Lane Moore Quotes

He’s disturbingly sexual to men and women alike in a way that sets your teeth on edge. With Barrons you aren’t sure if you’re going to get fucked or turned inside out and left a new unrecognizable person adrift with no moorings on a see with no bottom and no rules.

People who reject you for being broken after they're the ones who broke you, or who act like they're not the problem and the problem is the issues you had before them, are evil. They just are.

At times I've struggled to feel seen, to have my history feel seen, to have where I come from feel seen because I 'turned out great.' But that doesn't meant that I Am Fine. I am working every day, tirelessly, like you wouldn't believe, on being fine, f**king finally, can we get this over with, I'm so tired and I just want to travel and eat and smile and move through the world with a semblance of peace.

When you have a lot of shine to you, as so many bighearted people often do, you can attract a lot of people easily, because people are drawn to it, that kind of light. It can be so easy to forget that not everyone deserves your shine. But when you spend so much of your earliest years being told you have no shine at all, even though you're pretty sure maybe you do, and someone finally tells you they see it too, you do, you have it, you want to give them everything. Because of this, more often than not, you're not falling in love with them, you're using them as a way to fall in love with yourself.

The Friend Zone, while not always ideal, is still a goddamn gift, and really, the definition of true love. If you love someone, or even just care about them, as you claim to, you don’t mind the Friend Zone at all, because sure, fine, you don’t get to French them and stuff, but you get to know them and be close to them and hear all the dumb things that run through their minds and all the brilliant things that they don’t even know are brilliant. You get to know them and share the same air, and you’re alive at the same time, which is a gift in and of itself. If you don’t want the Friend Zone, you don’t want the girl. Simple as that.

It’s absolutely better to be by yourself than with someone you don’t even like. Or whom you do like but they don’t make you feel super great.

When I’m with friends now, as an adult, I don’t want to have polite adult tea and talk about our jobs. I don’t want to sit in dress pants while we talk about a New Yorker article. Not really. I want to lie on the couch, cozy in blankets, watching movies, feeling safe enough to pass out and stay the night if we want to. I want to turn English muffins into foundations for pizza bagels at ten p.m., even though they’re not as good as bagels and we know it. I want to tell each other things we can’t talk about online, or we can’t tell our coworkers, and to cry and still be lovable, even if we’re in pain sometimes. To break in front of each other, and pick up the pieces together, before making some dumb joke and telling each other we love each other and knowing we’re safe to be all of it.

I’m open to being attracted to any gender and rarely attracted to any, so miss me with this stupid idea that in any room everyone is appealing to me because they’re technically a gender I have dated.

I really just want someone to come over and brush my hair or let me cry in their lap while they pet my head and tell me I'll be okay." And I cried harder because I felt so ashamed to want that from a friend—from someone who was not a romantic partner or a parent⁠—because I didn't have either right now but I still wanted it. We section off physical comfort and intimacy so heavily. We reserve it for partners only, and platonic friends can only chit-chat and that's it. How can you tell people to be okay with being single while also telling them they can only get the basic human needs of physical touch from not being single?

I've realized that sometimes being alone truly is better than being around people, especially if they're the wrong people. Sometimes you just need time to yourself and it doesn't make you weird or wrong. It's a sign you really like spending time with you, which is health as shit, so good job.

There’s a very particular no-mans-land that comes with having alive parents who are technically there, could technically take you in if you really needed somewhere to go, but if you went there you wouldn’t be any safer than anywhere else.

When you don’t have the affection and or attachment you should have at home, it’s totally natural that you’d quickly become someone who is OBSESSED with friendships.

Let me briefly affirm that you choose your labels. You choose those you show them to. You choose when the labels change, if they change. None of us is just one of anything.

One flaw in my make up, perhaps (though I don’t really see it as one), is that once you’ve meant something to me you’re in my heart forever.

If I have ever loved someone on any level, in a way, I always will. And I expect, perhaps naïvely, that those people will always care about me.

Bamboo grows underground for three years before it sprouts up to thirty feet tall. Nothing blooms year-round, so if you need to be alone right now, that's what you need.

nothing ruins Halloween faster than a male Wiccan’s penis.)

the kinds of connections that are just close enough to what you want, while also being exactly what you currently need.

I wish I could give you a clean and simple business card explaining what happened so I could be the kind of orphan who would immediately make sense to everyone. Like if my parents had a socially recognizable problem that immediately explained their inability to take care of me and my sister. Something I could put on paper and hand to people as proof. “Here. This is why.

Those people (and shitty TV shows who make cheap jokes about bisexuality not being a thing) have no idea how much time bisexual and queer people spend thinking about their sexuality. The

And not because surviving trauma makes you better or worse, but because trauma can make you feel like you’re weird, unlike anyone else, and no one could possibly relate to you or see you and give you what you need.

And more than anything, feel proud of yourself, because you didn’t let being other kill you. You’re still here, and one day maybe you’ll have a family of your own and you’ll love the holidays. Or maybe you’ll never like this time of year. Either way, you’ll still be here, living. Sometimes that’s the bravest thing of all. And if you don’t believe me, it’s a line in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and as I and I both know, that show is everything.

So if you raised yourself and you’re listening to this, I am so proud of you. You raised a hell of a kid and it wasn’t easy! I can’t even imagine — no one can! Okay, I kind of can, but still. But you’re here and you could have easily backslid into pain and nothingness and worthlessness and hopelessness. And maybe you did backslide, time and again. But every time, you climbed back up and tried to be kinder and softer and find more room in your heart for compassion instead of hatred; hope instead of defeat. And let me tell you, someone (YOU) raised you right.

That time in my life was so full of horrible people and just the worst luck, it was nearly impossible for me to trust anyone. I kept worrying, What if I’m making the wrong decisions again? But sometimes life allows you to form

I’ve never had that thing of like “Leave stuff at your parents’ house.” Because the second I left home, I gave away or threw away everything and I regret it all the time but I know why I did it. I didn’t know if I was ever coming back or could come back and I didn’t want to leave something and then later need it and have no way to get it back.

I can’t describe to you how it feels to go from thinking you have a true partner, true best friend, and true soul mate to seeing that person become your abuser—and then seeing them cheat on you and see that maybe you were a mark all along, a pawn in a game you didn’t see coming that played out exactly the way they intended. I’ve experienced so many shades of this before, and all I can say is this: If you see a woman who is working super hard to become who she’s meant to be and to achieve the things she wants to achieve, and you have nothing to add to her life or to give back to her in any way, please just leave her the fuck alone.

So you take physical affection when you can get it, almost feeling guilty when you do. You might sleep with someone just to get to the cuddling part, knowing full well that if cuddling had been on the table, you might not have even slept with them to begin with. You might get super happy when your yoga teachers do adjustments because having someone touch you in a safe, gentle way⁠—even for two seconds⁠—feels like it changes your whole world. I know I do. Partly because human beings are designed to be physically comforted by one another.

We section off physical comfort and intimacy so heavily. We reserve it for partners only, and platonic friends can only chitchat and that's it. How can you tell people to be okay with being single while also telling them they can only get the basic human needs of physical touch from not being single?

Empathy is the currency of people who’ve been there, and wish things had gone differently. And yet many times, there are people who’ve been to hell and back and have somehow returned with very little empathy for others who struggle in that way or, in Seth’s case, they have actively developed it because they cared enough to do so.

Can we just eat scones now and make out and have fun and change the world and be cute for the rest of our lives?

What was it about being so close to danger that filled us with adrenaline?

At this point in my life, I often fear it’s too late, as if there were a sign-up deadline for intimacy and friends and family and I just kept missing it.

the empire that is won by the sword must be sustained by the same weapon. Honest

Some choose darkness, others are chosen by it.

You know your whole story. You know everything.

Apparently she knows.

There is no greater mistake than to imagine that the Arabs, who spread with such astonishing rapidity over half the civilized world, were in any real sense a united people. So far was this from being the truth, that it demanded all Mohammed's diplomatic skill, and all his marvellous personal prestige, to keep up a semblance of unity even while he was alive. The Arabs were made up of a number of hostile tribes or clans, many of whom had been engaged in deadly blood-feuds for several generations, and all of whom were moved by a spirit of tribal jealousy which was never entirely extinguished. Had the newly-founded Mohammedan State been restrained within the borders of Arabia, there can be no doubt that it would speedily have collapsed in the rivalry of the several clans;

Because sometimes people come into our lives just to show us what we don’t want, and those people have given us the gift of being a mirror. And that mirror shows us who we really are and all that we’ve buried, all the needs we’ve pushed underground because they seemed unsightly. And if we’re lucky, another friend comes into the picture soon after, to confirm that the needs we’ve buried can be met, can rise from the earth like buds, to be watered, and nurtured by the people around us, until we see that our needs were not burdens, not unsightly flaws to be worked on, but instead, vital parts of us that deserve to bloom.

How many times I've sat with people, even as an adult, wishing I could hold their hand, or lie in their lap, or cry in front of them, or tell them how I really felt about them, or ask them how they really felt about me, and how many hours I wasted thinking of how I would do it, when I should do it, begging myself to "just do it now! Who cares!" Then once I did it, I'd wish I'd done it much sooner because it's was fine, it was safe, I was safe.

What if you fall outside all the boxes? What are you supposed to do then, other than wrestle with the feelings of otherness, the "oh shit, my sexual-identity deadline is here and I don't have all my paperwork filled out yet"? There really is something about being able to put yourself into one concise, well-marked, tidy section of society, dusting your hands off on your pants. "That's that. Now I can move on with my day." But it's not that simple.

you’re allowed to want a friendship to be able to give you everything you need, even if they don’t understand those needs because their needs are different. You’re allowed to hold out for someone who can meet you where you’re at.

You don’t want too many things. You want what you damn well want, which everyone is allowed. There is so much rhetoric I see, saying that you shouldn’t “expect you from other people.” That people are limited, and they can’t be expected to give you as much as you give them. But it is so important to remember that you are very much allowed to require you from other people if that’s what you need. If you give a lot emotionally, you are absolutely allowed to hold out for someone who can give the same amount of emotional resonance, the same amount of compassion, when they are able. And if someone sees those needs and knows they can’t provide them, that’s OK, too, but you’re allowed to have them just the same.

We spend so much time in our childhoods learning about practicing fairness, but the world itself is not fair, as much as we’d like it to be. We’re not all walking the same path, with the same resources and the exact same timing. Ideally, we’d all get the support systems we were promised, but then some of us don’t, and no one taught us how to fill in those cracks. No one teaches us how to find power in vulnerability, how to build intimacy, how to grow as a person, or how to grieve when you’ve outgrown the people you once loved. Or when they outgrow you.

For one, I think our friendship blurred a lot of heteronormative lines, and from stories I've heard from other women, this happens a lot. It doesn't even necessarily mean either one of you is queer, but when you're a teenager, there is an overall pressure to be "normal," and spending that much time with someone of the same sex can quickly call "normal" into question. This type of intimacy and closeness is not often socially sanctioned, as we're told it's reserved for your romantic partner, who—in your teen years especially—is "supposed" to be someone of the opposite sex.

We don't give the people who don't have the right connection and supreme wealth the map to where the opportunities are, and then they forge a path there themselves, against immense offs, we charge them a fee for admission we know they can't afford. And then we reward incredibly fortunate, connected, and bankrolled creators without acknowledging there was almost no way they would ever fail.

So often it can seem like life would be so much easier if people didn’t need each other, or if everyone could just ask for what they need in a way we can hear, or if everyone could just intuit what we need so we don’t have to say it. It’s so easy to think people are islands, and anyone who gets stranded on another island did something wrong, or they should reach out to the other support systems they may or may not have, because we “shouldn’t have to” take care of them. And that is all the more reason we should choose the friendships we cultivate carefully, so that if someone we’ve chosen, someone we love, is more isolated than we knew and doesn’t have anyone but us, we will see this as a gift, an opportunity to be the person who finally shows up. To see their SOS and finally answer the call, ideally, before they even have to make it.

The whole point here is you have to do what’s right for you. Just as they are doing what is right for them. Everyone’s allowed to change and grow, absolutely. In the same vein, you’re allowed to say, or simply feel, “What you can give me is less than what I need from you right now, so let’s change how we interact, and here’s how I need to do that in a way that feels right to me.” Being a good friend doesn’t mean simply going along for the ride while the other person guides the friendship wherever they want to take it. You are allowed to say that you’d like this person to be X type of friend, and if they see it differently, they are allowed to say so as well. And then it is absolutely within your rights, and theirs, to either be OK with that difference or to part ways, no harm, no foul. The most important thing to remember is that you were not made to endure your friendships. You were made to enjoy them. Adjust the levels as necessary.

A LITTLE while, a little while, The weary task is put away, And I can sing and I can smile, Alike, while I have holiday. Where wilt thou go, my harassed heart-- What thought, what scene invites thee now What spot, or near or far apart, Has rest for thee, my weary brow? There is a spot, 'mid barren hills, Where winter howls, and driving rain; But, if the dreary tempest chills, There is a light that warms again. The house is old, the trees are bare, Moonless above bends twilight's dome; But what on earth is half so dear-- So longed for--as the hearth of home? The mute bird sitting on the stone, The dank moss dripping from the wall, The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown, I love them--how I love them all! Still, as I mused, the naked room, The alien firelight died away; And from the midst of cheerless gloom, I passed to bright, unclouded day. A little and a lone green lane That opened on a common wide; A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain Of mountains circling every side. A heaven so clear, an earth so calm, So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air; And, deepening still the dream-like charm, Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere. THAT was the scene, I knew it well; I knew the turfy pathway's sweep, That, winding o'er each billowy swell, Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep. Could I have lingered but an hour, It well had paid a week of toil; But Truth has banished Fancy's power: Restraint and heavy task recoil. Even as I stood with raptured eye, Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear, My hour of rest had fleeted by, And back came labour, bondage, care.

Spring Lane burned with a mythology of chipped slates, pale wash-water blue and flaking at the seam. The summer yellow glow of an impending dawn diffused, diluted in the million-gallon sky above the tannery that occupied this low end of the ancient gradient, across the narrow street from where Phyllis and Michael stood outside the alley-mouth. The tannery’s high walls of browning brick with rusted wire mess over its high windows didn’t have the brutal aura that the building had down in the domain of the living. Rather it was softly iridescent with a sheen of fond remembrance – the cloisters of some mediaeval craft since disappeared – and had the homely perfume of manure and boiled sweets. Past the peeling wooden gates that lolled skew-whiff were yards where puddles stained a vivid tangerine harboured reflected chimney stacks, lamp black and wavering. Heaped leather shavings tinted with corrosive sapphire stood between the fire-opal pools, an azure down mounded into fantastic nests by thunderbirds to hatch their legendary fledglings. Rainspouts eaten through by time had diamond dribble beading on their chapped tin lips, and every splinter and subsided cobble sang with endless being. Michael Warren stood entranced and Phyllis Painter stood beside him, sharing his enchantment, looking at the heart-caressing vista through his eyes. The district’s summer sounds were, in her ears, reduced to a rich stock. The lengthy intervals between the bumbling drones of distant motorcars, the twittering filigree of birdsong strung along the guttered eaves, the silver gurgle of a buried torrent echoing deep in the night-throat of a drain, all these were boiled down to a single susurrus, the hissing tingling reverberation of a cymbal struck by a soft brush. The instant jingled in the breeze.

My parents were going out to dinner when I was six or so, and before they left, I felt instantly desperate and went to the bathroom and grabbed my mom's lipstick and put red dots all over my body and then begged them not to go. "I have chicken pox, you can't leave," I said. I remember they both laughed and laughed and then they left. And I cried and couldn't stop. They laughed at me like a was a wacky little child pulling a wacky stunt: kids say the darnedest things, etc. But I think about that night all the time, that little kid desperate for someone to love her, take care of her, spend any time at all with her, make her feel connected to literally anyone or anything and they just laughed. And left.

He smiled and pulled the ugly white fichu from her neck. She blinked and looked down at the simple, square neckline of her bodice as if she'd never seen it. Perhaps she hadn't. Perhaps she dressed in the dark like a nun. "What are you doing?" He sighed. "I confess, I find your naïveté perplexing. How have you arrived at the advanced age of six and twenty without having anyone attempt seduction upon yourself? I'm of two minds on the matter: One, utter astonishment at my sex and their deaf disregard for your siren call. Two, glee at the thought that your innocence might signal that you are indeed innocent. Why this should excite me so, I don't know- virginity has never before been a particular whim of mine. I think perhaps it's the setting. Who knows how many virgins were deflowered here by my lusty ancestors? Or," he said as he deftly unpinned and tossed aside her apron, "maybe it's simply you." "I don't..." Her words trailed off and then, interestingly, she blushed a deep rose. Well. That question settled, then. His little maiden was really a maiden. "What?" "I think it's you," he confided, pulling the strings tying her hideous mobcap beneath her chin. She made a wild grab for it, but he was faster, snatching the bloody thing off- finally, and with a great deal of satisfaction. She might've deprived him of a wife that it'd taken him half a year and a rather large sum of money to entangle, but by God, he'd taken off her awful cap. And underneath... "Oh, Séraphine," he breathed, enchanted, for her hair was as black as coal, as black as night, as black as his own soul, save for one white streak just over her left eye. But she'd twisted and braided and tortured the strands, binding them tight to her head, and his fingers itched to let them free. "Don't!" she said, as if she knew what he wanted, her hands flying up to cover her hair. He batted them aside, laughing, pulling a pin here, a pin there, dropping them carelessly to the carpet as she squealed like a little girl and backed away from him, trying frantically to ward off his fingers. He might've taken pity on her had he not just spent an hour on a freezing moor, wondering if he was going to find her dead, neck broken, at the bottom of a hill. Her hair came down all at once, a tumbling mass, tousled and heavy and nearly down to her waist. "Wonderful," he murmured, taking it in both hands and lifting it.

For nearly eight centuries, under her Mohammedan rulers, Spain set to all Europe a shining example of a civilized and enlightened State. Her fertile provinces, rendered doubly prolific by the industry and engineering skill of her conquerors, bore fruit an hundredfold. Cities innumerable sprang up in the rich valleys of the Guadelquivir and the Guadiana, whose names, and names only, still commemorate the vanished glories of their past. Art, literature, and science prospered, as they then prospered nowhere else in Europe. Students flocked from France and Germany and England to drink from the fountain of learning which flowed only in the cities of the Moors. The surgeons and doctors of Andalusia were in the van of science: women were encouraged to devote themselves to serious study, and the lady doctor was not unknown among the people of Cordova. Mathematics, astronomy and botany, history, philosophy and jurisprudence were to be mastered in Spain, and Spain alone. The practical work of the field, the scientific methods of irrigation, the arts of fortification and shipbuilding, the highest and most elaborate products of the loom, the graver and the hammer, the potter's wheel and the mason's trowel, were brought to perfection by the Spanish Moors. In the practice of war no less than in the arts of peace they long stood supreme.

Know what’s nice about you, Lily?” he said, laughter still threading his voice. “I can’t imagine,” she snapped. “You never change.” “Neither do you. You’re as obnoxious as ever.” “That’s me. Ran on the obnoxious ticket,” he agreed complacently. “Landslide victory.” She was driving like a maniac, switching lanes as though she were in a chase scene in a cops and robbers film. Throughout, Sean remained aggravatingly relaxed. His fingers threaded behind his neck, he merely observed in a bored drawl, “By the way, we have speed limits in Coral Beach.” “Tough. I can’t get to May Ellen’s fast enough, if it means I get to be rid of you.” He sighed. “There you go, breaking my heart. I was hoping we’d have time to reminisce. No?

Steve drove the next morning as we made the turn for the Burdekin River. The single-lane dirt road, as small as it was, ended there--but we had another two or three hours of four-wheel driving to go. We navigated through deep ravines carved by the area’s repeated cyclone-fed floods, occasionally balancing on three wheels. “Hang out the window, will you?” Steve shouted as we maneuvered around the edge of a forty-foot drop. “I need to you to help counterbalance the truck.” You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought. But there I was, hanging off the side of the bull bar while Steve threaded his way over the eroding track. As we pounded and slammed our way deep into the bush, Steve talked about the area’s Aborigines. He pointed out a butte where European colonists massacred a host of the Aboriginal population in Victorian times. The landscape was alive to him, not only with human history, but with the complex interrelatedness of plants, animals, and the environment. He pointed out giant 150-year-old eucalypts, habitats for insectivorous bats, parrots, and brush-tailed possums. After hours of bone-jarring terrain, we reached the Burdekin, a beautiful river making its way through the tea trees. It was a breathtaking place. We set up camp--by which I mean Steve did--at a fork in the river, where huge black boulders stood exposed in the middle of the water. I tried to help, but I felt completely out of my depth. He unpacked the boat and the motor, got it tied and moored on the river, rolled out the swags, and lined up containers of fuel, water, and food. Then he started stringing tarps. What a gift Steve had for setting up camp. He had done it countless times before, month in and month out, all by himself, with only Sui for company. I watched him secure ropes, tie knots, and stretch canvas like he was expecting that we’d have to withstand a cyclone. It was hot, more than a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, but Steve didn’t seem to notice. Sui found a little shallow place at the edge of the river and immediately plopped herself in. I saw Steve look over at her as if calculating her chances of being snatched by a croc. Crocodiles are the ultimate camouflage attack predators, striking from the water’s edge. There would never be “down time” for Steve. No time to sit down and unwind. We were off in an instant. We grabbed Sui, jumped in the boat, and headed upstream. White Burdekin ducks startled up in front of our boat, their dark neck-rings revealed as they flew over us. Cormorants dried their feathers on the mid-river boulders, wings fully open. It was magical and unspoiled, as if we were the first people ever to travel there.

Either way, I just couldn’t do it anymore. It no longer seemed worth it to try to be someone I’m not especially when I love all the things that I am. I love how intensely I love people. Especially despite my background. I think it’s an incredible gift to meet people you connect with and want to give all of yourself to. To be able to risk that much of yourself to go all in with someone because why the fuck not?

The secret of life is to have a task, something you devote your entire life to, something you bring everything to, every minute of the day for your whole life. And the most important thing is- it must be something you cannot possibly do.” Henry Moore

There is no greater mistake than to imagine that the Arabs, who spread with such astonishing rapidity over half the civilized world, were in any real sense a united people. So far was this from being the truth, that it demanded all Mohammed’s diplomatic skill, and all his marvellous personal prestige, to keep up a semblance of unity even while he was alive.

That's the thing about "being funny": It actually, often, comes from struggle and trauma--from being doubted, being told you're too much, being told you're too little. It comes from people assuming that because you're funny, you can take a punch that really didn't need to be thrown" -

Othman prowled the lanes of Little Moor, dragging his intentions behind him like smoke.

Do you have a driver's license?" "Of course," she said, not knowing if it was true or not. She was already sitting behind the steering wheel. He tossed her the keys and she turned the ignition as he climbed into the car. She pressed hard on the gas pedal and the car shrieked away from the curb. The back end fishtailed. She needed to get to school quickly and find some answers. She had a feeling that Catty wasn't going to last long in that place. The light turned yellow ahead of her. "Slow down!" Derek shouted as the car in front of them stopped for the light. She didn't let up. "You're going to rear-end it!" Derek cried, and his foot pressed the floor as if he were trying to work an invisible brake. She jerked the steering wheel, swerved smoothly around the car, and blasted through the intersection, ignoring the flurry of horns and screeching tires. Derek snapped his seat belt in place. "Why are you in such a hurry to get to school?" "Geometry test," she answered, and buzzed around two more cars. At the next junction she needed to make a left-hand turn, but the line of traffic waiting for the green arrow would delay her too long. She continued in her lane, and when she reached the intersection, she turned in front of the car with the right-of-way. Angry honks followed her as she blasted onto the next street. "We've got time, Tianna!" Derek yelled. "School doesn't start for another fifteen minutes." Would fifteen minutes give her enough time to get the answers she needed? She didn't think so. She pressed her foot harder on the accelerator. The school was at least a mile away, but if she ignored the next light and the next, then maybe she could get there with enough time to question Corrine. She didn't think her powers were strong enough to change the lights and she didn't want to chance endangering other drivers, but she was sure she could at least slow down the cross traffic. She concentrated on the cars zooming east and west on Beverly Boulevard in front of her without slowing her speed. "Tianna!" Derek yelled. "You've got a red light!" She squinted and stalled a Jaguar in the crosswalk. Cars honked impatiently behind the car, and when a Toyota tried to speed around it, she stopped it, too. She could feel the pressure building inside her as she made a Range Rover and a pick-up slide to a halt. She shot through the busy intersection against the light. Derek turned back. "You've got to be the luckiest person in the world.

You’ve never been to heaven until you’ve heard Lane Collins praising you as a good girl, and I will take no opinions on this.

Loving Lane Collins is the easiest thing I’ve ever done. That’s how love should be. Effortless yet monumental, like thunder in a rainstorm or the sun rising above the clouds each morning. And the most important thing that loving Lane has taught me? Love isn’t conditional. It doesn’t have terms or expectations. It doesn’t matter if two people fit together. All that matters is that together… you feel whole.

For a moment, we stay that way, holding each other’s gaze as the thunderstorm rages on around us. For a moment, it’s just the two of us, existing in a little bubble of Lane and Hallie. One that I’m not ready to let go of, especially not after the day we spent together.

I’m half-asleep as I whisper the words, and the last thing I remember before my eyes shut is the look in Lane’s eyes. It feels like… adoration.

You are a dangerous man, Lane Collins,

I can’t help but grin against his skin. I love this—I could spend every day making Lane crazy out of his mind for me.

Then I’ll spend forever kissing Lane Collins.

Os segredos têm uma maneira de comer as pessoas vivas.

Naquele dia passei a compreender que os fracos não têm lugar nesta terra e que aqueles que os atacam são igualmente dignos de extinção.

Veniam solum, relinquatis et.

Eu não seria capaz de sobreviver sem ela.

Some Choose Darkness—was like a homeowner hanging a plastic owl on the side of their house to scare off woodpeckers.

He loved her just the way she was built and had never tried to rebuild her, as so many others in her life had attempted—from shrinks to

The years were out of his control; how he handled them was completely up to him.

Discovery consists of seeing what everybody else has seen and thinking what nobody else has thought. —Albert Szent-Györgyi

book Wild Hunger: The Primal Roots of Modern Addiction,16 the rejection of beauty, one of the ageless sources of regeneration, is at the root of much of the addiction which characterizes modern society. The wiser person seeks beauty in all things. He or she seeks to live a life that nourishes the soul, and “the depth of interiority and quality in which it flourishes”, as Thomas Moore writes. He or she discovers epiphanies in the contemplation of timeless realities, and seeks to move through the deep imagination, the royal road to the sacred.

biography much easier. On a personal note, I should like to thank Stanley R. Moore, Dr. Michael Rostafinski, and John Tebbel for advice and information; my wife and "first reader," Reade Johnson; and my editor at John Wiley, Hana Lane, for

Aaaand then came the news that it paid, like, two hundred dollars a month for full-time work, which was a third of what I'd been told by people that it paid. I guess they cut the pay drastically because...fuck it. Having just come off a four-month, nearly full-time internship that paid absolutely nothing, having this full-time position pay next to nothing felt like a punishment in the most delightful form, but a punishment nonetheless. I know now that these industry practices are put in place with the assumption that everyone in the arts comes from a wealthy family who will bankroll them for The Opportunity, thereby shutting out people who have families but don't have money, or people who don't have anyone at all, and however you feel about that concept, it ultimately results in a loss of art from some of the people I want to hear most.

John Vernall lifted up his head, the milk locks that had given him his nickname stirring in the third floor winds, and stared with pale grey eyes out over Lambeth, over London. Snowy's dad had once explained to him and his young sister Thursa how by altering one's altitude, one's level on the upright axis of this seemingly three-planed existence, it was possible to catch a glimpse of the elusive fourth plane, the fourth axis, which was time. Or was at any rate, at least in Snowy's understanding of their father's Bedlam lectures, what most people saw as time from the perspective of a world impermanent and fragile, vanished into nothingness and made anew from nothing with each passing instant, all its substance disappeared into a past that was invisible from their new angle and which thus appeared no longer to be there. For the majority of people, Snowy realised, the previous hour was gone forever and the next did not exist yet. They-were trapped in their thin, moving pane of Now: a filmy membrane that might fatally disintegrate at any moment, stretched between two dreadful absences. This view of life and being as frail, flimsy things that were soon ended did not match in any way with Snowy Vernall's own, especially not from a glorious vantage like his current one, mucky nativity below and only reefs of hurtling cloud above. His increased elevation had proportionately shrunken and reduced the landscape, squashing down the buildings so that if he were by some means to rise higher still, he knew that all the houses, churches and hotels would be eventually compressed in only two dimensions, flattened to a street map or a plan, a smouldering mosaic where the roads and lanes were cobbled silver lines binding factory-black ceramic chips in a Miltonic tableau. From the roof-ridge where he perched, soles angled inwards gripping the damp tiles, the rolling Thames was motionless, a seam of iron amongst the city's dusty strata. He could see from here a river, not just shifting liquid in a stupefying volume. He could see the watercourse's history bound in its form, its snaking path of least resistance through a valley made by the collapse of a great chalk fault somewhere to the south behind him, white scarps crashing in white billows a few hundred feet uphill and a few million years ago. The bulge of Waterloo, off to his north, was simply where the slide of rock and mud had stopped and hardened, mammoth-trodden to a pasture where a thousand chimneys had eventually blossomed, tarry-throated tubeworms gathering around the warm miasma of the railway station. Snowy saw the thumbprint of a giant mathematic power, untold generations caught up in the magnet-pattern of its loops and whorls. On the loose-shoelace stream's far side was banked the scorched metropolis, its edifices rising floor by floor into a different kind of time, the more enduring continuity of architecture, markedly distinct from the clock-governed scurry of humanity occurring on the ground. In London's variously styled and weathered spires or bridges there were interrupted conversations with the dead, with Trinovantes, Romans, Saxons, Normans, their forgotten and obscure agendas told in stone. In celebrated landmarks Snowy heard the lonely, self-infatuated monologues of kings and queens, fraught with anxieties concerning their significance, lives squandered in pursuit of legacy, an optical illusion of the temporary world which they inhabited. The avenues and monuments he overlooked were barricades' against oblivion, ornate breastwork flung up to defer a future in which both the glorious structures and the memories of those who'd founded them did not exist.

But worse- much, much worse- she'd run away herself. That was unpardonable, unforgivable, unjustifiable. Hit him, shame him, spit at him- anything but turn her back on him. She couldn't simply quit their game. That, that was not allowed. And when he'd realized that she was out there on the stormy night moor, alone save an aristocratic lady and a goddamned bloody pony... He growled beneath his breath. She stilled against him, like a rabbit under a hound's jaws, her heart beating rapidly, and he was glad. She ought to be afraid of him. He was a very bad man and she was completely under his power. He could do anything to her. Anything at all, really. Time she learned that.

The woman who'd shot him had eyes the color of the sky above the moors just after a storm: blue-gray sky after black clouds. That particular shade of blue had been one of the few things his mother had found beautiful in England. Raphael agreed. Despite the fear that shone in them, Lady Jordan's blue-gray eyes were beautiful.

- "Pensou em Angela Mitchell. Perguntou-se se a mulher misteriosa tinha escolhido a escuridão tantos anos atrás ou se fora a escuridão que a escolhera.

Discovery consists of seeing what everybody else has seen and thinking what nobody else has thought. —Albert Szent-Györgyi Session 1 Journal Entry: THE TRACKS I KILLED MY BROTHER WITH A PENNY.

You are a dangerous man, Lane Collins,” she whispers against my mouth, sucking my bottom lip into her mouth before planting teasing kisses along my jaw.

Lane slept on your floor? He took care of you?