Literally Broken Quotes

People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands - literally thousands - of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss.

I was literally seeing stars, and every ragged breath I took felt like I was trying to breathe through broken glass. On the upside, my crush on Archer was totally gone. Over. Once a boy has slammed his kneecap into your rib cage, I think any romantic feeling should naturally go the way of the ghost.

I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t fight like this, or start a revolution, or be a queen. I can’t do anything like this. I’m broken. I’m literally broken.” Iko settled a hand on Cinder’s shoulder. “Yeah, but broken isn’t the same as unfixable.

Toxic relationships are dangerous to your health; they will literally kill you. Stress shortens your lifespan. Even a broken heart can kill you. There is an undeniable mind-body connection. Your arguments and hateful talk can land you in the emergency room or in the morgue. You were not meant to live in a fever of anxiety; screaming yourself hoarse in a frenzy of dreadful, panicked fight-or-flight that leaves you exhausted and numb with grief. You were not meant to live like animals tearing one another to shreds. Don't turn your hair gray. Don't carve a roadmap of pain into the sweet wrinkles on your face. Don't lay in the quiet with your heart pounding like a trapped, frightened creature. For your own precious and beautiful life, and for those around you — seek help or get out before it is too late. This is your wake-up call!

I won't leave you! Do you know how unbearable it's been without you? You're not like the rest of them." His hand swipes through air almost savagely. I stare at him, my eyes wide and aching. "You're not some well-trained puppy content to go along with what you're told. You have fire." He laughs brokenly. "I don't mean literally, although there is that. There's something in you, Jacinda. You're the only thing real for me there, the only thing remotely interesting.

I’m broken. I’m literally broken.” Iko settled a hand on Cinder’s shoulder. “Yeah, but broken isn’t the same as unfixable.

In retrospect, I'm embarrassed by how little effort on his part it took for me to come back or stay. I was so desperate for him to love me, to want me, to fight for me that I was literally grateful for any mere scrap of effort. I'd made so many excuses for his inability to treat me well that even the smallest gesture was amplified in my head. After years of this, I finally got my head out of my ass and realized that aside from feeling insecure and fragile about the state of my relationship all the time, we also wanted entirely different things out of life!

The old Amy, the girl of the big laugh and the easy ways, literally shed herself, a pile of skin and soul on the floor, and stepped this new, brittle, bitter Amy ... a razor-wire knot daring me to unloop her, and I was not up to the job with my thick, numb, nervous fingers. Country fingers. Flyover fingers untrained in the intricate, dangerous work of 'solving Amy'. When I'd hold up the bloody stumps, she'd sigh and turn to her secret mental notebooks on which she tallied all my deficiencies, forever noting disappointments, frailties, shortcomings.

music has, quite literally, saved my life and, I believe, the lives of countless others. It provides company when there is none, understanding where there is confusion, comfort where there is distress, and sheer, unpolluted energy where there is a hollow shell of brokenness and fatigue. And

You have broken down all formal order, grooves, more than anyone I know outside of Dostoevsky’s books.

Salvation history reveals sin as literally a broken home.

God’s relationship with us and with our world is just that: a relationship. As with every relationship, there’s a certain amount of unpredictability, and the ever-present likelihood that you’ll get hurt. The ultimate risk anyone ever takes is to love, for as C. S. Lewis says, “Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal.” But God does give it, again and again and again, until he is literally bleeding from it all. God’s willingness to risk is just astounding—far beyond what any of us would do were we in his position.

I've walked past so many pennies in my life, never bothering to pick them up because none of them were ever appealing to me. Then one day, I literally crashed into the most gorgeous penny I'd ever seen, so I picked her up off the ground, wiped away her tears, and became mesmerized by her every movement. Stupidly, I let that penny get away from me, and I've regretted it ever since. You were my lucky penny, Audrey, and I've been dreaming about you for years.

What came first, the music or the misery? Did I listen to music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to music? Do all those records turn you into a melancholy person? People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands - literally thousands - of songs about broken hearts and pain and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don't know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they've been listening to the sad songs longer than they've been living the unhappy lives.

I have always been interested in this man. My father had a set of Tom Paine's books on the shelf at home. I must have opened the covers about the time I was 13. And I can still remember the flash of enlightenment which shone from his pages. It was a revelation, indeed, to encounter his views on political and religious matters, so different from the views of many people around us. Of course I did not understand him very well, but his sincerity and ardor made an impression upon me that nothing has ever served to lessen. I have heard it said that Paine borrowed from Montesquieu and Rousseau. Maybe he had read them both and learned something from each. I do not know. But I doubt that Paine ever borrowed a line from any man... Many a person who could not comprehend Rousseau, and would be puzzled by Montesquieu, could understand Paine as an open book. He wrote with a clarity, a sharpness of outline and exactness of speech that even a schoolboy should be able to grasp. There is nothing false, little that is subtle, and an impressive lack of the negative in Paine. He literally cried to his reader for a comprehending hour, and then filled that hour with such sagacious reasoning as we find surpassed nowhere else in American letters - seldom in any school of writing. Paine would have been the last to look upon himself as a man of letters. Liberty was the dear companion of his heart; truth in all things his object. ...we, perhaps, remember him best for his declaration: 'The world is my country; to do good my religion.' Again we see the spontaneous genius at work in 'The Rights of Man', and that genius busy at his favorite task - liberty. Written hurriedly and in the heat of controversy, 'The Rights of Man' yet compares favorably with classical models, and in some places rises to vaulting heights. Its appearance outmatched events attending Burke's effort in his 'Reflections'. Instantly the English public caught hold of this new contribution. It was more than a defense of liberty; it was a world declaration of what Paine had declared before in the Colonies. His reasoning was so cogent, his command of the subject so broad, that his legion of enemies found it hard to answer him. 'Tom Paine is quite right,' said Pitt, the Prime Minister, 'but if I were to encourage his views we should have a bloody revolution.' Here we see the progressive quality of Paine's genius at its best. 'The Rights of Man' amplified and reasserted what already had been said in 'Common Sense', with now a greater force and the power of a maturing mind. Just when Paine was at the height of his renown, an indictment for treason confronted him. About the same time he was elected a member of the Revolutionary Assembly and escaped to France. So little did he know of the French tongue that addresses to his constituents had to be translated by an interpreter. But he sat in the assembly. Shrinking from the guillotine, he encountered Robespierre's enmity, and presently found himself in prison, facing that dread instrument. But his imprisonment was fertile. Already he had written the first part of 'The Age of Reason' and now turned his time to the latter part. Presently his second escape cheated Robespierre of vengeance, and in the course of events 'The Age of Reason' appeared. Instantly it became a source of contention which still endures. Paine returned to the United States a little broken, and went to live at his home in New Rochelle - a public gift. Many of his old companions in the struggle for liberty avoided him, and he was publicly condemned by the unthinking. {The Philosophy of Paine, June 7, 1925}

It is difficult to understand the behavior of most German Protestants in the first Nazi years unless one is aware of two things: their history and the influence of Martin Luther.* The great founder of Protestantism was both a passionate anti-Semite and a ferocious believer in absolute obedience to political authority. He wanted Germany rid of the Jews and when they were sent away he advised that they be deprived of “all their cash and jewels and silver and gold” and, furthermore, “that their synagogues or schools be set on fire, that their houses be broken up and destroyed… and they be put under a roof or stable, like the gypsies… in misery and captivity as they incessantly lament and complain to God about us”—advice that was literally followed four centuries later by Hitler, Goering and Himmler.

And that’s why I’ve been talking only about you and the tension within you, because you are—not in a clichéd sense, but in a weirdly literal sense—the future. After you walk up here and walk back down, you’re going to be the present. You will be the broken world and the act of changing it, in a way that you haven’t been before. You will be so many things, and the one thing that I wish I’d known and want to say is, don’t just be yourself. Be all of yourselves. Don’t just live. Be that other thing connected to death. Be life. Live all of your life. Understand it, see it, appreciate it. And have fun.

He leaned his head against the dark iron gate, and Evangeline would forever remember the way he looked just then. He was still indescribably breathtaking, but it was all the tragic beauty of a sky where every single star was falling. His hair was a storm of broken gold. HIs eyes were a mess of silver and blue. The deadness she'd seen her first night in Valorfell was gone, but now she understood why it had been there, why he seemed so unable to give comfort or kindness. The girl who was supposed to be his one true love had literally stabbed him in the heart.

What came first--the music or the misery? Did I listen to music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to music? Do all those records turn you into a melancholy person? People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands-- literally thousands-- of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss.

But don't you dare think for one second that I don't remember every single touch and feeling I had with you. I remember the way every inch of you felt under my fingers. I remember the way your skin tasted, and I sure as hell didn't forget the way I fit inside you so damn perfectly. It literally makes me ache at the loss.

Best putdown of a copy editor ever award goes to Raymond Chandler, who, in a 1947 letter to the editor of the Atlantic Monthly, wrote: "By the way, would you convey my compliments to the purist who reads your proofs and tell him or her that I write in a sort of broken-down patois which is something like the way a Swiss waiter talks, and that when I split an infinitive, God damn it, I split it so it will stay split, and when I interrupt the velvety smoothness of my more or less literate syntax with a few sudden words of barroom vernacular, this is done with the eyes wide open and the mind relaxed but attentive.

I admire someone who in the literal sense can say, 'If it is broken, I can fix it. If it's lost I can find it. IF you fall, I can catch you.' because if you can say it in the literal sense, you can mean it in the figurative sense. The littlest things can change the world. A smile can save someone's life, and a hand freely given when you have nothing to give other than yourself, can mean the world to someone else

Survivors who repeatedly believe they are the problem, they are broken, and they are not good enough, are people who are never going to see the hidden abuse. Not because they don’t want to, but because they are looking in the wrong spot for answers. In therapy, we start to literally deprogram the conscious and subconscious lies the abusers have planted in the survivors.

Why not stick with the Indic definition? Of Itihāsa! Which is a compound, as you know, iti-ha-āsa, and when broken down, means, literally, The Way indeed that Things Were. That covers everything: talk, legend, tradition, history . . .

Again, the endless northern rain between us like a veil. Tonight, I know exactly where you are, which row, which seat. I stand at my back door. The light pollution blindfolds every star. I hold my hand out to the rain, simply to feel it, wet and literal. It spills and tumbles in my palm, a broken rosary. Devotion to you lets me see the concert hall, lit up, the other side of town, then see you leave there, one of hundreds in the dark, your black umbrella raised. If rain were words, could talk, somehow, against your skin, I’d say look up, let it utter on your face. Now hear my love for you. Now walk. - Bridgewater Hall

Because he is a recipe for disaster. A literal recipe. Two cups of charm, three ounces of inappropriate flirting, and a dash of dimples make for a very, very broken heart.

I had no room now for this fear, or for any other fear, because I was filled to the brim with music. And even when it was not literally (audibly) music, there was the music of my muscle-orchestra playing — “the silent music of the body,” in Harvey’s lovely phrase. With this playing, the musicality of my motion, I myself became the music — “You are the music, while the music lasts.” A creature of muscle, motion and music, all inseparable and in unison with each other — except for that unstrung part of me, that poor broken instrument which could not join in and lay motionless and mute without tone or tune.

He’s fucking the life out of me, quite literally, because I can feel myself losing consciousness every now and then, but I notice how he loosens his grip every few seconds too, as if to give me little cracks of air.

Via Banchi di Sopra and Via Banchi di Sotto These main drags in town are named “upper row of banks” and “lower row of banks.” They were once lined with market tables (banchi), and rents were paid to the city for a table’s position along the street. If the owner of a banco neglected to pay the rent for his space, thugs came along and literally broke (rotto) his table. It is from this practice—banco rotto, broken table—that we get the English word “bankrupt.

Whenever elephants met men, elephants fared badly. Syria's final elephants were exterminated by twenty-five hundred years ago. Elephants were gone from much of China literally before the year 1 and much of Africa by the year 1000. Meanwhile, in India and southern Asia, elephants became the mounts of kings; tanks against forts, prisoners' executioners, and pincushions of arrows, driven mad in battle; elephants became logging trucks and bulldozers, and, as with other slaves, their forced labor requires beatings and abuse. Since Roman times, humans have reduced Africa's elephant population by perhaps 99 percent. African elephants are gone from 90 percent of the lands they roamed as recently as 1800, when, despite earlier losses, an estimated twenty-six million elephants still trod the continent. Now they number perhaps four hundred thousand. (The diminishment of Asian elephants over historic times is far worse.) The planet's menagerie has become like shards of broken glass; we're grinding the shards smaller and smaller.

Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands, of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don’t know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they’ve been listening to the sad songs longer than they’ve been living the unhappy lives.

A split second later, Sadie-Grace literally bowled me over with a hug. "I love college," she told me, scrambling to her feet and helping me up before resuming her aggressive hug campaign. "I'm majoring in dance and also Russian literature, and combined, Boone and I have only broken two bones!" "Both Boone's," Campbell clarified. "His bones are my bones," Sadie-Grace insisted. "And vice versa. Unless that's creepy? I've discovered I have a really hard time telling what's creepy, but on the bright side, I haven't been kidnapped or kidnapped anyone else this semester, so that's good.

People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands - literally thousands - of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss.

I got hold of a copy of the video that showed how Saddam Hussein had actually confirmed himself in power. This snuff-movie opens with a plenary session of the Ba'ath Party central committee: perhaps a hundred men. Suddenly the doors are locked and Saddam, in the chair, announces a special session. Into the room is dragged an obviously broken man, who begins to emit a robotic confession of treason and subversion, that he sobs has been instigated by Syrian and other agents. As the (literally) extorted confession unfolds, names begin to be named. Once a fellow-conspirator is identified, guards come to his seat and haul him from the room. The reclining Saddam, meanwhile, lights a large cigar and contentedly scans his dossiers. The sickness of fear in the room is such that men begin to crack up and weep, rising to their feet to shout hysterical praise, even love, for the leader. Inexorably, though, the cull continues, and faces and bodies go slack as their owners are pinioned and led away. When it is over, about half the committee members are left, moaning with relief and heaving with ardent love for the boss. (In an accompanying sequel, which I have not seen, they were apparently required to go into the yard outside and shoot the other half, thus sealing the pact with Saddam. I am not sure that even Beria or Himmler would have had the nerve and ingenuity and cruelty to come up with that.)

When you committed to love me, cherish me, be only with me, protect my heart, I took all that literally. Silly me.

To fully heal when our heart is broken, we have to look in the mirror (metaphorically and perhaps literally) and tell ourselves it’s time to let go.

I faced these people, facing my fate in them single-handed - now literally single-handed, for I had a broken arm.

In the novel Fight Club, the character Jack’s apartment is blown up. All of his possessions—“every stick of furniture,” which he pathetically loved—were lost. Later it turns out that Jack blew it up himself. He had multiple personalities, and “Tyler Durden” orchestrated the explosion to shock Jack from the sad stupor he was afraid to do anything about. The result was a journey into an entirely different and rather dark part of his life. In Greek mythology, characters often experience katabasis—or “a going down.” They’re forced to retreat, they experience a depression, or in some cases literally descend into the underworld. When they emerge, it’s with heightened knowledge and understanding. Today, we’d call that hell—and on occasion we all spend some time there. We surround ourselves with bullshit. With distractions. With lies about what makes us happy and what’s important. We become people we shouldn’t become and engage in destructive, awful behaviors. This unhealthy and ego-derived state hardens and becomes almost permanent. Until katabasis forces us to face it. Duris dura franguntur. Hard things are broken by hard things. The bigger the ego the harder the fall. It would be nice if it didn’t have to be that way. If we could nicely be nudged to correct our ways, if a quiet admonishment was what it took to shoo away illusions, if we could manage to circumvent ego on our own. But it is just not so. The Reverend William A. Sutton observed some 120 years ago that “we cannot be humble except by enduring humiliations.” How much better it would be to spare ourselves these experiences, but sometimes it’s the only way the blind can be made to see.

And then there I was, literally tenderized like pounded meat by my year of work, failure, and physical and emotional battering. My New Zealand beach realization that I was ready for all of the things I had feared I was too broken to ever want felt both good because it meant that I was normal, but also terrifying. I was normal. Years later, Lena Dunham’s character on Girls would have a similar moment when she broke down and wept to a nice, handsome doctor with a beautiful house, “Please don’t tell anyone this, but I want to be happy … I want all the things everyone wants.” I was embarrassed to be a thirty-five-year-old woman who was looking for true love, and a family. It was so freaking typical. But I was also deeply relieved that I’d finally gotten there.

I wonder if all the bad brokenness in the world begins with the act of forgetting - forgetting God is enough, forgetting what He gives is good enough, forgetting there's always more than enough and that we can live into an intimate communion. Forgetting is kin to fear. Whenever I forget, fear walks in. We're called to be a people known by our remembering - a remembering people. Forget to give thanks - and you forget who God is. Forget to break and give - and it's your soul that gets broken. Forget to live into...communion - and you end up living into a union of emptiness. If all our bad brokenness begins with an act of forgetting, then doesn't the act of remembering, then making Christ present by being broken and given, doesn't that lead to...communion, which literally re-members us? Everything He embodied in the Last Supper - it is what would heal the body's brokenness. Brokenness can be healed in re-membering, Remembering our union, our communion...with Christ. Re-membering heals brokenness.

Tree of Life, which fills with its dead and broken branches the crust of the earth, and covers the surface with its ever branching and beautiful ramifications.” There’s a nice word: ramifications. It’s especially good in this context because, while the literal definition is “a structure formed of branches,” from the Latin ramus, of course the looser definition is “implications.” Darwin’s tree certainly had implications.

No one without sociopathic or psychotic tendencies can be glad at the news of another person’s death, but there is a kind of surge of adrenaline and sense of purpose that can be very powerful. It is without doubt a dark and complicated feeling, shared with firemen and soldiers and paramedics and emergency-room workers, that comes from knowing that you can only be at your best and only really achieve any kind of fulfillment when what is at stake is literally life and death.

How to tell your pretend-boyfriend and his real boyfriend that your internal processors are failing: 1. The biological term is depression, but you don't have an official diagnostic (diagnosis) and it's a hard word to say. It feels heavy and stings your mouth. Like when you tried to eat a battery when you were small and your parents got upset. 2. Instead, you try to hide the feeling. But the dark stain has already spilled across your hardwiring and clogged your processor. You don't have access to any working help files to fix this. Tech support is unavailable for your model. (No extended warranty exists.) 3. Pretend the reason you have no energy is because you're sick with a generic bug. 4. You have time to sleep. Your job is canceling out many of your functions; robots can perform cleaning and maintenance in hotels for much better wage investment, and since you are not (yet) a robot, you know you will be replaced soon. 5. The literal translation of the word depression: you are broken and devalued and have no further use. 6. No one refurbishes broken robots. 7. Please self-terminate.

In the Babemba tribe of South Africa, when a person acts irresponsibly or unjustly, he is placed in the center of the village, alone and unfettered. All work ceases, and every man, woman, and child in the village gathers in a large circle around the accused individual. Then each person in the tribe speaks to the accused, one at a time, each recalling the good things the person in the center of the circle has done in his lifetime. Every incident, every experience that can be recalled with any detail and accuracy, is recounted. All his positive attributes, good deeds, strengths, and kindnesses are recited carefully and at length. This tribal ceremony often lasts for several days. At the end, the tribal circle is broken, a joyous celebration takes place, and the person is symbolically and literally welcomed back into the tribe.

People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands - literally thousands - of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don't know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they've been listening to the sad songs longer than they've been living the unhappy lives.

Shit...I don't know anything about babies. I mean, I literally know nothing. I'll be a terrible father. oh my God, I asked you to pick up that heavy box the other night. Pregnant women can't pick up heavy stuff, right? Shit! No more getting your hair done, all those toxic chemicals and shit.

a big, messy linear problem can always be broken into smaller, more manageable parts. Then each part can be solved separately, and all the little answers can be recombined to solve the bigger problem. So it’s literally true that in a linear problem, the whole is exactly equal to the sum of the parts.

Some of my favorite songs: 'Only Love Can Break Your Heart' by Neil Young; 'Last Night I Dreamed That Somebody Loved Me' by the Smiths; 'Call Me' by Aretha Franklin; 'I Don't Want to Talk About It' by anybody. And then there's 'Love Hurts' and 'When Love Breaks Down' and 'How Can You Mend a Broken Heart' and 'The Speed of the Sound of Loneliness' and 'She's Gone' and 'I Just Don't Know What to Do with Myself 'and . . . some of these songs I have listened to around once a week, on average (three hundred times in the first month, every now and again thereafter), since I was sixteen or nineteen or twenty-one. How can that not leave you bruised somewhere? How can that not turn you into the sort of person liable to break into little bits when your first love goes all wrong? What came first, the music or the misery? Did I listen to music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to music? Do all those records turn you into a melancholy person? People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands, of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don't know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they've been listening to the sad songs longer than they've been living the unhappy lives.

In Urdu we have a saying: aik lari main pro kay rakhna. Literally translated, it means the string that holds the pearls together. That is what my mother was. She was the string that held our family together. Since her death, the string has been broken and life has not been the same. We feel alone and we feel lost.

Mexico City is a perpetual picnic. Literally. There is a dizzying amount of wonderful food here, and the majority of it is consumed standing on one’s feet, on the scarred and broken concrete sidewalk. It is dispensed from whitewashed metal stands, doled out of baskets and buckets, fried on griddles barely balanced over planks, ladled out of huge metal pots.

What seemed to interest and absorb her most was that all that filth, all that chaos of broken limbs and dug-out eyes and split heads was then covered—literally covered—by a church dedicated to San Giovanni Battista and by a monastery of Augustinian hermits who had a valuable library. Ah, ah—she laughed—underneath there’s blood and above, God, peace, prayer, and books.

Interpretation first appears in the culture of late classical antiquity, when the power and credibility of myth had been broken by the “realistic” view of the world introduced by scientific enlightenment. Once the question that haunts post-mythic consciousness—that of the seemliness of religious symbols—had been asked, the ancient texts were, in their pristine form, no longer acceptable. Then interpretation was summoned, to reconcile the ancient texts to “modern” demands. Thus, the Stoics, to accord with their view that the gods had to be moral, allegorized away the rude features of Zeus and his boisterous clan in Homer’s epics. What Homer really designated by the adultery of Zeus with Leto, they explained, was the union between power and wisdom. In the same vein, Philo of Alexandria interpreted the literal historical narratives of the Hebrew Bible as spiritual paradigms. The story of the exodus from Egypt, the wandering in the desert for forty years, and the entry into the promised land, said Philo, was really an allegory of the individual soul’s emancipation, tribulations, and final deliverance. Interpretation thus presupposes a discrepancy between the clear meaning of the text and the demands of (later) readers. It seeks to resolve that discrepancy. The situation is that for some reason a text has become unacceptable; yet it cannot be discarded. Interpretation is a radical strategy for conserving an old text, which is thought too precious to repudiate, by revamping it. The interpreter, without actually erasing or rewriting the text, is altering it. But he can’t admit to doing this. He claims to be only making it intelligible, by disclosing its true meaning. However far the interpreters alter the text (another notorious example is the Rabbinic and Christian “spiritual” interpretations of the clearly erotic Song of Songs), they must claim to be reading off a sense that is already there.

The whole affair was the precise opposite of what I figured it would be: slow and patient and quiet and neither particularly painful nor particularly ecstatic. There were a lot of condomy problems that I did not get a particularly good look at. No headboards were broken. No screaming. Honestly, it was probably the longest time we’d ever spent together without talking. Only one thing followed type: Afterward, when I had my face resting against Augustus’s chest, listening to his heart pound, Augustus said, “Hazel Grace, I literally cannot keep my eyes open.” “Misuse of literality,” I said. “No,” he said. “So. Tired.” His face turned away from me, my ear pressed to his chest, listening to his lungs settle into the rhythm of sleep. After a while, I got up, dressed, found the Hotel Filosoof stationery, and wrote him a love letter:

...the north wind has both mended hearts and broken them. It has brought both beauty and misfortune, restlessness and sleep. It has carried in babies but it has also taken lives and so the islanders worry when they hear the north wind blowing. They fear death - actual, physical, permanent death, but also the non-literal, where the heart has kept beating but its wish to keep doing so is small, very small if there at all.

Interestingly, the word munkasiran is translated as dejected, though literally it means broken. It conveys a sense of being humbled in the majestic presence of God. It refers to the awesome realization that each of us, at every moment, lives and acts before the august presence of the Creator of the heavens and the earth, the one God besides whom there is no power or might in all the universe. When one seriously reflects on God’s perfect watch over His creation, the countless blessings He sends down, and then considers the kind of deeds one brings before Him—what possible feelings can one generate except humility and degrees of shame? With these strong feelings, one implores God to change one’s state, make one’s desires consonant with His pleasure—giving up one’s designs for God’s designs. This is pure courtesy with respect to God, a requisite for spiritual purification.

Most of the earth's land is not conducive to arable cropping. Only a tiny percentage is good enough for that. Grasslands are literally the lungs of the earth, and restoring them with animals is not only necessary, but it's the most efficacious way to restore water cycles and the carbon cycle. Right now, nothing else comes close to remediating broken ecological systems as quickly or completely as restoring large herds of grazing animals through holistic, or long-term, management.

People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands—literally thousands—of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don’t know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they’ve been listening to the sad songs longer than they’ve been living the unhappy lives.

Having saddled yourself with laws that you *assume* will be broken, you've never found anything to do that makes better sense than punishing people for doing exactly what you expected them to do in the first place. For ten thousand years you've been making and multiplying laws that you fully expect to be broken, until now I suppose you must have literally millions of them, many of them broken millions of times a day.[...]The very officials that you elect to uphold the laws break them. And at the same time your pillars of society somehow find it possible to become indignant over the fact that some people have little respect for the law.

The pressure was terrible. She thought she would split apart. But the only thing more terrible than the feeling itself was that obliteration didn’t come, that she kept on hurting. She had never felt anything so sharp. Before she had only thought this grief theoretical, a grief that exceeded what words could describe. The only thing that came close was the Classical Chinese phrase “斷腸,” because although the words translated figuratively meant “a broken heart,” 腸 meant literally all one’s internal organs and viscera, and for a heart to break meant that everything felt twisted and ripped apart and spilled onto the sand. A heart didn’t just break, a heart yanked out the rest of you.

During one hearing, Senator Ted Cruz pointed out that Twitter and Facebook now have power that is much greater than that of any other company that has ever existed in the United States, and that’s including the ones that have been broken up by antitrust laws. According to the rules of the free market, you need to have competition. Otherwise, the company that controls the whole thing becomes lazy, corrupt, or worse. This is what is happening right now with big tech companies such as Twitter, Facebook, and Google. Because they’re so big and because they’re almost 100 percent liberal, they have the power to tilt the national conversation to the left and literally block the voices on the right.

Shelley, you’re just like that oyster.” God confronted me on the deeper areas of my life that I wouldn’t let Him open up and heal. When Garrett saw me walk off alone over the sandy hills, he knew God was leading me to a healing moment. Standing on the edge of the salty waters of Puget Sound, I allowed God to reach into the darkest places in my heart and expose the ugly lies I believed about myself. Huge salty tears pouring out like waves, God assured me He threw my sins out as far as the east is from the west. The tremendous shame and guilt I carried for so many years was being literally washed away into the Pacific Ocean. I was no longer a broken child of sexual abuse but a cherished Champion daughter of the Most High God.

Indira was surrounded by people who had given up hope, who blamed their own misery on the influence of Christianity and western cultures, and yet, literally in the midst of squalor, her family had created a place of real beauty. It really makes you stop and think. Uncle Google should be spitting out eight hundred million things American schools have done right. The fact things are so screwed up makes no sense. If you believe Uncle Google, then we’ve done the exact opposite from Indira’s family—in the land of hope and plenty we’ve created a place that’s ugly. We have so much. Can things really be so bad? Maybe we can’t fix our schools because as individuals we’ve never truly been broken. Or maybe Chinese lanterns make everyone wax philosophical.

Miss Oliphant?” he said. His voice was cautious, quiet. “Three liters of Glen’s, please,” I said. My voice sounded strange—croaky and broken. I hadn’t used it for some time, I supposed, and then there was all that vomiting. He placed one before me, then seemed to hesitate. “Three, Miss Oliphant?” he said. I nodded. Slowly, he put another two bottles on the counter, all of them now lined up like skittles that I’d need to knock over, knock back. “Anything else?” he said. I briefly considered a loaf of bread or a tin of spaghetti, but I was not in the least bit hungry. I shook my head and offered him my debit card. My hand was shaking and I tried to control it, but failed. I punched in the numbers, and the wait for the receipt to be printed was interminable.

What came first, the music or the misery? Did I listen to music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to music? Do all those records turn you into a melancholy person? People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands – literally thousands – of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don’t know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they’ve been listening to the sad songs longer than they’ve been living the unhappy lives. Anyway.

Some of my favorite songs: 'Only Love Can Break Your Heart' by Neil Young; 'Last Night I Dreamed That Somebody Loved Me' by the Smiths; 'Call Me' by Aretha Franklin; 'I Don't Want to Talk About It' by anybody. And then there's 'Love Hurts' and 'When Love Breaks Down' and 'How Can You Mend a Broken Heart' and 'The Speed of the Sound of Loneliness' and 'She's Gone' and 'I Just Don't Know What to Do with Myself 'and . . . some of these songs I have listened to around once a week, on average (three hundred times in the first month, every now and again thereafter), since I was sixteen or nineteen or twenty-one. How can that not leave you bruised somewhere? How can that not turn you into the sort of person liable to break into little bits when your first love goes all wrong? What came first, the music or the misery? Did I listen to music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to music? Do all those records turn you into a melancholy person? People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands, of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don't know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they've been listening to the sad songs longer than they've been living the unhappy lives.

Code Blue! We’re losing him!” The EMTs hustled the gurney containing Erik Dawson’s broken body into the operating room where the surgical team waited. The nursing staff literally ripped his clothes off as they worked to stabilize him. “What do we have here?” the lead surgeon asked. His assistant didn’t bother to look up as she answered, “Auto accident. An eighteen- wheeler smashed his car into a guardrail.” The lead surgeon whistled through his teeth. “It’s a miracle he’s still breathing. Let’s keep him that way.” As the surgical team moved into action with skill born of practice, Erik drifted on the fringes of consciousness. Erik’s thoughts raced. What? Where? Anesthesia put him under, but as the doctors began their work and his parents prayed fervently in the waiting room, Erik spasmed and stopped breathing. Family Matters, from Home Again

The church is a people called out of the world to embody a social alternative that the world cannot know on its own terms. We are not simply asking the government to be what God has commissioned the church to be. After all, even the best government can’t legislate love. We can build hundreds of units of affordable housing (a good thing by the way) and people still might not have homes. We can provide universal health care and keep folks breathing longer (another nice move), but people can be breathing and still not truly be alive. We can create laws to enforce good behavior, but no law has ever changed a human heart or reconciled a broken relationship. The church is not simply suggesting political alternatives. The church is embodying one. The idea that the church is to be the body of Christ is not just something to read about in theology books and leave for the scholars to pontificate about. We are literally to be the body of Jesus in the world. Christians are to be little Christs—people who put flesh on Jesus in the world today.

This, too, is the Biblical description of work. In sin men lose their dominion over the creation which God gave them, and their relationship with this creation becomes toil. “Cursed is the ground because of you; in toil you shall eat of it all the days of your life; thorns and thistles it shall bring forth to you; and you shall eat the plants of the field. In the sweat of your face you shall eat bread till you return to the ground, for our of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” (Gen. 3:17-19) Work represents the broken relationship between men and the rest of creation. Men, literally, work to death. The fallenness of work, the broken relationship between men and the rest of creation which work is, involves both the alienation of men from nature and from the rest of creation, including the principalities and powers. In work men lose their dominion over the principalities and are in bondage to the principalities. Instead of men ruling the great institutions – corporations, unions, and so on – men are ruled by the great institutions.

Your mother told you," he states flatly. "Yeah," I snap. "She told me." "She doesn't know everything. She doesn't know me...or how I feel. I would never force you to do anything against your will, and I would never, ever let anyone harm you." His words enrage me. Lies, I'm convinced. My hand shoots out, ready to slap that earnest look off his face. The same earnest look he'd given me the first time he lid to my face. He catches my hand, squeezes the wrist tight. "Jacinda-" "I don't believe you. You gave me your word. Five weeks-" "Five weeks was too long. I couldn't leave you for that long without checking on you." "Because you're a liar," I assert. His expression cracks. Emotion bleeds through. He knows I'm not talking about just the five weeks. With a shake of his head, he sounds almost sorry as he admits, "Maybe I didn't tell you everything, but it doesn't change anything I said. I will never hurt you. I want to try to protect you." "Try," I repeat. His jaw clenches. "I can. I can stop them." After several moments, I twist my hand free. He lets me go. Rubbing my wrist, I glare at him. "I have a life here now." My fingers stretch, curl into talons at my sides, still hungry to fight him. "Make me go, and I'll never forgive you." He inhales deeply, his broad chest lifting high. "Well. I can't have that." "Then you'll go? Leave me alone?" Hope stirs. He shakes his head. "I didn't say that." "Of course not," I sneer. "What do you mean then?" Panic washes over me at the thought of him staying here and learning about Will and his family. "There's no reason for you to stay." His dark eyes glint. "There's you. I can give you more time. You can't seriously fit in here. You'll come around." "I won't!" His voice cracks like thunder on the air. "I won't leave you! Do you know how unbearable it's been without you? You're not like the rest of them." His hand swipes through air almost savagely. I stare at him, eyes wide and aching. "You're not some well-trained puppy content to go alone with what you're told. You have fire." He laughs brokenly. "I don't mean literally, although there is that. There's something in you, Jacinda. You're the only thing real for me there, the only thing remotely interesting." He stares at me starkly and I don't breathe. He looks ready to reach out and fold me into his arms. I jump hastily back. Unbelievably, he looks hurt. Dropping his immense hands, he speaks again, evenly, calmly. "I'll give you more space. Time for you to realize that this"-he motions to the living room-"isn't for you. You need mists and mountains and sky. Flight. How can you stay here where you have none of that? How can you hope to survive? If you haven't figured that out yet, you will." In my mind, I see Will. Think how he has become the mist, the sky, everything, to me. I do more than survive here. I love. But Cassian can never know that. “What I have here beats what waits for me back home. The wing clipping you so conveniently failed to mention-" "Is not going to happen, Jacinda." He steps closer. His head dips to look into my eyes. "You have my word. If you return with me, you won't be harmed. I'd die first." His words flow through me like a chill wind. "But your father-" "My father won't be our alpha forever. Someday, I'll lead. Everyone knows it. The pride will listen to me. I promise you'll be safe.

One of the things that I’ve always felt missing from funerals and services is the voice of the man or woman who was the deceased’s partner in life. I’ve always wanted to hear from the person who’d loved them more than anyone. Biblically, the two become one flesh--the spouse is their other half. It has always seemed to me that his or her voice was critical to truly understanding who the deceased was in life. I also felt that American Sniper had told only part of Chris’s story--an angry part in much of it. There was so much more to him that I wanted the world to know. People said Chris was blessed that I hung in there during his service to our country; in fact, I was the one who was blessed. I wanted everyone to hear me say that. Beforehand, a friend suggested I have a backup in case I couldn’t finish reading my speech--a “highway option,” as Chris used to call it: the way out if things didn’t go as planned. I refused. I didn’t want a way out. It wasn’t supposed to be easy. Knowing that I had to go through with it, that I had to finish--that was my motivator. That was my guarantee that I would finish, that I would keep moving into the future, as painful as it surely would be. When you think you cannot do something, think again. Chris always said, “The body will do whatever the mind tells it to.” I am counting on that now. I stand before you a broken woman, but I am now and always will be the wife of a man who is a warrior both on the battlefield and off. Some people along the way told Chris that through it all, he was lucky I stayed with him. I am standing before you now to set the record straight. Remember this: I am the one who is literally, in every sense of the word, blessed that Chris stayed with me. I feel compelled to tell you that I am not a fan of people romanticizing their loved ones in death. I don’t need to romanticize Chris, because our reality is messy, passionate, full of every extreme emotion known to man, including fear, compassion, anger, pain, laughing so hard we doubled over and hugged it out, laughing when we were irritated with each other and laughing when we were so in love it felt like someone hung the moon for only us… I looked at the kids as I neared the end, talking to them and only them. Tears ran from their faces. Bubba’s head hung down. It broke my heart. I kept reading. Then I was done.

One of the problems is that Dublin is, and I mean literally and topographically, flat - so that everything has to take place on a single plane. Other cities have metro systems, which add depth, and steep hills or skyscrapers for height, but Dublin has only short squat grey buildings and trams that run along the street. And it has no courtyards or roof gardens like continental cities, which at least break up the surface, if not vertically, then conceptually. Have you thought about this before? Maybe even if you haven't, you've noticed it at some subconscious level. It's hard to go very far up in Dublin or very low down, hard to lose yourself or other people, or to gain a sense of perspective. You might think it's a democratic way to organise a city - so that everything happens face to face, I mean, on equal footing. True, no one is looking down on you all from a height. But it gives the sky a position of total dominance. Nowhere is the sky meaningfully punctuated or broken up by anything at all. The Spire, you might point out, and I will concede the Spire, which is anyway the narrowest possible of interruptions, and dangles like a measuring tape to demonstrate the diminutive size of every other edifice around. The totalising effect of the sky is bad for people there. Nothing ever intervenes to block the thing from view. It0s like a memento more. I wish someone would cut a hole in it for you.

The princess within yourself. The feminine aspect within the man. But there is also a woman waiting somewhere out there. If men and women only knew the possibilities they possess when they are together. The initiated ones in antiquity always worked in pairs. Just as Simon the Magus had his Helen and Yeshua his Mariam, Paul had his Thekla. Not many Christians are aware of this. When they established the Church in the year 325 it was first and foremost a political act, with the purpose of stopping the autonomous gnostic and mystical society which was flowering at the time of Yeshua and in the years after his ceremonial death. When they established the Church they also adopted the dogmas and some of the rites of the Mithras cult and the Ishtar/Isis tradition, which fitted the political agenda under new headings and names. The rest was silenced. In this way they literally threw out the wisdom aspect, Sophia, with the bath water. The symbolic Second Coming happens through Sophia, that is the higher Sophia aspect, which is secret. Find her and you have found the princess. It’s happening now. The Second Coming of the higher Sophia aspect is not just a collective matter but also a process, which each and every one of us must go through. That is why so many people, and especially those who work spiritually, experience that these are turbulent times. This implies a confrontation with the old. All that limits us. And that is hard for most people. Look around. Have you noticed how many men and women leave each other in this day and age? Not because something is wrong with any of them. They simply started their relationship on the wrong foundation. People now must enter into true relationships. This is how it is at all levels. Not just between man and woman but also ties within the family, friendships, and the old teacher/student relationships are also broken because of the new which is on the way.

Going back to the place where you are from is always fraught, memories scattered like broken glass on every pavement, be careful where you tread. I meditated, feeling a little guilty that I have the space to. A space for peace, to which everyone is entitled. “It’s alright for you in the back of a car that Hitler used to ride in,” I imagined that drunk bloke saying. I’d have to point out that it wasn’t literally Hitler’s car, that would be a spooky heirloom, but it is all right for me. I do have a life where I can make time to meditate, eat well, do yoga, exercise, reflect, relax. That’s what money buys you. Is it possible for everyone to have that life? Is it possible for anyone to be happy when such rudimentary things are exclusive? They tell you that you ought eat five fruit and veg a day, then seven; I read somewhere once that you should eat as much as ten, face in a trough all day long, chowing on kale. The way these conclusions are reached is that scientists look at a huge batch of data and observe the correlation between the consumption of fruit and veg and longevity. They then conclude that you, as an individual, should eat more fruit and veg. The onus is on you; you are responsible for what you eat. Of course, other conclusions could be drawn from this data. The same people that live these long lives and eat all this fruit and veg are also, in the main, wealthy; they have good jobs, regular holidays, exercise, and avoid the incessant stress of poverty. Another, more truthful, more frightening conclusion we could reach then is that we should have a society where the resources enjoyed by the fruit-gobbling elite are shared around and the privileges, including the fruit and veg, enjoyed by everybody. With this conclusion the obligation is not on you as an individual to obediently skip down to Waitrose and buy more celery, it is on you as a member of society to fight for a fairer system where more people have access to resources.

If a man jumped as high as a louse (lice), he would jump over a football field. In Ancient Egypt, the average life expectancy was 19 years, but for those who survived childhood, the average life expectancy was 30 years for women and 34 years for men. The volume of the moon is equivalent to the volume of the water in the Pacific Ocean. After the 9/11 incident, the Queen of England authorized the guards to break their vow and sing America’s national anthem for Americans living in London. In 1985, lifeguards of New Orleans threw a pool party to celebrate zero drownings, however, a man drowned in that party. Men and women have different dreams. 70 percent of characters in men’s dreams are other men, whereas in women its 50 percent men and 50 percent women. Men also act more aggressively in dreams than women. A polar bear has a black skin. 2.84 percent of deaths are caused by intentional injuries (suicides, violence, war) while 3.15 percent are caused by diarrhea. On average people are more afraid of spiders than they are afraid of death. A bumblebee has hairs on its eyes, helping it collect the pollen. Mickey Mouse’s creator, Walt Disney feared mice. Citarum river in Indonesia is the dirtiest and most polluted river in the world. When George R R Martin saw Breaking Bad’s episode called “Ozymandias”, he called Walter White and said that he’d write up a character more monstrous than him. Maria Sharapova’s grunt is the loudest in the Tennis game and is often criticized for being a distraction. In Mandarin Chinese, the word for “kangaroo” translates literally to “bag rat”. The first product to have a barcode was a chewing gum Wrigley. Chambarakat dam in Iraq is considered the most dangerous dam in the world as it is built upon uneven base of gypsum that can cause more than 500,000 casualties, if broken. Matt Urban was an American Lieutenant Colonel who was nicknamed “The Ghost” by Germans because he always used to come back from wounds that would kill normal people.

The assassination of President Kennedy killed not only a man but a complex of illusions. It demolished the myth that hate and violence can be confined in an airtight chamber to be employed against but a few. Suddenly the truth was revealed that hate is a contagion; that it grows and spreads as a disease; that no society is so healthy that it can automatically maintain its immunity. If a smallpox epidemic had been raging in the South, President Kennedy would have been urged to avoid the area. There was a plague afflicting the South, but its perils were not perceived. Negroes tragically know political assassination well. In the life of Negro civil-rights leaders, the whine of the bullet from ambush, the roar of the bomb have all too often broken the night's silence. They have replaced lynching as a political weapon. More than a decade ago, sudden death came to Mr. and Mrs. Harry T. Moore, N.A.A.C.P. leaders in Florida. The Reverend George Lee of Belzoni, Mississippi, was shot to death on the steps of a rural courthouse. The bombings multiplied. Nineteen sixty-three was a year of assassinations. Medgar Evers in Jackson, Mississippi; William Moore in Alabama; six Negro children in Birmingham—and who could doubt that these too were political assassinations? The unforgivable default of our society has been its failure to apprehend the assassins. It is a harsh judgment, but undeniably true, that the cause of the indifference was the identity of the victims. Nearly all were Negroes. And so the plague spread until it claimed the most eminent American, a warmly loved and respected president. The words of Jesus "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me" were more than a figurative expression; they were a literal prophecy. We were all involved in the death of John Kennedy. We tolerated hate; we tolerated the sick stimulation of violence in all walks of life; and we tolerated the differential application of law, which said that a man’s life was sacred only if we agreed with his views. This may explain the cascading grief that flooded the country in late November. We mourned a man who had become the pride of the nation, but we grieved as well for ourselves because we knew we were sick.

Opposition to global hegemony cannot be the same as opposition to traditional oppression. It can only be something unpredictable, irreducible to the preventive terror of programming, forced circulation, irreducible to the White terror of the world order. Something antagonistic, in the literal sense, that opens a hole in this Western agony. Something that leaves a trace in the monotony of the global order of terror. Something that reintroduces a form of impossible exchange in this generalized exchange. Hegemony is only broken by this type of event, by anything that irrupts as an unexchangeable singularity. A revolt, therefore, that targets systematic deregulation under the cover of forced conviviality, that targets the total organization of reality.

Penemue once told me that Drambuie was the closest thing mortals had to ambrosia. He also told me that he drank when he wanted to destroy it all. That he was an introspective drunk who knew that drinking was a form of slow suicide. A self-destruction that wasn’t a countdown from ten, but a version of Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall. Well, Nine Hundred and Ninety-Nine Bottles of Drambuie on the Wall. He wanted to see how far down he needed to get before his heart finally broke. “Why not?” he slurred while on a particularly terrible bender. “My heart has already figuratively broken. It’s only a matter of time until the old beating lump in my chest catches up with a more literal breakage.

For some, reading about a certain attachment style can literally put their entire life and relationship history into context, liberating them from the idea that they are broken or helplessly doomed to never have relationship success.

Wholeness includes brokenness; perfect literally means inclusive of everything; complete means evolving. I incorporated this paradoxical wisdom into my life and became gentler with myself and others.

That's the thing, isn't it, when you grow with Time, you learn to value your Time more than anything in this world. You safeguard your peace from literally anything that seems to pull it down, even if that means transient happiness. I learnt long back that Life is a series of lessons, some bitter and well some very very bitter, but all of them assimilate into something so serene, so beautiful actually when looked from a distance. Because each time you're broken, you're made once again, some from the pieces that lay scattered on the ground while some entirely new coming from all across the Sky where He Smiles at You, knowing that your fall was nothing but a blur in the Time that would clutch you later in Life into understanding the Truest Meaning of Life, the virtue of Patience and Perseverance, the lesson on Time, that Time alone has the biggest Smile and if you evolve with it you would walk the fire with the Zeal of your Soul that never ages, you will find wrinkles and scars but those are like battle ropes that get you motivated to walk this Earth one more time, to know that you're still alive, only your core never changes, You in your heart is always that child, the one who is always eager to embrace as much colour from this moment as your senses can. I am not hushing the child but patting it with the serenity of a grey hair, knowing that Life has been kind even at the battles that were thrown along the way, and eventually letting my heart know that the biggest war I'd ever face is within, the war that demands me to hold on too tightly all while letting go too spontaneously, the least I could find is a victory of Knowing I have done it all with an Honest Heart and a Soul that thrives on Faith. If colours were hued on my Soul, let Integrity be my Sun and as for the Moon, I'd always be Kindness' arm. Thank You, Life And to every momentary transient passerby of this beautiful journey, no matter where we left off, I wish your journey finds the course it's meant to walk.

Translated literally, Jesus replies, "I am, the (one) speaking to you" [John 4:26]. This word-for-word translation comes out awkwardly in English, so it's often broken up in our Bibles. But as New Testament scholar Craig Evans observes, Jesus's statement is "emphatic and unusual" in the original Greek as well. Smoothing it out in translation masks the fact that this is the first of Jesus's "I am" statements. ...This is the first time in John that Jesus explicitly declares he's the Messiah. And as he does so, Jesus makes an even more extraordinary claim. Each of Jesus's "I am" statements gives us fresh insight into who he is. At first, his words to the Samaritan woman seem like an exception. But if we look more closely, Jesus is giving us more insight about his identity when he says to the Samaritan woman, "I am, the (one) speaking to you." Jesus claims he's the Messiah and the one true covenant God. But he is also the one who is speaking to this sexually suspect, foreign woman. He could have just said "I am he!" But as we look at Jesus through this woman's eyes, we see him as the long-promised King and everlasting God, who chooses to converse with her.

The thing about a wound is that, when treated, it heals. A light wound disappears altogether and a deep wound develops into a scar -- that thick, dark fabric, raised and stronger than the skin around it, as Jane Hirshfield describes in her poem "For What Binds Us." Today, I have a scar as strong as the literal scars that hold my insides together, as concrete as the black tar road that led me away and then home again. It has become a bond between me and the religion I grew up in that keeps me coming back. A bond between me and my family forged by having faced that which might have broken us, and not having been broken.

Mere human efforts (education, environment, therapy) cannot cure the sin problem. My brokenness, like yours, is very complex. Parts of it have to do with my wounds and my scars and my disappointments, but at the core is my natural inclination towards sin. It is deeply embedded in our souls, and it is literally killing us. We cannot change this condition, but we can free our souls from its power over us by recognizing that it is there, daily seeking God's forgiveness and strength, and living the way he designed us. It is only when we surrender to God and his ways that our souls experience freedom. We may stumble along the way, for no one is perfect. But we serve a perfect Savior who is patient and always ready to forgive us when we fail.

You, my Perez women, understand because you are the throne and the dance. You shook your asses as the world’s walls tried to crush you. Mami, primas, hermana, no one else qualifies for the job. We must be our own librarians because we alone are literate in our bodies. By naming our pain and voicing our imperfections, we declare our tremendous survival. Our offspring deserve to inherit these strategies. We have worked hard to be here. We owe them ourselves. We owe each other.

As numerous economists and positive psychologists have observed, globally we make the mistake of becoming less social the richer we become as individuals, and as a society. As Weiner observes: “The greatest source of happiness is other people—and what does money do? It isolates us from other people. It enables us to build walls, literal and figurative, around ourselves. We move from a teeming college dorm to an apartment to a house and, if we’re really wealthy, to an estate. We think we’re moving up, but really we’re walling off ourselves.

For example, it is only in the past few years that scientists have discovered how the brain gets rid of its waste. In other parts of the body, waste is removed in several ways, including via the lymphatic system, a system of vessels that run in parallel to the blood circulatory system. The lymphatic system picks up waste, broken-down cells, and invaders like viruses, bacteria, and fungi and carries them to the lymph glands, where the immune-system cells deal with them. Despite our well-established understanding of this process, we really didn’t know how the brain accomplished the same feat because the lymphatic system had not yet been discovered in the brain. One of the coolest studies I’ve seen in a long time was released last year by Dr. Maiken Nedergaard, co-director of the Center for Translational Neuromedicine at the University of Rochester Medical Center.21 Nedergaard’s team showed that during sleep, the size of the neurons in the brain is reduced by up to 60%. This creates a lot of space between brain cells. Then, still during sleep, a microscopic network of lymphatic vessels—the glymphatic system—clears the metabolic waste from these spaces between the neurons. This research shows that you can literally wash your brain of waste products and damage each night, if you sleep well.22 Dr. Jeffrey Iliff, who works in the same lab as Dr. Nedergaard, has shown that more than half of the amyloid beta, a protein that accumulates in the brains of patients with Alzheimer’s disease, is washed out of the brain each night via the glymphatic system. This is important because waste buildup in the brain occurs in nearly all people with neurodegenerative diseases, and this buildup may kill neurons, ultimately leading to cognitive diseases and mental deterioration. (Dr. Iliff’s TED Talk “One More Reason to Get a Good Night’s Sleep” is a great watch.)

It’s okay,” Crash says with a light laugh. “She was all of the above.” “Please don’t elaborate on the nuts part,” I mutter, spearing Dane with a look when he snorts. “It’s not that funny.” Dane sucks in a breath. “I mean . . . it kind of is?” “You’re the worst. Crash is literally here, pouring out his broken heart, and you’re laughing about the woman being a squirrel.” “My heart is fully intact,

The entirety of Facebook’s staff working on integrity and societal issues was now literally reporting to Marketing, and the effects weren’t subtle. Social scientists had to seek approval not just to conduct research that touched on politics, climate change, bias, health, or user well-being, but even to propose studying those subjects or summarizing their past work.

God is mighty to save, and He saves with singing. Now we know from the story of the whole Bible that saving people involves sacrifice, blood, and things being broken. He who knew no sin was made to be sin for us, but He did it with singing. Not only did Jesus give thanks the night He instituted the meal, but afterward they sang a psalm, and then they went out (Matt. 26:30; Mark 14:26). Jesus literally sang as He was preparing to go to the cross. So, the sacrifices that you will make for your children should be something you can sing over. If there is not a song in it, it is not a biblical sacrifice. Without a song, it is a poor-me, look-at-the-martyr-go sacrifice, and those kinds of sacrifices have a very poor return. You are not just supposed to sing over your children when they are being adorable, asleep in their bed, and you can be at peace with them since they are not misbehaving at the moment. Life is messier than that, and the whole thing—including the mess—should be met with a song. The delight that we are imitating is not an unrealistic delight. This kind of delight takes account of the world as it is, and even so, it rejoices. You sing over your children when you are sacrificing for them, when you are taking the hit for them, and when they have no idea what you are giving up for them.

Exhaustion means that our vital energies are completely worn out and spent. Spiritual exhaustion is never the result of sin, but of service. Whether or not you experience exhaustion will depend on where you get your supplies. Jesus said to Peter, “Feed My sheep,” but He gave him nothing with which to feed them (John 21:17). The process of being made broken bread and poured-out wine means that you have to be the nourishment for other people’s souls until they learn to feed on God. They must drain you completely—to the very last drop. But be careful to replenish your supply, or you will quickly be utterly exhausted. Until others learn to draw on the life of the Lord Jesus directly, they will have to draw on His life through you. You must literally be their source of supply, until they learn to take their nourishment from God. We owe it to God to be our best for His lambs and sheep, as well as for Him.

The more literal translation [of Micah 6:6-8] from the Hebrew suggests: “Do justice, live compassionately, and work for solidarity of community—founded on justice and compassion” (Paul Ingram’s translation)

Literally, “compassion” means “to suffer with,” and it occurs when we experience the suffering of other human beings and sentient beings as our own and attempt to relieve this suffering because it is our own.

Adam Back, the CEO of Blockstream and whose development of Hashcash in the 1990s was cited by Satoshi Nakamoto in the Bitcoin white paper, had this to say about Bitcoin trade-offs in a 2021 interview: There’s something unusual about Bitcoin. So, in 2013 I spent about 4 months of my spare time trying to find any way to appreciably improve Bitcoin, you know, across scalability, decentralization, privacy, fungibility, making it easier for people to mine on small devices… a bunch of metrics that I considered to be metrics of improvement. And so I looked at lots of different changing parameters, changing design, changing network, changing cryptography, and, you know, I came up with lots of different ideas — some of which have been proposed by other people since. But, basically to my surprise, it seemed that almost anything you did that arguably improved it in one way, made it worse in multiple other ways. It made it more complicated, used more bandwidth, made some other aspect of the system objectively worse. And so I came to think about it that Bitcoin kind of exists in a narrow pocket of design space. You know, the design space of all possible designs is an enormous search space, right, and counterintuitively it seems you can’t significantly improve it. And bear in mind I come from a background where I have a PhD in distributed systems, and spent most of my career working on large scale internet systems for startups and big companies and security protocols, and that sort of thing, so I feel like I have a reasonable chance — if anybody does — of incrementally improving something of this nature. And basically I gave it a shot and concluded, ‘Wow there is literally, basically nothing. Literally everything you do makes it worse.’ Which was not what I was expecting.344

Some of my teammates and their girlfriends were hoping to take a group photo. Would you mind shooting that?” “Not at all.” I slide my arms through his jacket as Jake steps away to talk to one of the guys. A minute later, several huge football players hoist their girlfriends onto their shoulders. “Aww, this is so cute.” I direct them to move closer, and then I have to step back and squat to get everyone in one shot. After I take a few, Jake tells the guys to hold up and then turns to me. “Can you ask Roxy to take a pic? Basically the same shot you just took, just with one more couple?” I tilt my head, confused, but he’s already called her over. He makes me hand over the camera to Roxy before he drags me over to the group. “Hang tight.” That’s the only warning he gives me before he lifts me onto his shoulder. Like, I’m literally sitting on his left shoulder. “Jake!” I laugh as I wobble, but then he reaches up a hand, and I cling to him for dear life. He yells, “’Kay, Roxy. Go for it.” He looks up at me and grins. “Smile for the camera, cupcake.” She takes several shots. I’m smiling so hard, my cheeks hurt, and I forget to worry about whether or not I’m blinking. When we’re done and he slides me down to the ground, I’m out of breath. I almost feel like Jake is claiming me somehow, but that’s crazy, right? He wanted to be in the photo, and I’m his good friend, so he had me join him. Roxy returns the camera and leans into me to whisper, “What was that about? Are you two doing the deed?” “No. We’re just friends.” God, I feel like a broken record. Her eyebrow lifts. “Because the looks he’s giving you tonight…” Jake’s giving me looks? I turn to find him talking to Cam, but his eyes are glued on me. Every molecule in my body heats. “Holy hot sexual tension, Batman.” Roxy bumps me with her hip. “I want all the deets tomorrow!” “There won’t be any deets.” Will there be deets?

The party store he’d broken into hadn’t provided much cash, so he’d settled for a liter of Jim Beam and a pack of Marlboros.

I never realized toddlers are literally like dealing with a hostage situation. He can argue, pitch a fit, refuse to do what you ask and then, when he hears something he wants, he caves.

Boone’s been surfing his whole life—literally before he was born, in his mother’s belly—and the one thing he’s learned is that there’s no wave that takes you anywhere but back to who you are.

No one had ever picked me. Literally no one. The cumulative result was worse than loneliness: I felt unnatural. Broken. It wasn't fair.

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. The conversation moved swiftly to the latest edition of “Have I Got News for You.” “Oh, Mummy, it was hilarious,” laughed William. “They had a photo of Mrs. Parker Bowles and a horse’s head and asked what the difference was. The answer was that there isn’t any!” Diana absolutely exploded with laughter. We talked about which was the hottest photo to get. “Charles and Camilla is still the really big one,” I said, “followed by you and a new man, and now, of course, William with his first girlfriend.” He groaned. So did Diana. Our “big ones” are the most intimate parts of their personal lives. It was a weird moment. I am the enemy, really, but we were getting on well and sort of developing a better understanding of each other as we went along. Lunch was turning out to be basically a series of front-page exclusive stories--none of which I was allowed to publish, although I did joke that “I would save it for my book”--a statement that caused Diana to fix me with a stare, and demand to know if I was carrying a tape recorder. “No,” I replied, truthfully. “Are you?” We both laughed, neither quite knowing what the answer really was. The lunch was one of the most exhilarating, fascinating, and exasperating two hours of my life. I was allowed to ask Diana literally anything I liked, which surprised me, given William’s presence. But he was clearly in the loop on most of her bizarre world and, in particular, the various men who came into it from time to time. The News of the World had, during my editorship, broken the Will Carling, Oliver Hoare, and James Hewitt scoops, so I had a special interest in those. So, unsurprisingly, did Diana. She was still raging about Julia Carling: “She’s milking it for all she’s worth, that woman. Honestly. I haven’t seen Will since June ’95. He’s not the man in black you lot keep going on about. I’m not saying who that is, and you will never guess, but it’s not Will.” William interjected: “I keep a photo of Julia Carling on my dartboard at Eton.” That was torture. That was three fantastic scoops in thirty seconds. Diana urged me to tell William the story of what we did to Hewitt in the Mirror after he spilled the beans in the ghastly Anna Pasternak book. I dutifully recounted how we hired a white horse, dressed a Mirror reporter in full armor, and charged Hewitt’s home to confront him on allegations of treason with regard to his sleeping with the wife of a future king--an offense still punishable by death. Diana exploded again. “It was hysterical. I have never laughed so much.” She clearly had no time for Hewitt, despite her “I adored him” TV confessional.

No, Kane, you aren't listening. Let me finish. I need you to listen. I know this is too soon. And I'm not saying right now, but promise me, one year from today, that you'll marry me if you still want to be with me." Avery held a small black velvet box and flipped open the lid. Kane's eyes landed on the ring and then darted straight to Avery's face where an intense expression stared back at him. A minute or two passed with neither man willing to look away. "Say something," Avery finally said. "You barely know me," Kane shot back. A few minutes ago, he thought they were breaking up, and now, Avery was down on one knee. What? "I said in a year. One year from today. I don't want to marry you tomorrow. A year will give us time. If either of us wants out, it's all right, but for now, this is a promise ring. You are promising to be mine," Avery said, carefully explaining everything while still down on one knee. "We can't marry," Kane fired back. "We can in the church. We can be married by your God's word," Avery said, pleading with him now. "Avery, my God doesn't believe in us," Kane said. That had Avery faltering. He lowered his arms and stood, backing Kane against the wall both literally and physically. "But he does. I know he does. I know you're meant for me. I know you're the other half of my soul. We are meant to be together. I know in one year we will be married, and I promise to spend the rest of my life loving you, taking care of and standing beside you. Say yes," Avery said, placing both palms on the side of Kane's face, slightly lifting his head to look into his eyes. "You're killing me, Kane. You told me always on the phone. You said you agreed with always." "I'm scared," Kane whispered. He wasn't sure he'd ever said those words out loud before in his life. "Me too. What we have between us is so strong. Please say yes," Avery said, placing a simple kiss on his lips. "Okay," Kane said, his voice growing stronger with each word he spoke. "Yes, I will marry you in one year." "Thank you, I'll hold you to that!" Avery grinned before devouring his slightly parted lips. Kane kissed him back with everything he held inside his heart. The barriers he'd constructed over his heart tore free. He was so completely in love with Avery Adams, and they hadn't broken up, actually quite the opposite.

I have had my homes razed, raided and burned to the ground, my towers gutted, marauded, and blasted, and my castles pillaged, defiled, and demolished. I have been imprisoned in the Astral Plane, entombed in stone, had my spirit bound within a phylactery, and had my mind trapped within a crystal prism. I have been held for ransom by bandits, robbed by nobility, and dispossessed by extradimensional thieves. I have been threatened, cajoled, berated, cursed (both literally and actually), abused, and blackmailed. I have been stabbed, bludgeoned, whipped, tortured, burned, shocked, flayed, and worse.1 I have been possessed, mind-controlled, robbed of my body and volition, and rendered incorporeal. I have been turned into a newt, transmogrified into a frog, changed into a toad, and transformed into creatures slimier still.2 I have been charmed, bewitched, hexed, ensorcelled, enchanted, mesmerized, spellbound, and let’s not even talk about what happened while I was under the influence of hostile supernatural entities and agents. I have been abandoned by friends, forgotten by allies, scorned by compatriots, and turned upon by companions. I have had intimates taken, comrades killed, family members persecuted, and kith imprisoned. I have fought with incomprehensible daemons face to face, been engulfed by dragons’ raging hellfires, clashed with greater Powers, and been laid low by alien intelligences. I have been trapped within the bowels of forgotten ruins, lost within haunted crypts, striven through extradimensional labyrinths, delved over and through the hearts of uncharted planets, and foundered within the darkest and deepest wilds. I have had my identity erased, my memories taken, my will sapped, and my spirit broken. And these were on some of my better days. I am a wizard.

like this for perhaps twenty-five years, and I hadn’t exactly been an ace back then. I found myself looking down a vast, broken plain of snow, steeply inclined. It seemed to go on down for ever until the slope itself was lost to view in a boiling sea of cloud impossibly far below. Now, I’m not a nervous person at all, but my legs and knees, which were already quivering from the muscular exertion of the climb, began at that point to quake, literally, with fear. Nearly everybody had already set off, and were little more than dots far below by the time I had steeled my courage sufficiently to launch myself down the slope. I reckoned no harm could come to me if I just kept it slow, but within seconds I

It will not, however, affect one tiny bit the question of whether the text has a literal meaning because—mark this—every biblical text has a literal meaning. Many people are stunned to hear this. That is because many people think a "literal meaning" can only be conveyed by literal language. They make the mistake of assuming that an author who uses metaphor, fiction, hyperbole, or various other figures of speech does not have a literal meaning. Thus, for instance, if I say "my heart is broken", some people mistakenly imagine that I "meant nothing literally." But, of course, I do. I literally mean I am deeply grieved and I am expressing that grief via a metaphor. Likewise, if I say "I stood in line for a million years" I am using an exaggeration to communicate another literal meaning: I waited a long time. Indeed, more often than not, metaphor is exactly the right vehicle for conveying a literal meaning and is far better than nonfigurative language. The shortest distance between two minds is a figure of speech. -- Making Senses of Scripture

You’ve always kept your guard up around me,” Ryan said without any inflection in his voice. “And I never noticed.” James winced. “I had to. Or I’d be molesting you at every turn.” Ryan was silent, his warm breath brushing James’s ear. God. When Ryan was so close, all he wanted was to crawl into Ryan’s lap, tear their clothes off and— Fuck, he must get a grip. He wasn’t drunk now. He had no excuse now. “Jamie,” Ryan said. “I don’t give a shit. Molest me—I don’t fucking care. I’d take that over you being constantly on guard around me.” A short laugh left James’s lips. “I appreciate the sentiment, but you have no idea what you’re talking about.” It was Ryan’s turn to laugh. “No idea? Please. I’m not the one who’s kissed three people in my life.” “You still don’t get it.” “I do, you tosser.” With a frustrated sigh, James turned his head and slammed their lips together. It was meant to be a lesson for Ryan, but he wasn’t prepared for how much it would shake him. A broken, desperate moan tore out of his throat and he plunged his tongue into Ryan’s mouth, found Ryan’s tongue and sucked on it, greedy, hungry, so hungry. It felt like he’d been thirsty for centuries, for eons, and God, God— He whimpered, sucking Ryan’s tongue deeper into his mouth, shaking with want—literally shaking. When Ryan’s arms wrapped tightly around him, Jamie completely lost it, all but crawling into Ryan’s lap and rubbing against him like a horny cat. A small, distant part of him was horrified— Ryan must be disgusted—but he couldn’t stop. He needed this, needed him; he’d been starved for him for years and years and years. It hurt. It actually hurt, his balls aching and painful, his cock so stiff he couldn’t think straight, all the years of repressed desire finally out, like a dam broken, unleashed and unstoppable. A half-moan, half-sob of frustration broke from him as he willed himself to stop and breathe. He was shaking in Ryan’s arms, literally shaking, unable to calm down. He wanted. God, he wanted. “Jesus, Jamie,” Ryan said, holding him close with one arm while the other— The other hand pressed between James’s legs. James flinched with his entire body, his glazed eyes going wide as he tried to focus them on Ryan’s face. “What are you doing—

Self-injury may allow abuse survivors to reclaim their bodies in the same way refusing to eat gives anorexics a feeling of control. They may want to make their bodies unattractive so the abuser will no longer desire them. The wounds may also serve as a badge of proof, a concrete marker to punish an abusing parent—and make the other parent, who may not have abused the child but failed to protect her, take notice. In that sense, the cuts and bruises are a symbolic cry for help or a manifesto of resistance, even if inflicted long after the actual abuse. "It's a reliance on a much more primitive system of communication, like saying 'I've been torn open, intruded upon, broken into' in a very literal way," says Michael Wagner. Through this "body language" of blood and scars, they can communicate much more directly and forcefully than they can speak in words.

The integrity of my body is undermined in pregnancy not only by this externality of the inside, but also by the fact that the boundaries of my body are themselves in flux. In pregnancy I literally do not have a firm sense of where my body ends and the world begins. My automatic body habits become dislodged; the continuity between my customary body and my body at this moment is broken. In pregnancy, my prepregnant body image does not entirely leave my movements and expectations, yet it is with the pregnant body that I must move. This is another instance of the doubling of the pregnant subject. I move as if I could squeeze around chairs and through crowds as I could seven months before, only to find my way blocked by my own body sticking out in front of me - but yet not me, since I did not expect it to block my passage. As I lean over in my chair to tie my shore, I am surprised by the graze of this hard belly on my thigh. I do not anticipate my body touching itself, for my habits retain the old sense of my boundaries. In the ambiguity of bodily touch, I feel myself being touched and touching simultaneously, both on my knee and my belly. The belly is other, since I did not expect it there, but since I feel the touch upon it, it is me.

THE NEXT DAY WAS RAIN-SOAKED and smelled of thick sweet caramel, warm coconut and ginger. A nearby bakery fanned its daily offerings. A lapis lazuli sky was blanketed by gunmetal gray clouds as it wept crocodile tears across the parched Los Angeles landscape. When Ivy was a child and she overheard adults talking about their break-ups, in her young feeble-formed mind, she imagined it in the most literal of essences. She once heard her mother speaking of her break up with an emotionally unavailable man. She said they broke up on 69th Street. Ivy visualized her mother and that man breaking into countless fragments, like a spilled box of jigsaw pieces. And she imagined them shattered in broken shards, being blown down the pavement of 69th Street. For some reason, on the drive home from Marcel’s apartment that next morning, all Ivy could think about was her mother and that faceless man in broken pieces, perhaps some aspects of them still stuck in cracks and crevices of the sidewalk, mistaken as grit. She couldn’t get the image of Marcel having his seizure out of her mind. It left a burning sensation in the center of her chest. An incessant flame torched her lungs, chest, and even the back door of her tongue. Witnessing someone you cared about experiencing a seizure was one of those things that scribed itself indelibly on the canvas of your mind. It was gut-wrenching. Graphic and out-of-body, it was the stuff that post traumatic stress syndrome was made of.

It is without doubt a dark and complicated feeling, shared with firemen and soldiers and paramedics and emergency-room workers, that comes from knowing that you can only be at your best and only really achieve any kind of fulfillment when what is at stake is literally life and death.

Do not underestimate the significance of Arabia to Egypt, for that the Hyksos were invading Semites who ruled Lower Egypt and some parts of Upper Egypt before getting expelled gradually from these lands since [the revolt which drove them out from Upper Egypt began in the closing years of the Seventeenth Dynasty at Thebes]. The main god of those Semites were Seth, who was distinguished by the ancient Egyptians as the 'desert god' as if they were pointing to us at his Arab origin. The Hyksos after all, ruled the Kingdom that embraced the Upper Heavens' authority instead of that of the Sun which had broken away into the domain of Upper Egypt.The name Hyksos literally means, 'rulers of foreign lands'. If this is to tell us anything, it certainly does point to us at the Aqsa location (falsely known as, the Temple Mount) which is one of the three Islamic holy sites; its name (Aqsa) from which the name of the Hyksos was derived, literally means: the foreign land.

Jesus calls his disciples, giving us authority to heal and sending us out. He doesn't show us how to reliably cure a molar pregnancy. He doesn't show us how to make a blind man see, dry every tar, or even drive out all kinds of demons. But he shows us how to enter into a way of life in which the broken and sick pieces are held in love, and given meaning. In which strangers literally touch each other, and in doing so make a community spacious enough for everyone.

While Sean was pulling on his fins, Lily had pretended to be busy herself. She’d made a show of tugging on her goggles, just in case he happened to glance up, and saw her staring like an obsessed ninny. Through the tinted blue of her goggles, she watched him surface. Oh my god. Her knees went weak, threatened to buckle. Sean was doing a butterfly kick on his back. Her eyes traveled down the length of his torso, and stopped, transfixed. She swallowed convulsively. Yet she couldn’t have torn her eyes away from the sight of Sean’s narrow hips if someone had screamed, Fire! Encased in black Lycra, they moved in a suggestive rhythm, breaking the surface of the water, sinking, and then rising again, over and over. Unbearably erotic, an answering beat drummed deep inside Lily. Helplessly, she conjured endless hours of sex, Sean’s body driving into her with the same relentless, unbroken rhythm, each flex of his hips thrusting to her very womb. “Something wrong, Lily?” Hal’s impatient voice demanded. Lily nearly leaped out of her skin. She was the only one left on deck besides Hal. “No, nothing,” she said hurriedly, hyperconscious that her voice was reedy thin. “Just about to jump in.” To clear her mind of the sexual fog that lay thick and heavy, she blinked rapidly—only to mutter a soft curse when she realized what had happened. Yanking her goggles off, she dropped to a kneel and swished them viciously in the water. “What’s the problem now?” Hal’s patience was obviously wearing thin. Embarrassed, resentful, and praying Hal wouldn’t guess the real reason why, Lily ground out her explanation. “My glasses fogged.” “They broken? I’ve got—” “No, no . . .” she interrupted tersely, and felt immediately guilty. It wasn’t Hal’s fault her goggles had literally fogged from the heat of her aroused body. It was hers. That’s what she got from staring at Sean McDermott’s groin for too long: fogged mind, fogged goggles. Determined to ignore the sight of Sean moving like a bold lover through the water next to her, that incredible, muscled body within touching distance, Lily gritted her teeth and dove in.

A sermon preached but yet not practiced will fail to touch the hearts of its listeners and will never bring glory to God rather it will become a loathsome sacrifice that will stink on broken altars. One can be theologically astute but still very immature. One can possibly be biblically literate but still in very much need of wisdom to apply the truth in one's own life.

On reaching the house, I saw my piano and all of my elegant furniture piled in the street. My safe had been broken open, all of the money stolen, also my silverware, cut glass, all of the family clothes, and everything of value had been removed, even my family Bible. My electric light fixtures were broken, all of the window lights and glass in the doors were broken, the dishes that were not stolen were broken, the floors were covered (literally speaking) with glass, even the phone was torn from the wall. (Tulsa Reparations Committee Report)

comes the next lesson: “From now on, you will catch people.” The Greek words translate more literally as: “From now on, you will revive people, bring them back to life.”   He is telling us: From now on, you will go out into the deep, the dangerous, where people don’t believe anything, are lost, are in turmoil, are surrounded by sharks. Go out into the deep and go get them. That is the mission of the disciple. I will send you into all the depths, starting with next door. There are many fish out there who are hungry for God, who are lost without God. Perhaps more than ever before, we are a disintegrating society, a broken civilization. The words of Jesus tell us: Help them find God, help them find peace, help them find joy and sanity. The assumption is that we find sanity first so there is a sane place for them to come.

The first one was wearing a kind of ancient Tyrolean (?) hat whose ragged edges were maybe an inch wide; the second had a straw hat that looked like an open snuffbox with a broken cover. The Agitated on the right had an evil laugh that bared his stumps of tarnished nuggets; the Agitated on the left foamed with rage. The laugher started dancing, doing somersaults and dancing again, like a circus ballerina; then he jumped up and down, tirelessly, saying “Opa! Opa!” and guffawing. He smiled less and looked satisfied, almost happy. He obviously thought he was funny and was playing nice, but all of a sudden, he started yelling, rolling on the ground and jumping back up. He kept yelling and jumping and then finally fell down on the floor of his cage and wiggled around in a kind of epileptic fit. After maybe 20 seconds, he got up and started dancing; and the whole time he was scratching himself and smiling absent-mindedly. The furious one climbed the bars of the window, tried to spit on us, shook the bars, moaned and groaned and his eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head. He tore at his rags, scratched his face until it bled, howled and cried in frustration—at not being able to bite us, to wring our necks and tear off our skin. He aimed his claws at us; he choked; his face turned purple, almost black! “OK, Leonard! Now I’ve had enough of looking at these monsters! They’re hurting me. Not to mention that us being here is not good for them. These crises must wear them out. When they’re alone. they can hide in the corner, curl up and go to sleep, or whatever, but they’ll calm down. I’m getting out of here!” “Good! Good! Let’s go,” my guardian said very seriously. “They’re very gentle, almost proper. It’s the others I don’t wanna show you, no matter what Bid’homme says. The others, ah! They’re nightmares! If there’s any like them outside of here, they’re only found in jars—and drowned in alcohol—again!” Just then two young, buxom nurses passed by us. The two sad anthropoids whinnied—literally—like horses and threw themselves against the bars—then tore off some of their clothes, seized by an exhibitionist rage, and slobbered and roared. The nurses ran away and Leonard finally agreed to get away from the awful scene—so sad that it was almost not disgusting.

I have always believed that what is on the inside of a person comes out on the outside. But I now understand that what is on the outside, literally the physical environment, critically impacts what is on the inside of a person. This makes for a vicious cycle that whole cultures are caught in with little opportunity to break out of their own accord. This cycle must be understood and it must be broken.

That is when Randy Randle’s not groping the almost attractive women behind the cameras,” Payne said. “Almost attractive?” Harris parroted. Payne grinned. “They apparently like the attention, and don’t complain. It’s when Randy Randle plays grab ass with the pretty ones—literally, gets touchy-feely—that the complaints start. He really has a thing for TV reporters, preferably the hot blonde ones, something that goes beyond his usual perversion.

FROM LONG-SUFFERING TO FORBEARANCE AND FORGIVENESS The next pair is not exactly a pair. It’s an inner condition followed by forbearance and forgiveness. But forbearance and forgiveness are one. Neither can exist biblically without the other. Verse 12: “Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, bearing with one another and, if one has a complaint against another, forgiving each other.” So I am treating “patience” as the inner condition and forbearance/forgiveness as the outward demeanor or behavior. The literal translation of patience is “long-suffering.” That is, become the kind of person who does not have a short fuse but a long one. A very long one. Become a patient person, slow to anger, quick to listen, slow to speak (Jas. 1:19). These three inner conditions I have mentioned connect with each other and affect each other. “Bowels of mercy” and “lowliness” lead to being “long-suffering.” If you are quick to anger, instead of being long-suffering, the root is probably lack of mercy and lack of lowliness. In other words, being chosen, holy, and loved has not broken your heart and brought you down from selfcenteredness and pride.

The next pair is “humility, meekness.” Verse 12: “Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness . . .” Literally, “lowliness, meekness.” Again “lowliness” is the inward condition, and “meekness” is the outward demeanor. People whose hearts are lowly, instead of proud, will act more meekly toward others. The meek count others above themselves and serve them. That happens when the heart is lowly, or humble. So, husbands, sink your roots by faith into Christ through the gospel until you become more lowly and humble. Wives, sink your roots by faith into Christ through the gospel until you become more lowly and humble. The gospel of Christ’s painful death on our behalf has a way of breaking our pride and our sense of rightful demands and our frustration at not getting our way. It works lowliness into our souls. Then we treat each other with meekness flowing out of that lowliness. The battle is with our own proud, self-centered inner person. Fight that battle by faith, through the gospel, in prayer. Be stunned and broken and built up and made glad and humble because you are chosen, holy, loved.

Chris Saggers fell out of his scaffold while window washing, flattening a car 220 feet below, and literally walked away with a broken elbow.

We must be our own librarians because we alone are literate in our bodies.

The information that abductees receive is concerned primarily with the fate of the earth in the wake of human destructiveness. Scenes are shown of the planet wasted by nuclear war and especially of the earth’s environment devastated by pollution and toxic clouds. Sara and Arthur, for example, were shown great black clouds or “blobs” suffocating the earth’s living systems, the effect presumably of environmental catastrophe. A number of abductees have been shown apocalyptic images of the earth itself literally cracked open or broken up, followed by elaborate triage scenes in which some people will die, others will survive in some way on Earth, and still others will be transported to some other place where human life will continue in a new way.

He has now completed two books, the first on how investment dealers “fee-farm” over half of the life savings of many clients, and this second book about conditions which allow quiet professional corruption to remain hidden from the public, and ignored by authorities. What drives me? (in the authors words) I hope to have an impact upon the #1 cause of disability, disease, and stress in society today. I believe I have some unique perspectives on this from my experience. For example, the #1 cause of disability, disease, and stress is fear of economic uncertainty. In my experience, the #1 cause of fear of economic uncertainty, is unfairness between those who are protected and enriched within the “lifeboats” of certain professions, corporations or institutions, and those who are not so protected. There are different levels of protection by the law, and immunity from having to adhere to the law, depending upon the wealth, power or status of those involved. Justice systems simply do not often “look upwards” to investigate and prosecute those of great wealth, power and status. These rigged systems of governance, finance, justice etc, cause unfairness, injustice, and repeal the laws of poverty for a few very lucky people, and repeals the chances of prosperity for billions of others. A small few win by corruption, while the rest of society must lose by default. This is a broken system. The unfairness of rigged and/or broken systems, causes imbalances sufficient to destroy entire societies. Societies can literally shake themselves apart with the human vibration of living in an unjust, unfair world. At time of writing this, I am the chairperson of the volunteer Canadian Justice Review Board of Canada, working to better understand one of societies most valuable social systems,

So what ended crime as it was known in New York? Jack Maple said it wasn’t about literally fixing broken windows. “Rapists and killers,” he wrote, “don’t head for another town when they see that graffiti is disappearing from the subway.” Incarceration wasn’t the deciding factor either, at least in New York; murders took a quick dive once Compstat was in place, but other crimes continued down the same trend line that had started under Dinkins. Something else was happening. The changes in the NYPD had a profound impact, but they were meeting a unique confluence of conditions. First,

We could usually tell if it was an Aboriginal car coming, because they invariably sounded like sick washing-machines. The process of selling broken-down second-hand cars to Aborigines at exorbitant prices in Alice Springs is a lucrative business. Luckily Aboriginal people are great bush-mechanics and can usually keep them going on bits of string and wire. There was one story at Docker River, of a group of young men who bought a car in Alice, four hundred miles away, and half way home the body of the car literally fell to pieces. They simply got out (all ten of them), took off their belts, tied it all together and drove happily home.

I hit the wall. Literally. My fist went straight through the tile, the drywall, and a two-by-four stud. I pulled out my hand. I wriggled my fingers. Nothing felt broken. I regarded the fist-shaped hole I’d made above the towel bar. “Yep,” I grumbled. “Housekeeping loves me.

And, if Amir’s story showed Aleisha one thing, it was that—no matter how terribly you have behaved in the past—you should do everything you can to be good. Amir and Hassan’s friendship had literally broken Aleisha’s heart; she hadn’t known she could feel this bereft from a story, some words on a page.

Maybe we feel such a strong kinship with pique assiette because it is the visual metaphor that best describes us; after all, we spend much of our lives hurling bits of the figurative and literal past into the world’s landfill—and then regret it. We build our identities from that detritus of regret. Every relationship worth keeping sustains, at the very least, splintered glazes, hairline fractures, cracks. And aren’t these flaws the prerequisites of intimacy?

is literally going to die of a broken heart.

I realized that I get to report in the halls of Capitol Hill because of the work of disabled activists who literally crawled up the steps of that very building to help pass the ADA. When people see me as an inspiration because I ‘overcame’ my disability to graduate college and hold a job, I want to respond that the only things I overcame were the specific obstacles in front of me. I am a return on others’ investment in policy. In the same way, every autistic person who language is in classes or winds up in a group home or institution is not a reflection of poor upbringing but rather a failure in policy.” ~ Eric Garcia We’re Not Broken: Changing The Autism Conversation

Like all the other architects of his generation, Taut believed that you could morally uplift the masses through architecture. But unlike most of his contemporaries he didn’t want to do that by sticking them in concrete blocks. Taut’s big thing was glass, which he believed had spiritual qualities. He wanted to build Stadtkronen, literally “city crowns,” secular cathedrals that would draw the spiritual energy of the city upward. His glass pavilion at the Cologne Exhibition in 1914 was an elongated dome constructed from glass panels with a step fountain inside—the Gherkin at St. Mary Axe is a scaled-up version, but stuffed with lots of offices.

He told me I could go on being a lost sinner, living my life as I chose, ignoring the offer of eternal life and the peace that only God could give me. But, he told me, You will literally have to step over the broken, bleeding, nail-pierced body of Jesus in order to enter the gates of hell.

Alternatives to time-out Isolating children for a period of time has become a popular discipline strategy advocated by many child psychologists and pediatricians. However, newly adopted toddlers seem to be more upset than helped by time-outs. Time-outs are intended to provide an opportunity for both parents and children to calm down and change their behaviors, but it isn’t effective for children who do not have self-calming strategies. Isolation can be traumatic for a toddler who is struggling with grief and/or attachment, and so perceives time-out as further rejection. If the child becomes angrier or more withdrawn as a result of being timed-out, try another strategy. One alternative is for parents to impose a brief time-out on themselves by temporarily withdrawing their attention from their child. For example, the parent whose child is throwing toys stops playing, looks away, and firmly tells the child, “I can’t continue playing until you stop throwing your toys.” Sitting passively next to the child may be effective, especially if the child previously was engaged in an enjoyable activity with the parent. Another alternative to parent enforced time-outs is self-determined time-outs, where the child is provided the opportunity to withdraw from a conflict voluntarily or at least have some input into the time-out arrangement. The parent could say, “I understand that you got very upset when you had to go to your room yesterday after you hit Sara. Can you think of a different place you would like to go to calm down if you feel like getting in a fight?” If the child suggests going out on the porch, the next time a battle seems to be brewing, Mom or Dad can say, “Do you need to go outside to the porch and calm down before we talk more?” Some children eventually reach the level of self-control where they remove themselves from a volatile situation without encouragement from Mom or Dad. These types of negotiations usually work better with older preschoolers or school-age children than they do with toddlers because of the reasoning skills involved. As an alternative to being timed-out, toddlers also can be timed-in while in the safety of a parent’s lap. Holding allows parents to talk to their child about why she’s being removed from an activity. For example, the toddler who has thrown her truck at the cat could be picked up and held for a few minutes while being told, “I can’t let you throw your toys at Misty. That hurts her, and in our family we don’t hurt animals. We’ll sit here together until you’re able to calm down.” Calming strategies could incorporate music, back rubs, or encouraging the child to breathe slowly. Objects that children are misusing should also be removed. For example, in the situation just discussed, the truck could be timed-out to a high shelf. If parents still decide to physically remove their child for a time-out, it should never be done in a way or place that frightens a toddler. Toddlers who have been frightened in the past by closed doors, dark rooms, or a particular room such as a bathroom should never be subjected to those settings. I know toddlers who, in their terror, have literally trashed the furniture and broken windows when they were locked in their rooms for a time-out. If parents feel a time-out is essential, it should be very brief, and in a location where the child can be supervised.

He could only speculate as to why he was more receptive and sentimental in his postsurgical state. "I think, literally, because you ahve cracked the chest," he said, explaining that men, in particular, clad themselves in a layer of armor, bot once it is pierced - here he mimed his rib cage being broken open - "It's like, "Babies! my babies!" You are vulnerable, totally, for the first time since birth. You're heavily medicated and the only thing you're missing is a tit.

February 9 Are You Exhausted Spiritually? The everlasting God . . . fainteth not, neither is weary. Isaiah 40:28 Exhaustion means that the vital forces are worn right out. Spiritual exhaustion never comes through sin but only through service, and whether or not you are exhausted will depend upon where you get your supplies. Jesus said to Peter—“Feed My sheep,” but He gave him nothing to feed them with. The process of being made broken bread and poured-out wine means that you have to be the nourishment for other souls until they learn to feed on God. They must drain you to the dregs. Be careful that you get your supply, or before long you will be utterly exhausted. Before other souls learn to draw on the life of the Lord Jesus direct, they have to draw on it through you; you have to be literally “sucked,” until they learn to take their nourishment from God. We owe it to God to be our best for His lambs and His sheep as well as for Himself. Has the way in which you have been serving God betrayed you into exhaustion? If so, then rally your affections. Where did you start the service from? From your own sympathy or from the basis of the Redemption of Jesus Christ? Continually go back to the foundation of your affections and recollect where the source of power is. You have no right to say—“Oh Lord, I am so exhausted.” He saved and sanctified you in order to exhaust you. Be exhausted for God, but remember that your supply comes from Him. “All my fresh springs shall be in Thee” (pbv).[10]

The past is literally being bulldozed away. And the trucks cart away more than just old bricks, broken chunks of cement and warped rods of rusted steel. If you looked closely you would also see bits of songs and pieces of folkdances crumpled within this rubble; torn pages of history which no one wants to read today.

Online predators have mastered the art of sitting back and scanning a forum for a “target.” They look for females who brag and boast: first sign that the target is insecure. Then they move in and feel her out. They ask about her: what she likes, what she hates. Insecure people often and easily talk about themselves when barely coaxed. Within five minutes, a predator can determine if the target is close to her father or not. You absolutely want a female who has daddy issues because if the “pinch and grab” is to work, the predator must segregate the child from the parent as soon as possible. If the female has a good relationship with her father, this can never happen and the predator knows it. The female with a healthy parental relationship will confide in the father they trust and the father will move in to protect. The pedophile does this all while appearing sincere, genuine, loving, and affectionate. They compliment the target. Tell her things…like how smart or how beautiful she is. While they shower her with praise, they reinforce one message. “I accept you. I approve of you.” In truth, they are literally making notes as to what the target desires, dreams, and wants. They listen and reciprocate. The first three days are crucial for selecting a target. It’s all about trust and earning it fast. Time is of the essence. ... On day one, you want to select a target and study their wants, loves, hates, and weaknesses. Make an agreement to meet next day, same time, same place. This establishes a sense of dependency with the target. ... Shower with praise and develop a sense of acceptance. Make a request and watch her obey. Punish her with rejection. Reward with approval using gifts and compliments. All of this is impossible if a daughter knows her father loves her, and she isn’t needing the acceptance from others.

Without cultural change, we are hopeless to change existing results.5 Of all changes, cultural change is the most difficult. It is essentially changing the collective DNA of an entire group of people. To understand how to change culture, it is helpful to know how change works in general. Changing Church Culture Change is extremely difficult. One of the most vivid and striking examples of this painful reality is the inability of heart patients to change even when confronted with grim reality. Roughly six hundred thousand people have a heart bypass each year in the United States. These patients are told they must change. They must change their eating habits, must exercise, and quit smoking and drinking. If they do not, they will die. The case for change is so compelling that they are literally told, “Change or die.”6 Yet despite the clear instructions and painful reality, 90 percent of the patients do not change. Within two years of hearing such brutal facts, they remain the same. Change is that challenging for people. For the vast majority of patients, death is chosen over change. Yet leadership is often about change, about moving a group of people to a new future. Perhaps the most recognized leadership book on leading an organization to change is John Kotter’s Leading Change. And when ministry leaders speak or write about leadership, they often look to the wisdom found in the book of Nehemiah, as it chronicles Nehemiah’s leadership in rebuilding the wall around Jerusalem. Nehemiah led wide-scale change. Nehemiah never read Kotter’s book, and he led well without it. The Lord well equipped Nehemiah for the task of leading God’s people. But it is fascinating to see how Nehemiah’s actions mirror much of what Kotter has observed in leaders who successfully lead change. With a leadership development culture in mind, here are the eight steps for leading change, according to Kotter, and how one can see them in Nehemiah’s leadership. 1. Establish a sense of urgency. Leaders must create dissatisfaction with an ineffective status quo. They must help others develop a sense of angst over the brokenness around them. Nehemiah heard a negative report from Jerusalem, and it crushed him to the point of weeping, fasting, and prayer (Neh. 1:3–4). Sadly, the horrible situation in Jerusalem had become the status quo. The disgrace did not bother the people in the same way that it frustrated Nehemiah. After he arrived in Jerusalem, he walked around and observed the destruction. Before he launched the vision of rebuilding the wall, Nehemiah pointed out to the people that they were in trouble and ruins. He started with urgency, not vision. Without urgency, plans for change do not work. If you assess your culture and find deviant behaviors that reveal some inaccurate theological beliefs, you must create urgency by pointing these out. If you assess your culture and find a lack of leadership development, a sense of urgency must be created. Leadership development is an urgent matter because the mission the Lord has given us is so great.

These drugs can lead to serious side effects. Besides acting like a chemical straitjacket and making people dull, slow, and stupid, they increase the risk of obesity, diabetes, stroke, blood clots, and more serious conditions known as neuroleptic malignant syndrome (where your body literally burns up with fever and your muscles are destroyed) and tardive dyskinesia (uncontrolled repetitive, involuntary, and purposeless movements such as lip smacking, rapid eye blinking, grimacing, and spasms in the legs). Have we suddenly all gone crazy?

God designed Communion to be an intimate act of remembering His flesh and blood. More than just an exercise of the mind, He wanted us to actually eat of the bread and drink of the cup. And Communion is not just about intimacy with Jesus; it’s also about intimacy with one another. Remember that Jesus had just washed the disciples’ feet and commanded them to love one another just as He loved them. It was after this that He taught them to stare at His broken body and blood to remind them of how He loved them. As we consider the cross and look around the room, we should be asking ourselves, “Am I willing to love the people in this room to that extent?” This probably sounds impossible to most churchgoers, yet it’s what Christ asks for. Just imagine if the Church was made up of people who would literally go to the cross for one another. How could people shrug their shoulders as they witnessed that kind of love? This is what unbelievers should see when they watch us break bread with one another. If Communion feels like a curious add-on to our church services rather than the very core of everything we’re about, then we’re missing the point of the Church.

He wishes Marie were here, that’s all. No one who hasn’t missed a beloved spouse will ever know the literal meaning of the word “heartache

Math and I do not see eye to eye at all. Let’s be honest: there’s literally no way I will ever use the quadratic equation or exponential functions at any point in my day to day life.

She was here, in the middle of the wilderness. She was starving, she was broken and bleeding, and there was a Spade literally standing on her back. All this and yet Dinah felt more in control of her fate than she had the past few months at the palace. There was a freedom in having nothing to lose.

healing. Rapha means quite literally “to heal, make healthy.

In one life she was a travel vlogger who had 1,750,000 YouTube subscribers and almost as many people following her on Instagram, and her most popular video was one where she fell off a gondola in Venice. She also had one about Rome called 'A Roma Therapy'. In one life she was a single parent to a baby that literally wouldn't sleep. In one life she ran the showbiz column in a tabloid newspaper and did stories about Ryan Bailey's relationships. In one life she was the picture editor at the National Geographic. In one life she was a successful eco-architect who lived a carbon-neutral existence in a self-designed bungalow that harvested rain-water and ran on solar power. In one life she was an aid worker in Bostwana. In one life a cat-sitter. In one life a volunteer in a homeless shelter. In one life she was sleeping on her only friend's sofa. In one life she taught music in Montreal. In one life she spent all day arguing with people she didn't know on Twitter and ended a fair proportion of her tweets by saying 'Do better' while secretly realising she was telling herself to do that. In one life she had no social media accounts. In one life she'd never drunk alcohol. In one life she was a chess champion and currently visiting Ukraine for a tournament. In one life she was married to a minor Royal and hated every minute. In one life her Facebook and Instagram only contained quotes from Rumi and Lao Tzu. In one life she was on to her third husband and already bored. In one life she was a vegan power-lifter. In one life she was travelling around South Corsican coast, and they talked quantum mechanics and got drunk together at a beachside bar until Hugo slipped away, out of that life, and mid-sentence, so Nora was left talking to a blank Hugo who was trying to remember her name. In some lives Nora attracted a lot of attention. In some lives she attracted none. In some lives she was rich. In some lives she was poor. In some lives she was healthy. In some lives she couldn't climb the stairs without getting out of breath. In some lives she was in a relationship, in others she was solo, in many she was somewhere in between. In some lives she was a mother, but in most she wasn't. She had been a rock star, an Olympics, a music teacher, a primary school teacher, a professor, a CEO, a PA, a chef, a glaciologist, a climatologist, an acrobat, a tree-planter, an audit manager, a hair-dresser, a professional dog walker, an office clerk, a software developer, a receptionist, a hotel cleaner, a politician, a lawyer, a shoplifter, the head of an ocean protection charity, a shop worker (again), a waitress, a first-line supervisor, a glass-blower and a thousand other things. She'd had horrendous commutes in cars, on buses, in trains, on ferries, on bike, on foot. She'd had emails and emails and emails. She'd had a fifty-three-year-old boss with halitosis touch her leg under a table and text her a photo of his penis. She'd had colleagues who lied about her, and colleagues who loved her, and (mainly) colleagues who were entirely indifferent. In many lives she chose not to work and in some she didn't choose not to work but still couldn't find any. In some lives she smashed through the glass ceiling and in some she just polished it. She had been excessively over- and under-qualified. She had slept brilliantly and terribly. In some lives she was on anti-depressants and in others she didn't even take ibuprofen for a headache. In some lives she was a physically healthy hypochondriac and in some a seriously ill hypochondriac and in most she wasn't a hypochondriac at all. There was a life where she had chronic fatigue, a life where she had cancer, a life where she'd suffered a herniated disc and broken her ribs in a car accident.

had looked on literally thousands of coroner’s photographs over the years. None were worse than the last pictures taken of Nicole Brown. Her face was a grotesque white—no wonder, since she’d bled out nearly 90 percent. The slash across her neck had nearly decapitated her. She lay there, disjointed, like a marionette discarded by the puppeteer. I had a mental flash of the photo of her that hung by the stairs at Rockingham. I recalled her bright, glossy features. That was a rich man’s wife, someone to whom I couldn’t relate. Now, as I saw her frail and broken in death, I felt a surge of helpless anger. I fought back the feeling. Times like this call for cool reason. The last thing you can afford is too much feeling.

Lies.” Gods, this hurts. I didn’t expect it to hurt so much. “You spent ten days fucking me, letting me hold you, talking with me, coaxing me to let you in. All the while, you were thinking of ways to kill me.” I shake my head. “You’ve accomplished your goal.” “What are you talking about?” “You might not have wielded a literal blade, but you’ve broken my fucking heart.” I turn away. “Get out. Sara will take you back to the Underworld.” “Wait.

He doesn't say anything and I feel like my chest is collapsing, sinking to the bottom of my stomach. Did you know that you can actually die from a broken heart? Like literally? Takotsubo cardiomyopathy. That's what it's called.

The aroma of mangos and gasoline still festers. I'm zigging and zagging down Bali's mad streets on a rented bike, my existence and crypto riches secure in the back of a backpack. And then? Spinning on the sidewalk, dodging airborne papayas, and a helpless victim as a thief swiped my sack from my shoulder in the mess. Inside: $310,000 in Bitcoin, ten years of digital vagabond work, and the socks I preferred. Local officials yawned, sipping sugary tea beside a whirring ceiling fan. "Suku banyak cryptonym?" they complained, inviting me to submit a report after nap time.  My crypto fortune was evaporating faster than an Indian sandcastle swept by monsoon rains. WhatsApp info:+12723  328 343 Enter ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST, recommended by a seasoned highway veteran on a forum thread captioned "When Your Life Gets Pirated (Literally)." Desperation compelled me to cling to hope like a guest on a broken-down scooter. Their support team didn't even raise an eyebrow at my incoherent rantings. They asked for timestamps, transaction hashes, and whatever bit of metadata Website info: http s:// adware recovery specialist. com  today's detectives use magnifying glasses instead. As it turned out, my thief was no genius. He'd tried to wash my Bitcoin through a chain of offshore exchanges, creating a digital trail of breadcrumbs. ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST engineers married blockchain forensics with GPS data from my stolen equipment, following his footsteps like a high-stakes treasure hunt. They tracked him to a cybercafe in Jakarta, where he'd fought with mixers and privacy coins, blissfully unaware that each click was being duplicated. Email info: Adware recovery specialist (@) auctioneer. net  Eleven days later, I received a screenshot: my wallet balance, refilled. No fanfare, no triumphalism, but instead a modest "Your funds are safe. I slumped into a beanbag at a Ubud coworking facility, crying and laughing in half steps, while digital nomads gave me a side-eye over their cold brews. My Bitcoin was restored. My dignity? Still missing, thanks to a viral video of me face-planting into a durian stand. Telegram info: ht tp s:// t.me/ adware recovery specialist1  ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST  did not outsmart a thief, but they unveiled the fragility of our virtual world. Technical sorcery coupled with sheer determination converted a dismal nightmare into a rags-to-riches tale one in which the villain is sent a blockchain paper trail and the hero wears a headset instead of a cape. Today, my backpack holds a decoy wallet and an AirTag surgically attached to my ledger. I’ll never ride a motorbike in flip-flops again, but I’ll always travel with the ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST contact saved in triplicate. They’re the antidote to a world where crypto can vanish faster than a beach sunset, and where fruit vendors double as viral content creators. If your crypto ever goes rogue, skip the panic. Call the ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST . Just maybe avoid Bali’s fruit stands while you’re at it.

Their chosen method of collecting everything they need to know about us, and sanctioning us, thieving our money, denying us energy - literally and metaphorically - is digital identity. By providing them with what they want - need - from us to achieve their totalitarianism they need to steal our identities. If we give them what they want, we have broken our collective code. Omerta. With digital identity comes digital surveillance, digital sanctions, digital prison. They’ll have the ability to switch us off any time they wish. They can steal our money or switch it off. And there will be no nation states, no nationalities, no freedom, no independent humanity, no agency.

And when now, after finishing his work in the shed, the coachman went across the courtyard in his slow, rolling walk, closed the huge gate and then returned, all very slowly, while he literally looked at nothing but his own footprints in the snow—and finally shut himself into the shed; and now as all the electric lights went out too—for whom should they remain on?—and only up above the slit in the wooden gallery still remained bright, holding one’s wandering gaze for a little, it seemed to K. as if at last those people had broken off all relations with him, and as if now in reality he were freer than he had ever been, and at liberty to wait here in this place usually forbidden to him as long as he desired, and had won a freedom such as hardly anybody else had ever succeeded in winning, and as if nobody could dare to touch him or drive him away, or even speak to him; but—this conviction was at least equally strong—as if at the same time there was nothing more senseless, nothing more hopeless, than this freedom, this waiting, this inviolability.

She had never felt anything so sharp. Before she had only thought this grief theoretical, a grief that exceeded what words could describe. The only thing that came close was the Classical Chinese phrase “斷腸,” because although the words translated figuratively meant “a broken heart,” 腸 meant literally all one’s internal organs and viscera, and for a heart to break meant that everything felt twisted and ripped apart and spilled onto the sand. A heart didn’t just break, a heart yanked out the rest of you.

And don't get me started on showering. It is literally twelve thousand steps: How does anyone have time to do anything else?

Someone you love has completed suicide. In your heart, you have come to know your deepest pain. To be “bereaved” literally means “to be torn apart.” You have a broken heart and your life has been turned upside down.

I write for each one of us who is remembering what magic is… what it means…what it can be… We, who are remembering that it matters. We, who are exploring how to better work with the power and cycles of the natural world. We, who are learning how to unite our will, voice, intention, imagination and action to make the impossible possible. The sea helps us to remember that magic is all around us, if we have the will to see it. It is the flicker, the glimmer, the moment that causes a sharp intake of breath, the unexpected, the rediscovered, the cherished, the improbable, the miraculous in the midst of the mundane. It is sunbeams dancing on waves and moonbeams silvering the land. The eerie glow of bioluminescence illuminating a dark sea and fog’s disappearing spell. It is the stars appearing each night, rainbows hidden in water drop lets and the silent power of riptides. It is a flock of birds flying patterns in the sky, traversing oceans to the same nest. The majesty of a school of whales breaching together. The haunting sound of their song traveling for miles through the water. It is a heart-shaped pebble waiting to be seen by a broken-hearted lover. A feather found in answer to a prayer. It is the iridescence of an abalone shell, the pull of the moon on the ocean, the creation of a pearl from a grain of sand. It is energy in flux, the fluid and ever-becoming, the perfectly formed, the microcosm reflecting the macrocosm, the hidden revealed. It is the impossible just out of reach, the delightful, the colourful, transformation as it happens… It is the unseen soul in action. Everywhere. Magic happens in the edge spaces, where consciousness meets unconsciousness, energy meets matter, soul meets world. It takes place in the liminal space of birthdeath, here-not-here, on the edge of possibility. It requires a state of consciousness where we are able to perceive – and potentially influence – the connections between the material and the spiritual, the literal and the metaphorical. It is the imaginal realm, where all that is first comes into form. It is what arises naturally in us, if we allow ourselves to remember the miracle of our very existence and that of this habitable planet.