez had the most beautiful eyes in the world, those green eyes spangled with gold that you love so much: the eyes of Antinous. In Rome, such eyes would have made her a concubine of Adrian; in Madrid they helped her become the princess of Eboli ensconced in the bed of the king. But Philip II was extremely jealous of those wonderful emerald eyes and their delicate transparency, and the princess - who was bored with the funereal palace and the even more funereal society of the king - had the fancy and the misfortune to cast her admirable gaze upon the Marquis de Posa while she was leaving church one day. It was on the threshold of the chapel, and the princess believed herself to be alone with her camarera mayor, but the vigilance of the clergy was equal to the challenge. She was betrayed, and that very evening, in the intimacy of their bedroom, in the course of some violent argument or tempestuous tussle, Philip threw his mistress to the floor. Blind with rage he leapt upon her, tore out her eye and devoured it in a single gulp. 'Thus was the princess covered in blood - a good title for a conte cruel, that, which Villiers de l'Isle Adam has somehow omitted to write! The princess was henceforth one-eyed: the royal pet had a gaping hole in her face. Philip II, who had the Jewess in his blood, could not cleave so closely to a princess who had only one eye. He made amends to her with some new titles and estates in the provinces and - regretful of the beautiful green eye that he had spoiled - he caused to be inserted into the empty and bloody orbit a superb emerald enshrined in silver, upon which surgeons then inscribed the semblance of a gaze. Oculists have made progress since then; the Princess of Eboli, already hurt by the ruination of her eye, died some little time afterwards, of the effects of the operation. The ways of love and surgery were equally barbarous in the time of Philip II! 'Philip, the inconsolable lover, gave the order to remove the emerald from the face of the dead princess before she was laid in the tomb, and had it mounted in a ring. He wore it about his finger, and would never take it off, even when he went to sleep - and when he died in his turn, he had the ring bearing the green tear clasped in his right hand.

Donald’s need for affirmation is so great that he doesn’t seem to notice that the largest group of his supporters are people he wouldn’t condescend to be seen with outside of a rally. His deep-seated insecurities have created in him a black hole of need that constantly requires the light of compliments that disappears as soon as he’s soaked it in. Nothing is ever enough. This is far beyond garden-variety narcissism; Donald is not simply weak, his ego is a fragile thing that must be bolstered every moment because he knows deep down that he is nothing of what he claims to be. He knows he has never been loved. So he must draw you in if he can by getting you to assent to even the most seemingly insignificant thing: “Isn’t this plane great?” “Yes, Donald, this plane is great.” It would be rude to begrudge him that small concession. Then he makes his vulnerabilities and insecurities your responsibility: you must assuage them, you must take care of him. Failing to do so leaves a vacuum that is unbearable for him to withstand for long. If you’re someone who cares about his approval, you’ll say anything to retain it. He has suffered mightily, and if you aren’t doing all you can to alleviate that suffering, you should suffer, too.

1. I WON'T SHAM Why pretend all is well, yet in hurt When inside I’m dying for your affection? Why should l flout you? When my heart yearns for communion? 'l don't care' cries the broken hearted When inside the heart cries for love When the very reason they are crying Is them they are pretending to slur 'l never loved you' cries the divorced When their heart bleeds for love, just one act of love The one that brought them together at first The very reason they even got married 'l hate you' cries the frustrated When fulfillment is all they long for The reality of which is still a fallacy to them If only they could hold on just a little longer 'That's a dry joke’ cries the scowling When laughter is what they long for In as much as they pretend to frown Merriment is still so true in their hearts But, l hate to say goodbye, when all l want is to be with you I hate to walk away, when l could have gone with you You'd make me sad by waving goodbye When all that's true is for you and me to be together I hate to shout at you, when l can just speak tenderly l hate to hang you down on the phone, When l could have said a little more to make you blissful I hate to say goodnight when l'm not heavy-eyed myself All that's real to me is l abhor to be a dummy But hold on my love, l WON'T SHAM....

Davy Keith, don't you know that it is very wrong of you to be eating that jam, when you were told never to meddle with anything in that closet?" "Yes, I knew it was wrong," admitted Davy uncomfortably, "but plum jam is awful nice, Anne. I just peeped in and it looked so good I thought I'd take just a weeny taste. I stuck my finger in. . ." Anne groaned. . ."and licked it clean. And it was so much gooder than I'd ever thought that I got a spoon and just sailed in." Anne gave him such a serious lecture on the sin of stealing plum jam that Davy became conscience stricken and promised with repentant kisses never to do it again. "Anyhow, there'll be plenty of jam in heaven, that's one comfort," he said complacently. Anne nipped a smile in the bud. "Perhaps there will. . .if we want it," she said, "But what makes you think so?" "Why, it's in the catechism," said Davy. "Oh, no, there is nothing like that in the catechism, Davy." "But I tell you there is," persisted Davy. "It was in that question Marilla taught me last Sunday. `Why should we love God?' It says, `Because He makes preserves, and redeems us.' Preserves is just a holy way of saying jam." "I must get a drink of water," said Anne hastily. When she came back it cost her some time and trouble to explain to Davy that a certain comma in the said catechism question made a great deal of difference in the meaning.

Based on a 1934 play by George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart, Merrily We Roll Along tells the story of three friends—Franklin Shepard, a composer; Charley Kringas, a playwright and lyricist; and Mary Flynn, a novelist—who meet in the enthusiasm of youth, when everything seems possible. The play traces what happens to their dreams and goals as time passes and they are faced with life’s surprises, travails, successes, and disappointments. The trick here is that the play moves chronologically backward. It begins on an evening in 1976 at a party for the opening of a movie Frank has produced. The movie is apparently a hit, but Frank’s personal life is a mess. His second wife, Gussie, formerly a Broadway star, was supposed to have starred in the movie but was deemed too old; she resents being in the shadows and suspects, correctly, that Frank is having an affair with the young actress who took over her part. Frank is estranged from his son from his first marriage. He is also estranged from Charley, his former writing partner—so estranged, in fact, that the very mention of his name brings the party to an uncomfortable standstill. Mary, unable to re-create the success of her one and only novel and suffering from a longtime unreciprocated love for Frank, has become a critic and a drunk; the disturbance she causes at the party results in a permanent break with Frank. The opening scene reaches its climax when Gussie throws iodine in the eyes of Frank’s mistress. The ensemble, commenting on the action much like the Greek chorus in Allegro, reprises the title song, asking, “How did you get to be here? / What was the moment?” (F 387). The play then moves backward in time as it looks for the turning points, the places where multiple possibilities morphed into narrative necessity.

Treating Abuse Today 3(4) pp. 26-33 TAT: I want to move back to an area that I'm not real comfortable asking you about, but I'm going to, because I think it's germane to this discussion. When we began our discussion [see "A Conversation with Pamela Freyd, Ph.D., Part 1", Treating Abuse Today, 3(3), P. 25-39] we spoke a bit about how your interest in this issue intersected your own family situation. You have admitted writing about it in your widely disseminated "Jane Doe" article. I think wave been able to cover legitimate ground in our discussion without talking about that, but I am going to return to it briefly because there lingers an important issue there. I want to know how you react to people who say that the Foundation is basically an outgrowth of an unresolved family matter in your own family and that some of the initial members of your Scientific Advisory Board have had dual professional relationships with you and your family, and are not simply scientifically attached to the Foundation and its founders. Freyd: People can say whatever they want to say. The fact of the matter is, day after day, people are calling to say that something very wrong has taken place. They're telling us that somebody they know and love very much, has acquired memories in some kind of situation, that they're sure are false, but that there has been no way to even try to resolve the issues -- now, it's 3,600 families. TAT: That's kind of side-stepping the question. My question -- Freyd: -- People can say whatever they want. But you know -- TAT: -- But, isn't it true that some of the people on your scientific advisory have a professional reputation that is to some extent now dependent upon some findings in your own family? Freyd: Oh, I don't think so. A professional reputation dependent upon findings in my family? TAT: In the sense that they may have been consulted professionally first about a matter in your own family. Is that not true? Freyd: What difference does that make? TAT: It would bring into question their objectivity. It would also bring into question the possibility of this being a folie à deux --

Beneath the table, Ryder releases my hand and lays it open in my lap, palm up. And then I feel him tracing letters on my palm with his fingertip. I. L. O. V. E. Y.O.U. I can’t help myself--I shiver. I shiver a lot when Ryder’s around, it turns out. He seems to have that effect on me. “Are you cold, Jemma?” Laura Grace asks me. “Ryder, go get her a sweatshirt or something. You two are done eating, anyway. Go on. Take her into the living room and light the fire.” “Nah, I’m fine,” I say, just because I know the old Jemma would have argued. “Well, go work on your project, then. It’s warmer in the den.” “My room’s like an oven,” Ryder deadpans, and I have to stifle a laugh, pretending to cough instead. “Take her up there, then, before she catches cold. Go. Scoot.” Laura Grace waves her hands in our direction. We rise from the table in unison, both of us trying to look as unhappy about it as possible. Silently, I follow him out. As soon as the door swings shut behind us, he reaches for my hand and pulls me close. “Shh, listen,” I say, cocking my head toward the door. “I still can’t believe it,” comes Laura Grace’s muffled voice. “The both of them, going off to school together, just like we always hoped they would. They’ll find their way into each other’s hearts eventually, just you wait and see.” I hear my mom’s tinkling laughter. “I guess their plan to escape each other didn’t work out so well after all, did it, now? I’m sure they never even imagined--” “I just hope they don’t kill each other,” Daddy interrupts. “They’ll be fine,” Mr. Marsden answers. “Well, I guess we won this round, didn’t we?” Mama says, her voice full of obvious delight. I glance up at Ryder, dressed for Sunday dinner--khakis, plaid button-down with a T-shirt beneath. His spiky hair is sticking up haphazardly, his dimples wide as he smiles down at me with so much love in those deep, dark chocolate eyes of his that it lights up his whole face. And me? I’m so happy when I’m with him that Nan says I glow, that a bright, shining light seems to radiate off the pair of us wherever we go. Despite their gloating, it’s easy to see that they didn’t win, our parents. Nope. We won.

this thing—his thing—still well and alive inside me. # I dreamed of clawed hooks and sexual abandon. Faces covered in leather masks and eyeliner so dark I could only see black. Here the monsters would come alive, but not the kind you have come to expect. I watched myself as if I were outside my own flesh, free from the imprisonment of bone and conscience. Swollen belly stretch-marked and ugly; my hair tethered and my skin vulnerable. Earthquake beats blared from the DJ booth as terrible looking bodies thrashed, moshed and convulsed. Alone, so alone. Peter definitely gone, no more tears left but the ones that were to come from agony. She was above me again, Dark Princess, raging beauty queen, and I was hers to control. The ultimate succession into human suspension. Like I’d already learned: the body is the final canvas. There is no difference between love and pain. They are the same hopeless obsession. The hooks dived, my legs opened and my back arched. Blood misted my face; pussy juice slicked my inner thigh as my water suddenly broke. # The next night I had to get to the club. 4 A.M. is a time that never lets me down; it knows why I have nightmares, and why I want to suspend myself above them. L train lunacies berated me once again, but this time I noticed the people as if under a different light. They were all rather sad, gaunt and bleary. Their faces were to be pitied and their hands kept shaking, their legs jittering for another quick fix. No matter how much the deranged governments of New York City have cleaned up the boroughs, they can’t rid us of our flavor. The Meatpacking District was scarily alive. Darkness laced with sizzling urban neon. Regret stitched up in the night like a black silk blanket. The High Line Park gloomed above me with trespassers and graffiti maestros. I was envious of their creative freedom, their passion, and their drive. They had to do what they were doing, had to create. There was just no other acceptable life than that. I was inside fast, my memories of Peter fleeting and the ache within me about to be cast off. Stage left, stage right, it didn’t matter. I passed the first check point with ease, as if they already knew the click of my heels, the way my protruding stomach curved through my lace cardigan. She found me, or I found her, and we didn’t exchange any words, any warnings. It was time. Face up, legs open, and this time I’d be flying like Superman, but upside down. There were many hands, many faces, but no

Is that the only reason you’re helping me?” “Isn’t it enough?” “It is. I’m just wondering if there’s something else.” “No,” he harrumphed. “Wait, yes. Now I remember—I also want to fuck you again.” I tripped over my own feet, about to dive into the ground. He caught me by the hem of my shirt, jerking me upright. I’ll always catch you. When have I ever let you take the hit for something, Dot? “You did not just say that.” I slapped branches out of my way as I regained my balance. “Did too. Fair warning—I want much more than fucking this time around. I want dates. I want laughs. I want you to be honest with me. All the stuff that freaks you out for some reason. No strings attached. No commitment. Just fun. A perfect do-over.” “Why do you need a do-over?” “So my last memory of us won’t be you almost vomiting because we had sex.” “I almost vomited because your sister caught us!” I shrieked. “Which is exactly why this won’t happen again. You’re high if you think I’m betraying her trust a second time around.” “Thought you’d say that. I have great news for you.” “What?” “She no longer gives a fuck.” “That’s not tru—” “It is. Ask her yourself.” The confidence with which he’d said that made my heart twist like Play-Doh. What had changed between then and now? Why was she okay with us hooking up all of a sudden? “Why wouldn’t she care?” I asked in a panic. “Because it no longer matters.” “How c—” “Come on, Bitchy. Put two and two together.” Bitchy. He’d called me Bitchy. The rain intensified, knocking on our faces. I skidded to an abrupt stop. A wave of memories crashed into me all at once, nearly knocking me down on my ass. Everything became crystal clear in one swift moment. Row defending me when Dylan caught us having sex. Row teaching me how to slow dance in his room before my very first prom because I knew I would be too terrified to ever dance with anyone else and didn’t want to miss out. Row and I sitting on the hood of his car, in front of an endless ocean, the moon, and the stars. Me saying, “Isn’t it beautiful?” and him answering, “Yes, you are.” Row being essentially in love with me. I couldn’t even touch the other revelation right now. It was too much to process. Bitchy. Bitchy. Bitchy. McMonster. Selfless, sweet McMonster. Who seemed to know me inside out. Who could read me like an open book. Could it be? But it couldn’t be. No. It couldn't. Not him. not the shinest boy in Staindrop. "No more running." I planted my feet on the pavement, clutching my knees, panting. Tears prickled the back of my eyeballs. Row looked on high alert. Neither of us seemed ready to acknowledge the fact that he was McMonster and I was Bitchy. For the first time since I'd known him, he looked like a boy. Not a heartthrob, not a world-famous chef, not a formidable boss-- just a boy.

I hadn’t noticed, through all my inner torture and turmoil, that Marlboro Man and the horses had been walking closer to me. Before I knew it, Marlboro Man’s right arm was wrapped around my waist while his other hand held the reins of the two horses. In another instant, he pulled me toward him in a tight grip and leaned in for a sweet, tender kiss--a kiss he seemed to savor even after our lips parted. “Good morning,” he said sweetly, grinning that magical grin. My knees went weak. I wasn’t sure if it was the kiss itself…or the dread of riding. We mounted our horses and began walking slowly up the hillside. When we reached the top, Marlboro Man pointed across a vast prairie. “See that thicket of trees over there?” he said. “That’s where we’re headed.” Almost immediately, he gave his horse a kick and began to trot across the flat plain. With no prompting from me at all, my horse followed suit. I braced myself, becoming stiff and rigid and resigning myself to looking like a freak in front of my love and also to at least a week of being too sore to move. I held on to the saddle, the reins, and my life as my horse took off in the same direction as Marlboro Man’s. Not two minutes into our ride, my horse slightly faltered after stepping in a shallow hole. Having no experience with this kind of thing, I reacted, shrieking loudly and pulling wildly on my reins, simultaneously stiffening my body further. The combination didn’t suit my horse, who decided, understandably, that he pretty much didn’t want me on his back anymore. He began to buck, and my life flashed before my eyes--for the first time, I was deathly afraid of horses. I held on for dear life as the huge creature underneath me bounced and reared, but my body caught air, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d go flying. In the distance, I heard Marlboro Man’s voice. “Pull up on the reins! Pull up! Pull up!” My body acted immediately--it was used to responding instantly to that voice, after all--and I pulled up tightly on the horse’s reins. This forced its head to an upright position, which made bucking virtually impossible for the horse. Problem was, I pulled up too tightly and quickly, and the horse reared up. I leaned forward and hugged the saddle, praying I wouldn’t fall off backward and sustain a massive head injury. I liked my head. I wasn’t ready to say good-bye to it. By the time the horse’s front legs hit the ground, my left leg was dangling out of its stirrup, even as all my dignity was dangling by a thread. Using my balletic agility, I quickly hopped off the horse, tripping and stumbling away the second my feet hit the ground. Instinctively, I began hurriedly walking away--from the horse, from the ranch, from the burning. I didn’t know where I was going--back to L.A., I figured, or maybe I’d go through with Chicago after all. I didn’t care; I just knew I had to keep walking. In the meantime, Marlboro Man had arrived at the scene and quickly calmed my horse, who by now was eating a leisurely morning snack of dead winter grass that had yet to be burned. The nag. “You okay?” Marlboro Man called out. I didn’t answer. I just kept on walking, determined to get the hell out of Dodge. It took him about five seconds to catch up with me; I wasn’t a very fast walker. “Hey,” he said, grabbing me around the waist and whipping me around so I was facing him. “Aww, it’s okay. It happens.

From an essay on early reading by Robert Pinsky: My favorite reading for many years was the "Alice" books. The sentences had the same somber, drugged conviction as Sir John Tenniel's illustrations, an inexplicable, shadowy dignity that reminded me of the portraits and symbols engraved on paper money. The books were not made of words and sentences but of that smoky assurance, the insistent solidity of folded, textured, Victorian interiors elaborately barricaded against the doubt and ennui of a dreadfully God-forsaken vision. The drama of resisting some corrosive, enervating loss, some menacing boredom, made itself clear in the matter-of-fact reality of the story. Behind the drawings I felt not merely a tissue of words and sentences but an unquestioned, definite reality. I read the books over and over. Inevitably, at some point, I began trying to see how it was done, to unravel the making--to read the words as words, to peek behind the reality. The loss entailed by such knowledge is immense. Is the romance of "being a writer"--a romance perhaps even created to compensate for this catastrophic loss--worth the price? The process can be epitomized by the episode that goes with one of my favorite illustrations. Alice has entered a dark wood--"much darker than the last wood": [S]he reached the wood: It looked very cool and shady. "Well, at any rate it's a great comfort," she said as she stepped under the trees, "after being so hot, to get into the--into the--into what?" she went on, rather surprised at not being able to think of the word. "I mean to get under the--under the--under this, you know!" putting her hand on the trunk of the tree. "What does it call itself, I wonder? I do believe it's got no name--why to be sure it hasn't!" This is the wood where things have no names, which Alice has been warned about. As she tries to remember her own name ("I know it begins with L!"), a Fawn comes wandering by. In its soft, sweet voice, the Fawn asks Alice, "What do you call yourself?" Alice returns the question, the creature replies, "I'll tell you, if you'll come a little further on . . . . I can't remember here". The Tenniel picture that I still find affecting illustrates the first part of the next sentence: So they walked on together through the wood, Alice with her arms clasped lovingly round the soft neck of the Fawn, till they came out into another open field, and here the Fawn gave a sudden bound into the air, and shook itself free from Alice's arm. "I'm a Fawn!" it cried out in a voice of delight. "And dear me! you're a human child!" A sudden look of alarm came into its beautiful brown eyes, and in another moment it had darted away at full speed. In the illustration, the little girl and the animal walk together with a slightly awkward intimacy, Alice's right arm circled over the Fawn's neck and back so that the fingers of her two hands meet in front of her waist, barely close enough to mesh a little, a space between the thumbs. They both look forward, and the affecting clumsiness of the pose suggests that they are tripping one another. The great-eyed Fawn's legs are breathtakingly thin. Alice's expression is calm, a little melancholy or spaced-out. What an allegory of the fall into language. To imagine a child crossing over from the jubilant, passive experience of such a passage in its physical reality, over into the phrase-by-phrase, conscious analysis of how it is done--all that movement and reversal and feeling and texture in a handful of sentences--is somewhat like imagining a parallel masking of life itself, as if I were to discover, on reflection, that this room where I am writing, the keyboard, the jar of pens, the lamp, the rain outside, were all made out of words. From "Some Notes on Reading," in The Most Wonderful Books (Milkweed Editions)

It’s hard enough now, so I won’t make it any harder. I want to go out so much—everything seems to be calling to me, ‘Anne, Anne, come out to us. Anne, Anne, we want a playmate’—but it’s better not. There is no use in loving things if you have to be torn from them, is there?

Jesus, Ayda, don’t you get it? I want you. I want you safe. I want you happy. I want you to have what you deserve. I want you in a life where shit isn’t always so heavy. I want someone to treat you with the patience and the respect you deserve, but the thought of anyone else touching you makes me want to rip the throats of a hundred men out—men I don’t even know—just for the sake of being the brutal bastard that I am. I want you to not always give me that look that’s begging me to do the right thing when the wrong thing comes so easily to me. I want to never have to disappoint you. I want to give you the world. I want to not want all of these things because wanting them and wanting you means that no matter how much I try and stop myself from admitting that I love you…” My eyes flew open to meet hers. “I can’t, because I love you. I really fucking love you, Ayda.

his supporters are people he wouldn’t condescend to be seen with outside of a rally. His deep-seated insecurities have created in him a black hole of need that constantly requires the light of compliments that disappears as soon as he’s soaked it in. Nothing is ever enough. This is far beyond garden-variety narcissism; Donald is not simply weak, his ego is a fragile thing that must be bolstered every moment because he knows deep down that he is nothing of what he claims to be. He knows he has never been loved. So he must draw you in if he can by getting you to assent to even the most seemingly insignificant thing: “Isn’t this plane great?” “Yes, Donald, this plane is great.” It would be rude to begrudge him that small concession. Then he

Jesus fucking Christ, Maverick! I know everything and I still don't care. That's how much I love you. That's how wound around the very fucking center of my soul you are. It's the same place you'll be until I close my eyes and take my last breath. You are rooted here"-he pounds his chest-"in the bowels of me so far I will never be rid of you. No matter how much I've tried. No matter how much I wanted to while I knew you were with him." His voice cracks. He stops. Pants. Pins me with a look that devastates me but not more than his confession or the tears I now see gleaming. "While he was the sun that lit your world, you were the darkness that shadowed mine.

Tell me about the conversations you and your brother escaped? The ones that drove you to the caverns. Tell me why you refuse to take the throne even when you know your brother won't be fit to do it when you free him,' I demanded. 'Tell me why you thought it was okay in the first fucking place to kidnap me and use me as random before you even knew me!' Frustration crowded my throat. 'Tell me why it never occurred to you to mention the Joining. Tell me about Gianna, Casteel. Does she care for you? Does she want this engagement? Do you care for her? He exhaled roughly, shaking his head, but I wasn't done. 'Tell me why you never told me the truth about Spessa's End until I was here? Was it because you didn't trust me with that information? Tell me about her. The one you loved and lost because of the Ascended. Tell me what happened to her. Will you even say her name?' My chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, and my anger overwhelmed my senses, blocking out his emotions completely. 'Tell me how you can stand to be near me when I represent the people who took so much from you. Tell me why you really came to my room tonight. Tell me something that matters. That is real.' Casteel's chest rose with a heavy breath. 'You want something real?' 'Yes.' 'I came to your room tonight to learn if what you said at dinner was true. That I was the first person to ever seen you. That I was the first thing you ever chose for yourself. That you chose me when you knew me as Hawke, and even after you learned the truth, you still chose me,' he growled, his eyes luminous. 'I came here tonight to learn if you really felt like you were betraying Vikter and Rylan, all the others and yourself. I came here to see if that'd changed. Was all of that real, or were you just pretending?' I took a step back, entirely too exposed, and it had nothing to do with the ridiculous nightgown. I hadn't expected him to go there. I wasn't sure why, but I hadn't. He shook his head as he barked out a short, humourless laugh. 'Yeah. Silence. As usual. That's why there was never a reason to tell you any of those things you've demanded from me.' I stared up at him, hands and arms trembling. 'I don't know what you want from me.' 'Everything,' he bit out between clenched teeth. 'I want everything.

Dawn arising I am a girls-l I change my hair color as I do with undies, boys, and my mind about loving only girls. ‘Our existence is drawn-out by chances, even the ones that are missed out on.’ Sleeping with me is a lot like the first step of dying. Running down a dream, looking for an answer that may never come. Yet when it comes, will you want to go or run the other way. It’s just like you never- ever fail to recall the appearance of the soul who was your last and hopes to save you from yourself. Your future life is shown to throw your dreams; however, I could see much of anything, and that was odd for me. The only thing that was shown in this dream was my hand slipping away for someone else’s in the scary blackness. I was falling, and you were falling to me. Yet never together even in the dream. I am sure he is holding me, yet I was never really sure. Something a guess is best left unknown. Or maybe I fainted in his arms and he put me to bed, I don’t know. I swear that I am going to have a sex consent document made, so I know when were, and how. I am sick of boys that freaking hard. I want to know I am making love. I am sick of serenading my everything to anyone, that says they own me. Yet again I am on the pill, so I don’t have anything to worry about. The whole time Bela Lucas, one of Ray Hobro’s girl's best friends, is standing in the corner laughing at me, and Ray stumbles over to her and kisses her like they have been hooking up for months.

We risked a lot to come here.” I think of the sucker wounds on his chest and the scratches that cover his body, and shudder. “I will always come back for you, my Llo. I will never leave your side.” I squeeze against him tighter, holding him closer. “I love you. I love you so much.” “Thank you, my mate.” It’s not the answer I expect from a declaration of love, and I look up at him in surprise. “Er, thank you?” “For giving my tribe new life. Here on this shore, and”—he touches my belly—“here, L’ren.” Okay, now I’m going to cry again.

God, I love you so much. I never thought I’d feel so free…free to just love.

War gives you a sense of urgency about your life because there is so much death waiting for a chance. Maybe that's why it's possible to feel love in the midst of so much chaos.

Il ne me laisse pas l’aimer. Il ne me laisse pas essayer. Je ne sais pas quoi faire.” He won’t let me love him. He won’t let me try. I don’t know what to do. “I’d give anything to go back, to be braver. I was so scared. I was such a coward, and you died. You died…I never got to tell you how much I loved you. How much you meant to me, how much you changed me. How much I respected you. You were so brave, Dominic, and so strong. I was so privileged to know you. To love you. As much as you tried, you were never a forgettable man. I will miss you every day of my life.” I press my hand to my chest. “Attends-moi mon amour. Jusqu’à ce que nous nous revoyions. Jusqu’à ce que nous puissions sentir la pluie sur nos deux visages. Il doit y avoir une place pour nous dans la prochaine vie. Je ne veux pas d’un paradis où je ne te vois pas.” Until we meet again. Until we can feel the rain on both our faces. There has to be a time for us in the next life. I don’t want any part of a heaven where I don’t see you. At the gate, I glance back at his grave one last time. “A bientôt. Merci.” Until then. Thank you.

You love me? So much.

Dom. I’m so fucking yours, and you don’t even know it because all of the stuff that’s happened over the last few days has stopped me from being able to tell you the one thing I’ve known for a while now: I love you. I love you so much, and you can try to scare me away, but I’m not going anywhere unless you look me in the eyes and tell me this is over.

I never believed in love until I met you, Rosie. At least not for me, but you proved me wrong. I wasn’t lying when I said you’re a revolution for the soul, but what you don’t know is you’re so much more than that. You’re a balm to my soul, and while I know I don’t deserve you, I will spend every damn day of my life becoming worthy of you. Will you marry me, Rosie?” “No,” she whispered. “No?” He blinked.

Should I trust you, Vireo?” I asked him calmly. In fairytales, the girls never ask that question. Maybe it’s because they know they will be lied to, so why ask at all. Or maybe it’s because they fear the answer will be exactly as they expect. Or maybe because they have other things on their mind like spinning straw into gold before everyone they love perishes. But I have always found you can learn as much from lies as from the truth, so I asked.

You also hate to be touched, especially with affection. But not by me.” “Oh, yes, she hates it when I cuddle her, so I make sure to do it every time I see her to get her used to it.” Louise laughs. “You do it on purpose?” I question. “Of course I do. And because you are the best friend a girl could have. Even if you hate cuddles, I love them, so you will take them.” “I’m gonna start kicking you now every time you cuddle me,” I threaten, just as the food is placed in front of us. “You won’t. You love me too much.” Damn! She’s right. I do.

Do not let yourself be bothered by the inconsequential. One has only so much time in this world, so devote it to the work and the people most important to you, to those you love and things that matter. One can waste half a lifetime with people one doesn’t really like, or doing things when one would be better off somewhere else.” As

I was so much more than he could handle. I hate parties; did I ever tell you that? Your father, he loved them. He loved it when I drank, said it made me fun. Made me seem younger, carefree.

I hope you realise that no matter what anyone has ever told you, you are more worthy than anyone I've ever met.' My heart squeezed in the best way. 'You haven't met enough people, then.' 'I have met too many.' He lifted his chin, kissing my forehead. He leaned back, sliding his thumb along my jaw. 'You deserve so much more than what awaits you.

Last night, I couldn’t sleep, so I reread Twelfth Night,” Wren said. “We all know how it ends—happily, of course—but there’s sadness there, too. Olivia has lost a brother. So has Viola, but they handle it very differently. Viola changes her name, her whole identity, and almost immediately falls in love. Olivia shuts herself away from the world, and refuses to let love in at all. Viola is trying desperately to forget her brother. Olivia is maybe remembering him too much. So what do you do? Ignore your grief, or indulge it?” She looked up from the sand and found us, gaze drifting from face to face. Meredith, Alexander, Filippa, me, and finally James. “You all know that Richard refuses to be ignored,” she said, speaking to us, and no one else. “But maybe every day we let grief in, we’ll also let a little bit of it out, and eventually we’ll be able to breathe again. At least, that’s how Shakespeare would tell the story. Hamlet says, Absent thee from felicity awhile. But just awhile. The show’s not over. Now cracks a noble heart. Goodnight. The rest of us must go on.

I love you, Freda. It feels like nobody in the history of the world has loved another person as much as I love you. I love you so much it hurts. You make me smile, you make me laugh, you make me burn.

Even from her distance, Darcy heard Trace yelling at Ember loud enough to shake the building. Kyle leaned up against the wall with a slight grin on his face. "Understand now?" "Yeah, she's going to go deaf." "Probably, but she totally had it coming." "It must be nice to have someone love you so much to shout at you until you're disabled," Darcy said almost dreamily.

Only thing that matters is that it gets you off. Speaking of which…” I sigh as he begins circling my clit with the tip of his finger. “You like that?” “Mm-hmmm.” I arch my back so I have room to grab his cock and stroke it while he pleasures me. The man has magical fingers, magical lips and tongue, a magical cock…yeah, I’ve decided he’s pretty much a unicorn with attitude, aka The Perfect Lover.

Love is never cut and dry. It’s messy. Confusing. Sometimes it’s ugly and sometimes it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.” Summer looked at her, so sincere, like she was trying to convey a message Willow couldn’t quite understand. “But no matter how much it might hurt, it can never change the fact it’s real. That it’s worth fighting for. And the real kind of love will always come back to you.

Do you know why people would say cheers before they drank?” Ben asked with his boyish grin. He loved little bits of trivia. He always retained the most useless facts. People always felt it added to his charm. “Because it was polite? Why?” I asked, taking the bait. He’d told me this already on several occasions but I never let on. He liked the story so much I never wanted to spoil his telling of it. “Because in medieval times, it was common to poison your enemy.” He paused to take a long sip of his ale. “And so when you banged your glasses together, a splash from each was supposed to fall into the other’s cup. It slowly became a mark of trust.

You look just like your mama. She loved you so much and you’ll never know her. You’ll never know how she would braid your hair in all those little braids, or how she would rub your back when you weren’t feeling well. You won’t remember that her hair always smelled like lilacs and when she smiled she brightened up a room. She sang when she baked, and talked to the flowers in the garden as she tended them. She liked to walk in the rain and dance in the streets. She was in labor for forty-three hours, but it only took ten minutes to push you into the world.” He touched her round cheek, swiping his thumb over her soft skin. “When you were ready, there was no stopping you. You won’t remember that you were the center of both of our worlds, but you are. You are loved, baby girl.

Because that was the problem with society. It cared too much about who you fell in love with but never about the why. The why matters. The who is irrelevant (but the band was great, so there’s that).

I promise to supports you, always accepts you just the way you are. You're a top priority, most of the time for my whole life. . I promise to expresses my each and every feelings and trusts you during my whole life.. I promise to apologizes when i needs to.. i promise to laughs with you not at you.. I promise to keeps in touch during the day.. I promise makes your problems to my problems.. I never afraid to admit that how much i miss you. I promise to will treats you as a queen during whole life.. My biggest fear is losing you.. My heart completely ours . when i says "I LOVE YOU" and I means it.. I wouldn't mind waking up with you in the morning, seeing you in wrinkles and your gray hair, but still falls for you all over again.. I promise will lie under the stars and listen to your heartbeat, will stay awake just to watch you sleep, wait kisses your forehead, will show you off to the world when you are in sweats, will hold your hand in front of my friends and family, I promise will take care of you for whole life and I am so lucky to have you in my lIfe. Forever, I love you my love..

What I’m afraid of is you leading me down a path I’m not sure I can travel. Because maybe I am the fool who loves too easily. The one who sees the best in people. The one who sees what they deserve. Evan’s dad didn’t leave me jaded. He left me knowing exactly what it is I want. And what scares me most is I see so much of what I want in you, and I’m not sure you see the same in me.

How should anything be sacred to an advertiser?" demanded Ingleby, helping himself to four lumps of sugar. "We spend our whole time asking intimate questions of perfect strangers and it naturally blunts our finer feelings. ‘Mother! Has your Child Learnt Regular Habits?’ ‘Are you Troubled with Fullness after Eating?’ ‘Are you satisfied about your Drains?’ ‘Are you Sure that your Toilet-Paper is Germ-free?’ ‘Your most Intimate Friends dare not Ask you this question.’ ‘Do you Suffer from Superfluous Hair?’ ‘Do you Like them to Look at your Hands?’ ‘Do you ever ask yourself about Body-Odour?’ ‘If anything Happened to You, would your Loved Ones be Safe?’ ‘Why Spend so much Time in the Kitchen?’ ‘You think that Carpet is Clean - but is it?’ ‘Are you a Martyr to Dandruff?’ Upon my soul, I sometimes wonder why the long-suffering public doesn’t rise up and slay us.

love my body, and my body loves me. It is such a pleasure to take a shower. The water feels so good. I am grateful for the people who designed and built this shower. My life is so blessed. I am showered with good thoughts all day long! USING THE BATHROOM: I easily release all that my body no longer needs. Intake, assimilation, and elimination are all in Divine right order. GETTING DRESSED: I love my closet. It is so easy for me to get dressed. I always pick the best thing to wear. I am comfortable in my clothing. I trust my inner wisdom to pick the perfect outfit for me. IN THE KITCHEN: Hello, kitchen, you are my nourishment center. I appreciate you! You and all your appliances help me so much in easily preparing delicious, nutritious meals. There is such an abundance of good, healthy

marry your father because you wanted to make him happy? You're a darling—a heroine—as Ellen would say, you're a brick. Now listen to me, very closely, dearest. Mary Vance is a silly little girl who doesn't know very much and she is dreadfully mistaken about some things. I would never dream of trying to turn your father against you. I would love you all dearly. I don't want to take your own mother's place—she must always have that in your hearts. But neither have I any intention of being a stepmother. I want to be your friend and helper and CHUM. Don't you think that would be nice, Una—if you and Faith and Carl and Jerry could just think of me as a good jolly chum—a big older sister?" "Oh, it would be lovely," cried Una, with a transfigured face. She flung her arms impulsively round Rosemary's neck. She was so happy that she felt as if she could fly on wings. "Do the others—do Faith and the boys have the same idea you had about stepmothers?" "No. Faith never believed Mary Vance. I was dreadfully foolish to believe her, either. Faith loves you already—she has loved you ever since poor Adam was eaten. And Jerry and Carl will think it is jolly. Oh, Miss West, when you come to live with us, will you—could you—teach me to cook—a little—and sew—and— and—and do things? I don't know anything. I won't be much trouble—I'll try to learn fast." "Darling, I'll teach you and help you all I can. Now, you won't say a word to anybody about this, will you—not even to Faith, until your father himself tells you you may? And you'll stay and have tea with me?

Noah Crawford, I love you so much sometimes it’s like I can’t breathe because my heart is smothering my lungs.

How will you know? How will you know when you’ve met him?” I already know. “Because he won’t have to try to not sleep with anyone else . . . he will love me so much that the thought of sleeping with another would turn his stomach. Because that’s what love is. Putting another person above all else. Giving yourself over to them completely. Trusting your heart with the woman you love.

Because you're not what I would have you be I blind myself to who, in truth you are, Seeking mirage where desert blooms, I mar Your YOU, Aaah, I would like to see past all delusion to reality: Then would I see God's image in your face, His hand in yours, and in your eyes his grace. Because I'm not what I would have me be, I idolize Two who are not any place, Not you, not me, and so we never touch. Reality would burn. I do not like it much. And yet in you, in me, I find a trace Of love which struggles to break through The hidden lovely truth of me, of you.

I do all my studying now by the pool in the Land of Uprightness, among those wonderful, tall, slender trees. I'm a Druidess in the woods--I regard trees with something more than love--worship. And then, too, trees, unlike so many humans, always improve on acquaintance. no matter how much you like them at the start you are sure to like them much better further on, and best of all when you have known them for years and enjoyed intercourse with them in all seasons. I know a hundred dear things about these trees in the Land of Uprightness that I didn't know when I came here two years ago.

Because he won’t have to try to not sleep with anyone else . . . he will love me so much that the thought of sleeping with another would turn his stomach. Because that’s what love is. Putting another person above all else. Giving yourself over to them completely. Trusting your heart with the woman you love.

A friend said to meL "Don't ask me to waste time praying. Don't ask me to look for God in the solitude of your desert. For me, God is in man, and I will search for rapport with Him by serving man." What can I reply? "Please God, may you succeed! Please God, may you be capable of so much!" You say this to me because you do not yet know man, you do not yet know your weakness in serving man! Keeping an attitude of love and service before the tabernacle of man when you have discovered his egoism, arrogance, and capacity for betrayal, is a frightening and demanding task.

Hey,” he breathes, clasping my head in his hands, gazing down at me… “Why are you crying?” His voice is filled with concern. “Because I love you so much,” I whisper. He half-closes his eyes as if drugged, absorbing my words. When he opens them again, they blaze with his love. “And I you, Ana. You make me… whole.” He kisses me gently as Roberta Flack finishes her song.

When you are engrossed in the day-to-day living, you are so much outwardly entangled that you often fail to even talk for a second with yourself. Connecting with yourself in the early hours of the day or at any single moment of your day gives you energy for the entire day.

Child most dear to me, place your hand upon your heart and tell me your secrets.  How many times have you been unhappy, anguished, embittered, because you have done your own will?  Know that you cast out the Divine Will, and fell into a maze of evils. The Divine Will wants to make you pure and holy, happy and attractive, with an enchanting beauty; but you by doing your own will, have waged war and cast the Divine Will in sorrow from its beloved abode, which is your soul.  Listen child of my heart: it is painful for your Mother because l do not see in you, the Sun of the Divine Will, but rather the dense darkness of the night of your human will. But rise up and take heart!  lf you promise to place your will in my hands, I your heavenly Mother will take you in my arms, I will put you on my lap and re-order in you the life of the Divine Will.  And you, after so many of my tears, will form my smile, my joy, and the smile and rejoicing of the Holy Trinity as well. The Soul Heavenly Mother if you love me so much, I beg you: do not let me descend from your maternal knees.  And if you see that l am about to do my will, be watchful over my poor soul, enclose me in your heart so that the power of your burning love, may reduce my will to ashes.  In this way l will change your tears into smiles of pleasure. Instruction Today to honor me, you will come to me three times, give your will to me and say: my Mother, I want this will of mine to be yours, so that you may exchange it for the Divine Will. The Soul Sovereign Queen, cast down my will by your command - so that the seed of the Divine Will may spring up within me.

The one you didn’t expect. The one you couldn’t have anticipated. The one you could love so much, you’re afraid to try. The ace. The winning number.” She leaned forward, and her tone slipped back into a tease. “Eden, he’s the cake.

Darling, you’re terribly mistaken about it all. God doesn’t make bargains. He gives... gives without asking anything from us in return except love. When you ask Father or me for something you want, we don’t make bargains with you... and God is ever and ever so much kinder than we are. And He knows so much better than we do what is good to give.

Well,’ said Harriet, ‘I agree absolutely with Miss Chilperic. If anybody did a dishonourable thing and then said he did it for one’s own sake, it would be the last insult. How could one ever feel the same to him again?’ ‘Indeed,’ said Miss Pyke, ‘it must surely vitiate the whole relationship.’ ‘Oh, nonsense!’ cried the Dean. ‘How many women care two hoots about anybody’s intellectual integrity? Only over-educated women like us. So long as the man didn’t forge a cheque or rob the till or do something socially degrading, most women would think he was perfectly justified. Ask Mrs. Bones the Butcher’s Wife or Miss Tape the Tailor’s Daughter how much they would worry about suppressing a fact in a mouldy old historical thesis.’ ‘They’d back up their husbands in any case,’ said Miss Allison. ‘My man, right or wrong, they’d say. Even if he did rob the till.’ ‘Of course they would,’ said Miss Hillyard. ‘That’s what the man wants. He wouldn’t say thank you for a critic on the hearth.’ ‘He must have the womanly woman, you think?’ said Harriet. ‘[. . .] Somebody who will say, “The greater the sin the greater the sacrifice – and consequently the greater devotion.” [. . .] I suppose it is comforting to be told that one is loved whatever one does.

Tell me you don’t want it and I will stop; I promise I will. I’ll never so much as look at you the wrong way again. But if you don’t…if you don’t tell me that you don’t want this, I swear I am never going to stop kissing you.

I want that, I want all of that, so much.” “Good to know that you’re just as stupid as me.

Because he won’t have to try to not sleep with anyone else . . . he will love me so much that the thought of sleeping with another would turn his stomach. Because that’s what love is. Putting another person above all else. Giving yourself over to them completely. Trusting your heart with the woman you love.

When your heart is full of love for yourself, then you have so much to share with others.

Penellaphe.' He said my name with so much shock my eyes would've rolled if I weren't so incredibly mortified. 'This is... just scandalous reading material for the Maiden.' 'Shut up.' 'Very naughty,' he chided, shaking his head. Annoyance hitting a record high, I lifted my chin. 'There's nothing wrong with my reading about love.' 'I didn't say there was.' Hawke looked at me. 'But I don't think what she is writing about has anything to do with love.' 'Oh, so you're an expert on this now?' 'More so than you, I imagine.

You four are my light. My alphas. I love you so much. So damn much. You asked me to embrace love again, but I won’t. I can’t. From the day I turned eighteen, I have been yours. I don’t have it in me to love anyone else,

Very curious, dear. But so sad about poor Sir Reuben. I must write a few lines to Lady Levy; I used to know her quite well, you know, dear, down in Hampshire, when she was a girl. Christine Ford, she was then, and I remember so well the dreadful trouble there was about her marrying a Jew. That was before he made his money, of course, in that oil business out in America. The family wanted her to marry Julian Freke, who did so well afterwards and was connected with the family, but she fell in love with this Mr. Levy and eloped with him. He was very handsome, then, you know, dear, in a foreign-looking way, but he hadn’t any means, and the Fords didn’t like his religion. Of course we’re all Jews nowadays and they wouldn’t have minded so much if he’d pretended to be something else, like that Mr. Simons we met at Mrs. Porchester’s, who always tells everybody that he got his nose in Italy at the Renaissance, and claims to be descended somehow or other from La Bella Simonetta—so foolish, you know, dear—as if anybody believed it; and I’m sure some Jews are very good people, and personally I’d much rather they believed something, though of course it must be very inconvenient, what with not working on Saturdays and circumcising the poor little babies and everything depending on the new moon and that funny kind of meat they have with such a slang-sounding name, and never being able to have bacon for breakfast.

You have the opportunity to travel somewhere warm and wed a man who loves you so much, he’d risk everything for you. To have beautiful babies and never again know the touch of violence. This life could be yours, and though you sit in silence, it is as though you scream in my face, ‘I refuse to forgive him for not being perfect.’ 

You are likely thinking about everything you have on your to-do list. The more you think about how much you have to do and how little time there is to do it, the more overwhelmed you feel. What about if you’re worried? Worrying is often about going over the past and wishing you could change something, or fixating on the future and what could happen. And if you are run-down, like so many people today, it could likely be that you have said yes to so many things that you aren’t giving yourself time to rest and replenish. Perhaps you know that you would benefit from setting boundaries, but it feels too difficult to say no. The habit of negative thinking

You okay?” he asked quietly. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” “Brad. I know you were crushing on him, and now he’s packed it up and moved next door. I wanted to make sure you weren’t having trouble dealing with it.” “I can’t believe Allie told you about my crush.” “Give me a break, Kate. I’ve known since family weekend. When was the last time you wanted to take a picture of me? Document my freshman year? What? Do I have clueless tattooed across my forehead?” Narrowing my eyes, I leaned toward him. “Yeah, I think maybe you do.” Even in the shadows I could see him grin. This was so totally weird. Sitting out here, having an almost normal conversation with my brother. “He’s not your type, Kate.” I scoffed. “How do you know my type? I don’t even know my type.” “Trust me, when you do figure your type out, you’re gonna realize it’s not Brad. I mean, I like him, and he’s a great roommate, but what I want in a friend and what you need in a boyfriend aren’t the same. He’d just end up hurting you. Then I’d have to beat the crap out of him.” I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. “Would you really do that for me, Sam?” “You know I would.” His voice was totally serious. And I realized that he was so not joking. His revelation stunned me almost as much as Joe’s kiss. No, wait, nothing would ever throw me off balance as much as that kiss. “You do know that, don’t you, Kate?” Sam asked. “You’re my sister and I . . .” He waved his hand. “That L-word. You know.” “Love?” I asked. “Don’t make me say it, okay? Just know it’s true. I know I give you a hard time, but hey, that’s what brothers do. It’s part of our genetic makeup, a little chip inside our brains that gets activated when our parents shove a screaming baby sister in our face.” “Like you’d have a memory of that moment. You were only fifteen months old.” “Whatever. Look, I’m out here right now because I’ve been a little worried about you, and I haven’t really been able to get you alone to talk.” “You’ve been able to get Allie alone.” And for a lot more than conversation. He grimaced. “Yeah, she told me you know about us. Are you okay with that?” “What if I’m not?” “Then tough. Get over it.” “Some understanding brother you are.” “I’ve got my limits.” “So you really like her, huh?” “Yeah, I have for a long time, but geez, she’s my sister’s best friend. How weird is that?” “Totally weird. When she described the way you kiss—” “What?” Horror echoed his voice. His eyes were wide, his mouth open. “Payback for the snowball,” I said snidely. “I already paid you back for that.” “So? Maybe there’s a little chip inside a girl’s brain that gets activated when her brother is a jerk and erases paybacks as soon as they happen so we need a steady stream of them.” “You’re definitely not playing nice, Kate.” I heard him heave a sigh. “You know, that’s part of the reason I’ve steered clear of Allie. I don’t want her discussing my . . . moves with my sister.” “Yeah, like you’ve got moves.” He gave me a cocky look. “Hey, I’ve got moves.” I held up a hand. “Definitely don’t want to hear about them.” “Definitely don’t want you to hear about them.

I, Zane Hunter, promise to stand by your side and sleep in your arms. I will risk my life for yours. I will die for you. There are only so many ways I can tell you how much I love you, but I vow to show you every day. We shall bear together whatever trouble and sorrow may lie upon us. You will never be alone. Even in death, our souls will find each other. I let you go once; I won’t do it again, Piper. I can’t lose you. Never.” His accent came across, punctuating his words, heavy and lyrical. It was beautiful. He was beautiful. “I marry you and bind my life and soul to yours.

And it's totally sweet. Gus has tried it, he loves it, and thank God because, oh yeah, that's what I was trying to tell you, about not being an ambi-feeder. So, it's totally easy to feed him on the left side, but when I try on the right, it doesn't work as well… hence, not an ambi-feeder. So, I end up always having a really full left boob, big left tit, B.L.T. and the right one, starts to hurt a little when it gets full because baby never feeds as much on that side. So at night in bed, Gus takes a little drink for me so my boobs won't hurt. He calls it dessert.

There has to be a more loving dream, a dream that appeals to the hearts of humans. There is I know, a more refined dream, which appeals to the human soul,’ offered Wonder encouragingly. ‘I am not so sure,’ rejoined Double Doubt, responding to the tone of hope in Wonder’s voice. ‘Why choose war over peace? Humankind has trod that path so diligently that they have forgotten that there are other ways of ease.’ ‘True. Tis true! But is it not the dominant actions of the few, who lead the many? Does not the fear of being a voice of reason in the wilderness overwhelm the gentle of heart?’ ‘The gentle of heart are weak! Too weak in energy to perform, to take action, and are drained by the fear of action, a fear which inhibits action. I doubt they will break through the fog of fear.’ ‘The fog of fear you say? Or is it their sense of impotence that overwhelms them from speaking out? Knowing that any attempt to change the consensus reality of their space-time is an enormous task, an overwhelming task, and that just to hold the thought of a breakthrough is about the only choice they have.’ ‘Enormous it may be, in terms of consciousness,’ replied Double Doubt. ‘But consciousness grounded in impeccability, will far outweigh the fog of fear, so why the problem? Humans do not seem to understand that the universal energy supports life-furthering consciousness. Such a waste of human resources! No Doubt. No Doubt.’ ‘I understand what you are propounding Gnome Double Doubt, however, it seems to me that most human beings are still not fully aware of the power of thought, and are still not aware of how energy exists; transforming itself through the power of thought. It is only a matter of space-time before humans come to understand the difficult concept of Universal space-time and energy.’ ‘Your optimism is based on a need for perfection Wonder. Humans also seek perfection, but as yet have not come within a whale’s breath of it, and a whale’s breath is vast! I cannot see why you hold out such great hope for these vulnerable humans. It seems to me that your wonderings about their futures will take you away from the higher pursuits of the experiment. Let us deal with one human at a time. Remember, one action, one thought can change the ways of all,’ encouraged Gnome Double Doubt, now taking on the role of the advocate of hope. ‘It is now urgent that we pull ourselves together and act in a more gnome-like manner and have done with all this wallowing concern for the human race.’ ‘You are always so wise Double Doubt. I know you are on the right path,’ conceded Wonder, knowing that Double Doubt was now out of the foggy mire of confusion and back on the track of practicality. ‘I wish I could let go of seeking something of a higher dreaming for the humans. But alas I know myself,’ sighed Wonder. ‘I am as I am, a wondering wanderlust or a Wonder-last, and the last being to wonder or to lust over a dream of such beauty, that it would vanquish the fear of insecurity in the human realm forever. So near and yet so far! I wonder. I wonder? Is it a possibility, or just a dream, as ephemeral in substance as the gossamer rainbow wings of our dear friends the fairies?' ‘My goodness! You do go on Wonder. It seems to me, but who am I to doubt, that you waste so much energy on a dream without substance, a dream which is based on fear, a dream which is embedded like granite in human thought, a dream that would take earth shattering energy to shift such rigidity of thought. Take my advice Wonder. Begin with the smallest crack in the edifice of human thought, and that lies in the direction of Petunia. Leave the human race to experiencing life as they choose to. Until they validate, that ‘All is connected. All is divine’, then they will not be and cannot be, aware of the realm of All That Is. T.L. Franklin (Excerpt from ‘Wonder and Double Doubt’ - Chapter 9, Page 294)

No. If she cared about me, she would have loved me for whomever I was, not just who she wanted me to be. What she maybe thought I was. Relationships are always made up of these little perceptions of relationships, you know. What you think is friendship is something else so to someone else. You can never really know what's in someone else's mind, no matter how much you love them." I nod, then say, "Yeah," because I realize she can't see me. I think of the distance between us, and how maybe there's that distance between all of us, because she's right, I can't know what's in someone else's head. And just like that, I can feel the distance close—snap like a rubber band. We were never really far apart, maybe. It just looked that way.

Lips trembling, Aram asked, “So it wasn’t my fault?” “Your fault?” His mother looked tormented by emotion. “How could you say such a thing? How could you ever think it was your fault?” “I thought maybe he couldn’t love me,” Aram said. “Because of the way I am.” His mother scooted back her chair and hurried around the table, coming to kneel at his side. “No. Oh, gods, no.” She took him into her arms, rocking him slowly as her tears mingled with his own. “Your father loved you more than anything in the world.” Hearing that made Aram cry harder. He clung to her with all the strength and conviction of a son’s love for his mother. It was several minutes before she let him go, but even then, it was much too soon. His mother drew back and kissed him on the cheek.

Do you believe in heaven and hell?” her soft voice asks as I watch her blue eyes fill with tears. “I’ve never really thought about it …” She licks her lips. “But there has to be something better than this, right? So much hate. So much deceit. How does anyone know what’s real or fake?” “No,” I answer her question honestly. “I don’t believe in life after death.” Her eyes search mine, and for once, I hate how vulnerable she looks—almost broken. I want to make her whole. That’s my job as her husband. She belongs to me, and Matt is still controlling her emotions—making her question everything. “The Lords have shown me that darkness exists. That you don’t have to die in order to burn. And then you came along …” I place both of my hands on her wet face, and she blinks, allowing the first tear to run down her cheek. “I can see you, touch you, and kiss you.” I wipe it away with my thumb. “I can love you.” My eyes drop to her plump lips, and her bottom one trembles. “You, Blakely Rae Archer, are my heaven.” Letting go of her face, I pick up her left hand and bring her knuckles to my lips, kissing her wedding ring. “I made a vow to protect you, Blake, and I’ll show anyone who tries to hurt you my version of hell.” I’d set the world on fire, including myself, if it meant saving her.

She is the sun, moon, and all the stars in the sky. She is my light.’ That’s the man I would wait for eternity for because no other could ever measure up. I love you so much that I would rather have walked away than settle for anything less, especially if it meant you were happy.

I didn’t respond, instead turning away so that my body wasn’t angled directly toward his. My stomach swooped, a feeling so unfamiliar and uneasy. Because his grin was the type of imperfect crooked grin that made you want to grin back, and his eyes…if you looked past the dark bruise, they were straight out of one of the fantasy novels that Claire and I loved so much. The eye color of an alluring stranger you weren’t sure you should trust but soon had to share a bed with for whatever reason on the quest you were on, then eventually fell so irrevocably in love with that you would die for each other. Basically, an eye color that wasn’t supposed to exist in real life: deep turquoise with gold rings around them.

When you love Halloween so much you need to write a book, then you stumble upon a porn scene that needs to be included in said book. Happy Reading.

2 to 2gether together 4 for 4eva forever any1 anyone BFF best friends forever BFFAE best friends forever and ever b-room bathroom b/t between c See caf cafeteria comm committee comp computer DEK don’t even know def definitely diff different disc discussion fab fabulous fac faculty fave favorite fone phone fyi for your information gtg gotta go gn good night gnight good night hw homework ICB I can’t believe IDC I don’t care IDK I don’t know IHNC I have no clue IK I know ILY I love you ILYSM I love you so much JK just kidding K okay L8r later LMK let me know lol laugh out loud luv love n e way anyway nums numbers obv obviously obvi obviously OMG oh my God peeps people pgs pages plzzzz please pos possibly q question r are rlly really sci science sec second sem semester scheds schedules SWAK sealed with a kiss TBH to be honest thx thanks tm tomorrow tmrw tomorrow tomrw tomorrow tomw tomorrow totes totally u you ur your vv very, very w/ with wb write back w/o without WIGO what is going on whatev whatever wut what wuzzzz what’s Y why

I love you, Dove. I love you so fucking much, and no one is going to come between us again. I’ll kill anyone who tries, anyone who even thinks about it. You’re mine, and I am yours. Say it,” I urge, needing to hear her say the words. “I am yours,” she whispers, and I’ve never heard truer words in my life.

Oftentimes we journey through life aspiring to desire more, but past traumas, self-unforgiveness, and self-sabotage can hinder our progress! Hopefully this prayer will initiate the healing process, freeing you to receive all the blessings God has in store for you. Let’s pray: Prayer for Self-Forgiveness “God of mercy and restoration, I come not to hide, but to heal. I lay down every regret, every harsh word I’ve spoken to myself, every moment I’ve replayed in shame. You are not the voice of condemnation—you are the whisper of redemption.Today, I choose to agree with heaven. I release myself from the weight of perfection and receive the gift of grace. I am not defined by my past—I am refined by Your presence. Teach me to see myself through Your eyes: loved, chosen, and still becoming. I forgive myself, not because I deserve it, but because You declared it. And Your word is final. Amen.” Affirmations for Self-Forgiveness You can speak these aloud or write them in your journal. “I am not my mistake—I am God’s masterpiece in motion.” “I release the need to punish myself. Grace is my portion.” “My past is a classroom, not a prison.” “I forgive myself because heaven already has.” “I am worthy of love, even from me.” “I walk in divine compassion, starting with myself.” “I am becoming, and that is holy.” I pray this helps you. You deserve so much more than you’ve been through. Don’t miss your moment. God loves you!

Wherever you are, the places you go, the horrors you’ll see, the people you’ll befriend, please remember me…remember the girl with the crazy hair who is thinking about you every day. You’re not alone, Damian. You’ll never be alone again and you are loved...so much.

You know damn well the minute you give Gia as much as a paper cut, I drain your sister, then make a nice high-end sex doll from her deflated corpse. We both have too much to lose. So how about we cut to the chase?

Eventually we ended up at the shelf that held Chaplin's entire back catalog. I found I was whispering to myself: "Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot." The dream I'd had earlier that morning came back to me. "Th-th-that's from L-Limelight, right?" Tsutaya missed nothing. In Limelight, the little tramp, played by Charlie Chaplin, tries to stop a ballet dancer, whose hopes have been dashed, from committing suicide. He tells the dancer: "Life is a beautiful, magnificent thing, even to a jelly-fish." He was right, even jellyfish are here for a reason-they have meaning. And if that's the case, then movies and music, coffee and pretty much everything else must have some kind of meaning, too. Once you start down that path, then even all those "unnecessary things" turn out to be important for some reason or another. If you're trying to separate out the countless "meaningless things" in the world from everything else, you'll eventually have to make a judgment about human beings, about our existence. In my case, I suppose it's all the movies I've seen, and the memories I have of them that give my life meaning. They've made me who I am. To live means: to cry and shout, to love, to do silly things, to feel sadness and joy, to even experience horrible, frightening things ... and to laugh. Beautiful songs, beautiful scenery, feeling nauseous, people singing, planes flying across the sky, the thundering hooves of horses, mouth-watering pancakes, the endless darkness of space, cowboys firing their pistols at dawn... And next to all the movies that play on a loop inside me, sit the images of friends, lovers, the family, who were with me when I watched them. Then there are the countless films that I've recorded in my own imagination-the memories that run through my head, which are so beautiful, they bring tears to my eyes. I've been stringing together the movies I've seen like rosary beads-all human hope and disappointment is held together by a thread. It doesn't take much to see that all life's coincidences eventually add up to one big inevitability. "S-s-s-so, I guess that's all, right?" Tsutaya put Limelight in a bag and handed it to me. "Thanks.

I love you, Kairhyse.” “I love you so much, Xeraphine. For our eternity. Whether that is in this life, or in our next. I promise every version of me will eternally belong to you.

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I love you so fucking much,” he said. Sadly. Dejectedly. Like he’d fought a war and lost it. “It sickens me.” He ripped himself away from me at once, scurrying to the end of the bed like I’d caught on fire. His back was to me, bare and moving wildly with his breaths. He gripped his hair, elbows pressed against his knees. “I can’t stand it. When I love someone, I lose them. I can’t lose you.” “You won’t lose me.” I flattened my palm to his damp back. “I mean… you will, eventually, to death, I suppose.” “Don’t be so sure,” he muttered. “You’d be surprised at the sum I’m willing to pay to make sure you’re immortal.

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[T]he world as a whole and all beings individually are radically dependent on God. Such radical dependence is far more than a sense of partial dependence on God in some regions of our experience or at some especially difficult moments in our life. In confessing that Godi s creator and that we are creatures, we acknowledge that we are finite, contingent, radically dependent beings. We express our awareness that we might not have been, that our very existence and every moment of our experience is a gift received from a source beyond ourselves. The realization of this radical contingency, of our awareness of being primarily recipients of life, is what some philosophers and theologians have called the 'shock of nonbeing'. You and I are not necessary. We are creatures who exist at the pleasure of our creator. As contingent beings, our existence is precarious. We are frequently reminded of our frailty by sickness and failure, by the loss of loved ones and our awareness that we too must die, and even by the positive experiences of joy, happiness, and contentment - all of which come and go so quickly. Experiencing a moment of intense beauty that we would like to possess forever, feeling impotent in the face of injustice, witnessing the birth of a child, or being present of the funeral of a child - all this and so much more is taken up into our confession of our creatureliness. Our hold on life is fragile. We are finite. The resources of our community and nation are finite. The resources of the world are finite. Like the grass that withers and dies (Isa. 40:6), all creatures and the earth itself live on the edge of nonbeing. We did not bring ourselves into existence, and we cannot guarantee our continued existence.... This sense of being radically dependent on God for our very existence is closely related to the Christian awareness of salvation in Christ by grace alone. We are created and justified by grace alone. As creatures and as forgiven sinners, we are recipients of grace.... Radical dependence on God as a theme of the doctrine of creation must be properly interpreted, especially today when it is charged that Christian theology has often inculcated a spirit of passivity and service dependence. The God on whom we are radically dependent is the God who wills us to be free and calls us to responsibility. Reliance on the God of the gospel is radical liberation from all servile dependencies. Thus, far from being a theological putdown, the doctrine of creation is the basis of human dignity and freedom. But the freedom God wills is a freedom for life in communion with and loving service of others. God, our creator, the triune God, is the graciously liberating God who wills freedom in community.