Mona's Eyes Quotes

No matter how old you are now. You are never too young or too old for success or going after what you want. Here’s a short list of people who accomplished great things at different ages 1) Helen Keller, at the age of 19 months, became deaf and blind. But that didn’t stop her. She was the first deaf and blind person to earn a Bachelor of Arts degree. 2) Mozart was already competent on keyboard and violin; he composed from the age of 5. 3) Shirley Temple was 6 when she became a movie star on “Bright Eyes.” 4) Anne Frank was 12 when she wrote the diary of Anne Frank. 5) Magnus Carlsen became a chess Grandmaster at the age of 13. 6) Nadia Comăneci was a gymnast from Romania that scored seven perfect 10.0 and won three gold medals at the Olympics at age 14. 7) Tenzin Gyatso was formally recognized as the 14th Dalai Lama in November 1950, at the age of 15. 8) Pele, a soccer superstar, was 17 years old when he won the world cup in 1958 with Brazil. 9) Elvis was a superstar by age 19. 10) John Lennon was 20 years and Paul Mcartney was 18 when the Beatles had their first concert in 1961. 11) Jesse Owens was 22 when he won 4 gold medals in Berlin 1936. 12) Beethoven was a piano virtuoso by age 23 13) Issac Newton wrote Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica at age 24 14) Roger Bannister was 25 when he broke the 4 minute mile record 15) Albert Einstein was 26 when he wrote the theory of relativity 16) Lance E. Armstrong was 27 when he won the tour de France 17) Michelangelo created two of the greatest sculptures “David” and “Pieta” by age 28 18) Alexander the Great, by age 29, had created one of the largest empires of the ancient world 19) J.K. Rowling was 30 years old when she finished the first manuscript of Harry Potter 20) Amelia Earhart was 31 years old when she became the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean 21) Oprah was 32 when she started her talk show, which has become the highest-rated program of its kind 22) Edmund Hillary was 33 when he became the first man to reach Mount Everest 23) Martin Luther King Jr. was 34 when he wrote the speech “I Have a Dream." 24) Marie Curie was 35 years old when she got nominated for a Nobel Prize in Physics 25) The Wright brothers, Orville (32) and Wilbur (36) invented and built the world's first successful airplane and making the first controlled, powered and sustained heavier-than-air human flight 26) Vincent Van Gogh was 37 when he died virtually unknown, yet his paintings today are worth millions. 27) Neil Armstrong was 38 when he became the first man to set foot on the moon. 28) Mark Twain was 40 when he wrote "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer", and 49 years old when he wrote "Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" 29) Christopher Columbus was 41 when he discovered the Americas 30) Rosa Parks was 42 when she refused to obey the bus driver’s order to give up her seat to make room for a white passenger 31) John F. Kennedy was 43 years old when he became President of the United States 32) Henry Ford Was 45 when the Ford T came out. 33) Suzanne Collins was 46 when she wrote "The Hunger Games" 34) Charles Darwin was 50 years old when his book On the Origin of Species came out. 35) Leonardo Da Vinci was 51 years old when he painted the Mona Lisa. 36) Abraham Lincoln was 52 when he became president. 37) Ray Kroc Was 53 when he bought the McDonalds Franchise and took it to unprecedented levels. 38) Dr. Seuss was 54 when he wrote "The Cat in the Hat". 40) Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger III was 57 years old when he successfully ditched US Airways Flight 1549 in the Hudson River in 2009. All of the 155 passengers aboard the aircraft survived 41) Colonel Harland Sanders was 61 when he started the KFC Franchise 42) J.R.R Tolkien was 62 when the Lord of the Ring books came out 43) Ronald Reagan was 69 when he became President of the US 44) Jack Lalane at age 70 handcuffed, shackled, towed 70 rowboats 45) Nelson Mandela was 76 when he became President

For several years, I had been bored. Not a whining, restless child's boredom (although I was not above that) but a dense, blanketing malaise. It seemed to me that there was nothing new to be discovered ever again. Our society was utterly, ruinously derivative (although the word derivative as a criticism is itself derivative). We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can't recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn't immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I've literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can't anymore. I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I'm not a real person and neither is anyone else. I would have done anything to feel real again.

Our mothers always said to look hard at the things of this world that are owies on the eyes because they will put more colors in your inner rainbow.

Close my eyes. Let the night become dawn. Let the snow outside fall and fall like it will bury us. Please bury us. It would be totally fine by me.

What do you think, Samantha?” Fosco asks me. That it’s a piece of pretentious shit. That it says nothing, gives nothing. That I don’t understand it, that probably no one does and no one ever will. That not being understood is a privilege I can’t afford. That I can’t believe this woman got paid to come here. That I think she should apologize to trees. Spend a whole day on her knees in the forest, looking up at the trembling aspens and oaks and whatever other trees paper is made of with tears in her languid eyes and say, I’m fucking sorry. I’m sorry that I think I’m so goddamned interesting when it is clear that I am not interesting. Here’s what I am: I’m a boring tree murderess. But I look at Vignette, at Creepy Doll, at Cupcake, the Duchess. All of them staring at me now with shy smiles. “I think I’d like to see more of the soup too,” I hear myself say.

The Mona Lisa, the Mona Lisa....Leonardo had eye trouble....Art couldn't explain it....But now we're safe, since science can explain it. Maybe Milton wrote Paradise Lost because he was blind? And Beethoven wrote the Ninth Symphony because he was deaf...

I wanted to destroy everything beautiful I’d never have. Burn the Amazon rain forests. Pump chlorofluorocarbons straight up to gobble the ozone. Open the dump valves on supertankers and uncap offshore oil wells. I wanted to kill all the fish I couldn’t afford to eat, and smother the French beaches I’d never see. I wanted the whole world to hit bottom. I really wanted to put a bullet between the eyes of every endangered panda that wouldn’t screw to save its species and every whale and dolphin that gave up and ran itself aground. I wanted to burn the Louvre. I’d do the Elgin Marbles with a sledge-hammer and wipe my ass with the Mona Lisa. This is my world, now.

We huddle-hug on the velvety green among the cherry blossom trees. We link arms. We close our eyes the better to feel each other's bodies. We form a hot little circle of love and understanding. We press our faces into our faces, our cheeks against our cheeks, our eyelashes tickling our skins like little hummingbird wings, like Bunny nose twitches.

That I think she should apologize to trees. Spend a whole day on her knees in the forest, looking up at the trembling aspens and oaks and whatever other trees paper is made of with tears in her languid eyes and say, I’m fucking sorry. I’m sorry that I think I’m so goddamned interesting when it is clear that I am not interesting. Here’s what I am: I’m a boring tree murderess.

Cora thinks about the Girl with a Pearl Earring, and the Mona Lisa, and all the beautiful women immortalized in oil paint, and wonders if they said cruel things too, if their words had mattered at all or just the roundness of their eyes and softness of their cheeks, if beautiful people are allowed to break your heart and get away with it.

Crack running through his voice like a crack in a glass. Eyes still on my eyes. A sorrow there, fathoms deep. His sorrow or mine? I'm drowning in it like dark water

The world shouldn't be comprised of people in boxes. Minding their own business. It should be full of people raising their voices, using their power and presence, standing up for what's right. Minding one another's business. That's the world I live in. And that's the world I want to live in.

Adam leaned down and placed his lips next to her ear. He blew gently on it before he spoke. Mona leaned even closer into him as she listened intently to his words. "Desdemona." She moaned at the sound of her name on his lips. "I need to tell you something." His words were accompanied by warm air caressing her skin. "Before my time is done, I will watch the light fade from your eyes as you are sent to the hell you so deserve." Though his words promised destruction, the cadence of his voice still held her in a seductive rapture.

Or is it our amazingly empathic hive mind that we make by hugging so that we become one of those animals with a brain and heart in each tentacle that connects to a bigger, cosmic heart-brain that is like a shared, all-seeing third eye? Who knows? Who cares?

She used to tell you fairy tales at night, remember? Once upon a time. When you were a sad, dreamy little girl. Each night you lay in your princess bed, surrounded by your glassy-eyed dolls, waiting for her like a wish

What, am I supposed to feel guilty?" I say. He looks confused. "Guilty?" "That I feel fine for once? That I'm not limping and moaning around? Dragging my leg like Briana? Lying on the floor, crying into my ears when everyone else around me rolls their eyes? I'm supposed to feel bad that I'm better now? I'm supposed to cry over a little cut. To what? To make you feel like I'm not a monster. I need to perform my little bit of pain for you so you'll know I'm human?" "Miranda, I didn't mean—" "But not too much pain, am I right? Not too much, never too much. If it was too much, you wouldn't know what to do with me, would you? Too much would make you uncomfortable. Bored. My crying would leave a bad taste. That would just be bad theater, wouldn't it? A bad show. You want a good show. They all do. A few pretty tears on my cheeks that you can brush away. Just a delicate little bit of ouch so you know there's someone in there. So you don't get too scared of me, am I right? So you know I'm still a vulnerable thing. That I can be brought down if need be.

Challenging injustice means standing up for the weak, the vulnerable, the abused, and the forgotten—be it in health, employment, education, or the environment. It means being vigilant on behalf of people who are treated as pariahs and scapegoats, populations that are dehumanized, displaced, and treated as disposable. It means fighting oppression at every opportunity—no matter the place or country.

That not being understood is a privilege I can’t afford. That I can’t believe this woman got paid to come here. That I think she should apologize to trees. Spend a whole day on her knees in the forest, looking up at the trembling aspens and oaks and whatever other trees paper is made of with tears in her languid eyes and say, I’m fucking sorry. I’m sorry that I think I’m so goddamned interesting when it is clear that I am not interesting. Here’s what I am: I’m a boring tree murderess.

I watched her soul close its eyes inside her body as she stared at the screen.

It was about people and community. That’s what science is supposed to be about—not an academic exercise for the ivory tower, or racking up publications, grants, and offers of tenure. It’s about using the tools and technology available to make lives better, no matter what articles of faith obstruct the path.

And here’s what I realize: she would never wear mittens shaped like kittens or a dress with a Peter Pan collar. She would never say, Love your dress, if she fucking hated your dress. She would never say, How are you? if she didn’t care how you were. She would never eat a lavender cupcake that tasted like perfume or wear a perfume that made her smell like a cupcake. She would never wear lip balm for cosmetic purposes. She would never wear it unless her lips were seriously, seriously cracked. And even if they were, she’d still put Lady Danger on them, which is the name of her lipstick, this bright blue-red that looks surreally beautiful on her but when I tried it on once made me look insane. Her perfume smells like rain and smoke and her eye makeup scares small children and she wears pumps even though she’s at least two inches taller than I am and I’m a freak.

When God opens your eyes, do not deny what you see on the other side. It is always a great privilege to be shown the signs, even if they may not be what you want.

But I will not be manipulated or distracted or manipulated. Instead, I look up, right into his eyes whose many swimmy colors drown me

We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can’t recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn’t immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it.

What does she even eat, do you think?" "Tea fungus,"Ruth says. "Unsweetened. From an eye dropper. Is what I picture. either that or some sort of sea vegetable." "Sad," I say. "It is," Ruth muses. We decide to order two skim milk cappuccinos and split a gluten-free carrot cake cupcake.

Mother's lawyer. When I was younger, he reminded me a little of a perverted Rumpelstiltskin. I'd watch him ogle Mother. Take her all in with a twinkly eyed delight I found obscene, like she was a bowl of bright, erotic candy

A woman of vision may have lost her eyesight, but she can see afar; because through her mind, she conceives far beyond what eyes can see.

Samantha,” he says, “there is no need at all for eye water.

I remember how long I used to stand there crookedly, staring down at the salt canisters. So beyond my reach they might as well have been stars. Tears gathered behind my eyes.

The average annual Flint residential water bill in 2015 was $864—about $300 more than in any other city in Michigan. In fact, it was the highest in the nation.

Then she smiled that subtle, mysterious Mona Lisa smile of hers that tilted the corners of her lush mouth and caused the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes to crease, where that bastard mortality had stroked her velvet skin with skeletal fingers and carved his mark on her before she had kicked him in the balls.

In my journey through the ever-changing seasons of life, I have learnt that winter is inevitably followed by a gorgeous spring and every spell of rain gives way to brilliant sunshine. What’s more, I have learnt that winter snow and drenching showers can be beautiful too. We just need the right eyes to look at them.

It seemed to me that there was nothing new to be discovered ever again. Our society was utterly, ruinously derivative...we were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can't recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn't immediately reference to a movie or a TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I've literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crispier, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can't. I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script.

In the little world in which children have their existence,” he wrote in Great Expectations (1861), “there is nothing so finely perceived and so finely felt, as injustice. It may be only small injustice that the child can be exposed to; but the child is small, and its world is small.

Our society was utterly, ruinously derivative (although the word derivative as a criticism is itself derivative). We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can’t recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn’t immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I’ve literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can’t anymore.

Rather than standing on the sidelines, Snow got passionately involved. His work wasn’t about abstract scientific discovery alone. It was about people and community. That’s what science is supposed to be about—not an academic exercise for the ivory tower, or racking up publications, grants, and offers of tenure. It’s about using the tools and technology available to make lives better, no matter what articles of faith obstruct the path.

I never know the answer. They bear legitimate witness to my incompetence, my inebriation until the curtains part for showtime. And at last, I’m able to retreat. Shake off the pretense that I’m actually doing something. Melt into the backstage dark, a ghost spying on the living. Tonight? Tonight’s different. Look at me, I’m here. Right here behind the curtain. In the eye of the storm. I’m standing on my legs. Standing straight. Standing tall. I’m a shining tower of calm behind the curtain. My body emanating two works: All’s Well. And al is well. Not dying at all for once. Not a ghost for once. Not even pale.

Beside him, very close beside him, was a gorgeous woman. She had masses of deep auburn hair and great violet eyes. She was not plump, yet she gave the impression of soft, rounded curves and comfortable hollows. She had an air of Mona Lisa, the Lady of Shalott. All her movements were slow with a lazy, languid indolence

A blush tinged her bronzed skin as she wrapped her arms around herself. Corrado grasped her wrists, pulling her hands away when she tried to shield herself. He stared at her, stunned to see the uncertainty in her eyes. "You're not nervous this time, are you?" he asked, half-teasingly, half honestly wanting to know. She'd been so confident, unwavering before. "It's the way you're looking at me." "How am I looking at you?" "Like you look at the Taj Mahal. Or the Sistine Chapel. You're staring at me like you stare at the Mona Lisa." "I've never seen those things." "It's like you've never seen something so beautiful before." "I haven’t.

Their hair grew shinier and longer, their eyes red, and I did not know which small hand belonged to which pink-and-white body, which coo came from which glossy mouth, which fingers were getting tangled in my hair. And then a voice like warm fur, her balmy lips very close to my ear. Go outside and bring us a bunny, Samantha.

They each look at Ava, then at me, in turn, scanning down from our heads to our feet, their eyes taking us in like little mouths sipping strange drinks. As they do, their noses twitch, their eight eyes do not blink, but stare and stare. Then they look back at the Duchess and lean in to each other, their lip-glossed mouths forming whispery words. Ava squeezes my arm, hard. The Duchess turns and arches an eyebrow at us. She raises a hand up. Is there an invisible gun in it? No. It’s an empty, open hand. With which she then waves. At me. With something like a smile on her face. Hi, her mouth says. My hand shoots up of its own accord before I can even stop myself. I’m waving and waving and waving. Hi, I’m saying with my mouth, even though no sound comes out. Then the rest of the Bunnies hold up a hand and wave too.

Black Mona Lisa My umi's face is the most beautiful in the world Skin like sleeping in on snow days beneath thick blankets black Smile like an eighty-degree summer day in April bright Eyes like long subway rides looking out windows watching nothing and everything go by in the dark and letting my thoughts swim deep

Who is this Devil who, from the fourteenth century onward, in the eyes of powerful European men, began to loom behind the figure of every female healer, every sorceress, every woman who was slightly too forward or too much of a stirrer, to the point that they became a mortal threat to society? What if this Devil were in fact independence?

Elf is trembling and isn’t sure why. Her eyes meet the Mona Lisa’s above Mrs. Biggs’s till. The most famous half-smile tells Elf, Suffering is the promise that life always keeps.

When she says this, I feel the immense heaviness of my limbs. How long I have been dragging them. My eyes close and close and close.

And suddenly, I’m lost in his eyes the blue of food coloring. My blood sparkles. My heart is bliss.

Beowulf looked like Donald Glover with blue voids for eyes.

I can't believe you're here," I hear myself say in a voice that does not sound like my voice. It is a voice filled with twinkly stars, with overly lashed cartoon eyes.

Faith is being able to open your heart to God’s love and your eyes to His wonders.

From the eyes of his angel in the Baptism of Christ to the smile of the Mona Lisa, the blurred and smoke-veiled edges allow a role for our own imagination

Every time she shut her eyes she saw herself wrapped in his arms in the middle of that beautiful bed just right for conceiving children.

The security camera caught her eye, and for a long moment Suzanne gazed up at it—an expression frozen in time and, like Mona Lisa’s smile, interpreted a thousand different ways.

The Duchess breathes in deeply, then exhales slowly with eyes closed, the way my old therapist did. The one my father sent me to when I was a teenager, after my mother died.

When your eyes are open to God’s presence in your life, you will always feel His love.

A woman of vision may have lost eyesight, but she can see afar; because through her mind, she conceives far beyond what eyes can see.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: ‘It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.

Being with you . . .” he began, drawing my eyes back to his face. His were dazed, unfocused, like he was looking within and without. “Being with me?” I prompted after almost a minute, curious, a bubble of something reluctantly hopeful expanding in my chest. So of course, a joke slipped out. “Is as the prophesy foretold?” Abram’s gaze sharpened on mine. He smiled, a real smile. His left dimple making its first appearance, stealing my breath before his words could. “It’s living artistry, Mona.” Abram’s gaze turned cherishing, earnest. “Being with you is like living in a song.

he merely leaned back on her couch and observed, encouraged, supervised with eyes like smoking tar, asking softly what good is it to be left with no trace, to be wounded without the pleasure of a scar?

If we stop believing that government can protect our public welfare and keep all children safe, not just the privileged ones, what do we have left? Who are we as a people, a society, a country, and a civilization?

As you journey across the face of the Earth, you will face afflictions every so often. Fear not, weep not. Wipe your tears and fix your eyes on God. Stay strong. Let Faith bring forth light, peace and hope in your life.

She is a sleek, beautiful young woman, younger looking even than her twenty-eight years, except maybe around the eyes. Even though he himself has borne witness to her transformation over the past three years, he is still getting used to the severely pared-down point of her chin, the now visible web of bones in her throat, how all the once-soft edges of her have suddenly grown knife sharp. How they seem pointed at him in perpetual, quiet accusation.

I’m glad you still have your survival instinct.” “We’ve all got something.” I lift my fingertips to the exposed skin on my face. It’s colder than the night sea. Cupping my hands, I blow into them, let my breath warm my nose and cheeks. “I apparently still have a face, which is good.” Holden vaults up onto the wooden platform and I step up after him. “That is good,” he says, pulling me in close. He lifts his gloved hands to my cheeks. “After all, this is one of my favorite faces.” I scrunch my lips into a pretend pout. “One of?” He grins. “Well, you know. I’m a sucker for the classics. Helen of Troy, the Mona Lisa, that—” “Hey. The Mona Lisa isn’t even hot.” I give him a little shove away from me, toward the edge of the platform. “Disagree,” Holden says. “She’s beautiful in her own way. That mischievous smile, those dark, soulful eyes, the way she—” “Fine, whatever.” I cross my arms. “But I insist on being ranked above her.” “Okay, okay,” Holden says. “Yours can be my second-favorite face . . . right after that guy from The Scream.” He pulls me in close again. “You’re such an ass,” I say, as our lips touch. Holden laughs. “My girl Mona Lisa would never be so rude.

Hi, Bunny. It’s been a little while, hasn’t it? We missed you, we really did. So much. And look at you now, wow. All gothed out again. Back to wearing your scary-bleak clothes and your dark hair still hanging in front of your eye, how funny.

I try to catch her eye, but it won’t be caught. When at last I see her looking at something close to my direction, I smile. But she looks past me, through me. A guy asks her to dance, and I watch her accept. “Hey,” the man I’m dancing with says. “Ow.” “Sorry.

And I thought of Chuck E. Cheese. When my father took me there once for my birthday and we watched the mechanical animal band sing. How after they were finished, I tried to ask them questions about their instruments and they just stared at me with their dead eyes and—

And you don't know what it is, if it's the dirty mothers or the vodka or the rose or some sort of black magic, but you can't take your eyes off the fat girl; she has transformed, as she always seems to do around this time of night, into something you could almost love for an hour.

Are you in theater?” First the fat man, who I thought was dead, laughs again. Bangs his fist upon the table. Then the soft, low laughter of the man to my right, the one I can and can’t see. Whom I can only see with the eye of my mind. The middling man just looks at me. “Aren’t we all?

Physicians need to be trained to see symptoms of the larger structural problems that will bedevil a child’s health and well-being more than a simple cold ever could. But these problems are harder for even a well-trained physician to identify. A child doesn’t come to my exam room for “food insecurity.” Their moms don’t call the clinic for an appointment because “we can’t make ends meet” or “there aren’t any safe places to play outside.” They make appointments because of nosebleeds and ear infections, like other moms, or for well-baby checkups. And when we see them, if we don’t ask about the situation at home or learn to notice the clues on our own, we’ll never find out what these larger problems are. When we know about the child’s environment, we can treat these kids in the best, most holistic way, which will leave them with much more than just a prescription for amoxicillin.

Her head against his shoulder, her eyes closed, her lips parted and blissful. He’s chewing on her peach spaghetti strap. His eyes are open but vacant. When he sees me watching, the strap drops from his mouth. Then he picks it back up again and starts chewing. His eyes have a glazed, contented look to them.

We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can’t recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn’t immediately reference to a movie or TV show.

Temples pressed against temples in a way that made me think of the labial rubbing of the bonobo or the telepathy of beautiful, murderous children in horror films. All eight of their eyes shut tight as if this collective asphyxiation were a kind of religious bliss. All four of their glossy mouths making squealing sounds of monstrous love that hurt my face. I love you, Bunny.

I stare and stare and stare into the red, beady eyes of the bunny. It just sits there, burrowed into itself like a furry little Fuck You. You have no idea at all, do you? the bunny seems to say to me. Sad. Very sad, Samantha. To be lost like this. Sad, sad, sad that when someone asks you, What do you want? nothing comes to mind but a pair of fists clutching little broken bits.

I observe too that the bed is neither too hard nor too soft. It’s a perfect bed. Just right. Goldilocks could set up shop here forever. Masturbate. I picture Goldilocks brazenly masturbating in this bed while the Three Bears watch. She is daring them with her slitty eyes to tell her to stop. The Bears are too polite to say anything. I laugh at what a picture that makes. Ha. Hahaha.

All last fall in Workshop, they’d side-eye each other if he praised my stories. Because surely they’d seen me leave class with him, walked past us chatting together in the hall, observed us exchanging books and vinyl. Caught us sitting together in cafés or in the basement of the Irish pub, having a drink, another drink, one more for the road, why not? They’d noticed him walk over and talk to me at department functions, sit beside me at readings. Then, in the winter semester, they might have observed how quite suddenly all of this stopped—that he no longer sat next to me at readings or talked to me at parties or met me off campus. And then, of course, in spring, on the night of the end-of-year party, they definitely observed me drunk in the passenger seat of his Subaru.

I do what I’m trying not to do, which is dream myself into her clothes buckle by buckle, zip by zip, and then into her skin. Until I am her limbs and her long curving back, Steppenwolf branded on my knobby spine. Until I am her lips and her sharply cut cheeks and her eyes clouded in their glittering gray smoke. Until I am her eyebrow arching itself at me from the opposite shore of the room.

Because you offer something ever rarer than power of aphidy. You offer something that few other Queens offer-love. You bestow love on all you take under your care. And intimate love to only a few. I saw it once in your eyes for me, and I want to see it again. I need to, as much as I need to breathe air. Mona Lisa, this one thing-love-you have still to give. Don not deny me. Not when my soul needs you, cries out for you.

It seemed to me that there was nothing new to be discovered ever again. Our society was utterly, ruinously derivative (although the word derivative as a criticism is itself derivative). We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting.

Smile bigger.” Now I know how to get through photo shoots, because I know every angle they need. I do this super weird thing for my friends where I just slightly move my face to do a speed round of each red carpet pose and photo shoot I’ve done. The big smile, eyes up and then down, the Mona Lisa, the chin-down-lips-parted, the “Oh hi!” . . . My friends scream because I look like a robot model shorting out. But let me tell you, it makes it easy on the photographers.

St. Clair tucks the tips of his fingers into his pockets and kicks the cobblestones with the toe of his boots. "Well?" he finally asks. "Thank you." I'm stunned. "It was really sweet of you to bring me here." "Ah,well." He straightens up and shrugs-that full-bodied French shrug he does so well-and reassumes his usual, assured state of being. "Have to start somewhere. Now make a wish." "Huh?" I have such a way with words. I should write epic poetry or jingles for cat food commercials. He smiles. "Place your feet on the star, and make a wish." "Oh.Okay,sure." I slide my feet together so I'm standing in the center. "I wish-" "Don't say it aloud!" St. Clair rushes forward, as if to stop my words with his body,and my stomach flips violently. "Don't you know anything about making wishes? You only get a limited number in life. Falling stars, eyelashes,dandelions-" "Birthday candles." He ignores the dig. "Exactly. So you ought to take advantage of them when they arise,and superstition says if you make a wish on that star, it'll come true." He pauses before continuing. "Which is better than the other one I've heard." "That I'll die a painful death of poisoning, shooting,beating, and drowning?" "Hypothermia,not drowning." St. Clair laughs. He has a wonderful, boyish laugh. "But no. I've heard anyone who stands here is destined to return to Paris someday. And as I understand it,one year for you is one year to many. Am I right?" I close my eyes. Mom and Seany appear before me. Bridge.Toph.I nod. "All right,then.So keep your eyes closed.And make a wish." I take a deep breath. The cool dampness of the nearby trees fills my lungs. What do I want? It's a difficult quesiton. I want to go home,but I have to admit I've enjoyed tonight. And what if this is the only time in my entire life I visit Paris? I know I just told St. Clair that I don't want to be here, but there's a part of me-a teeny, tiny part-that's curious. If my father called tomorrow and ordered me home,I might be disappointed. I still haven't seen the Mona Lisa. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower.Walked beneath the Arc de Triomphe. So what else do I want? I want to feel Toph's lips again.I want him to wait.But there's another part of me,a part I really,really hate,that knows even if we do make it,I'd still move away for college next year.So I'd see him this Christmas and next summer,and then...would that be it? And then there's the other thing. The thing I'm trying to ignore. The thing I shouldn't want,the thing I can't have. And he's standing in front of me right now. So what do I wish for? Something I'm not sure I want? Someone I'm not sure I need? Or someone I know I can't have? Screw it.Let the fates decide. I wish for the thing that is best for me. How's that for a generalization? I open my eyes,and the wind is blowing harder. St. Clair pushes a strand of hair from his eyes. "Must have been a good one," he says.

with their saucer eyes and their velvet dresses, their Shirley Temple curls of blood-red hair and their Cupid’s-bow lips molded into little pink oh!’s of wonder at the world. Writes fairy tales about girl demons, wolf princes, the cozy phantasmagoria of her native New Hampshire. Collects antique typewriters, each of which she claims has its own unique “ghost energy” that she channels into her stories as she types, head tilted back, eyes closed. She is the literal doll-pet of the other Bunnies.

Iam staring into the eyes of the one I call Cupcake. Because she looks like a cupcake. Dresses like a cupcake. Gives off a scent of baked lemony sugar. Pretty in a way that reminds you of frosting flourishes. Not the forest green and electric blue horrors in the supermarket, but the pastel kind that is used at weddings or tasteful Easter gatherings. She looks so much like a cupcake that when I first met her at orientation, I had a very real desire to eat her. Bite deeply into her white shoulder. Dig a fork in her cheek.

We can’t help but coo and clap our hands at the so-cute things of this world. At the ducks, oh my god, look at the ducks, so cute. At the sky, oh my god, look at the sky, so cute. At the tall buildings reflecting the sun setting, look how shiny shiny they are. Homeless man don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, that causes an owie inside. No, do look, it’s sad. Makes you think, makes you deep. Our mothers always said to look hard at the things of this world that are owies on the eyes because they will put more colors in your inner rainbow.

I finish off the wine and attempt to write. I must write, I have to write. Writing is why I’m here. I stare at my open notebook, blank for all but one badly drawn eye. A few swirls. The words I don’t know scratched over and over again. Surrounded by limp flowers. I long for my first writing office, the waiting area of the hair salon where my mother worked when I was a child. I wrote with such feverish abandon on that sagging couch between the dusty Buddha and the dustier fake flowers, beneath framed photos of women smiling under impossibly, painfully elaborate arrangements of hair. Clients would sit in waiting area chairs nearby, pretending to read magazines but all the while regarding me askance, a lanky child in a Swamp Thing T-shirt clutching her mermaid journal close, staring at them through bangs I barely ever let my mother cut. I was afraid she’d gouge out my eyes. Whatcha workin’ on there? they might ask me. Uncovering your secret shame, I thought. Don’t mind my daughter, my mother would say as she led them to a chair, tilted their heads back into a wash sink where they’d immediately close their eyes.

It seemed to me that there was nothing new to be discovered ever again. Our society was utterly, ruinously derivative (although the word derivative as a criticism is itself derivative). We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can’t recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn’t immediately reference to a movie or TV show.

I think the biggest thing is just how hard it is to be taken seriously, to be looked in the eye by doctors. I remember my doctors always looking at and talking to my partner, never to me, and if I was alone, just looking away. That’s an experience that Miranda frequently has in the book. Also, doctors quickly grabbing at “anxiety” as the reason why you might be in this shape. I felt pressure to make sure I wasn’t displaying any signs of stress so they had no reason to dismiss me or shut me up with a drug. I found there was a lot of pressure to be a good patient and to conform to some sort of progress narrative that my therapist or surgeon might have. And when your body fails to get better, they sort of want to blame you. So in All’s Well, Miranda is very anxious to prove that she is a good patient to her physical therapists and her doctors. But because she’s not improving, they dread her and don’t really know what to do with her anymore and they just kind of randomly experiment with her during therapy appointments—let’s do some tests, they say. It breeds a toxic relationship and a power dynamic that makes her really helpless, desperate, and ultimately worse off. There are some very sadistic surgeons and physical therapists in this book.

We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can’t recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn’t immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I’ve literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can’t anymore. I

The Things Mommy Taught Oh, my child! You are beautiful, without a doubt Love the person you are Look in the mirror with a smile Seek after things that matter Allow nothing to ruin your good heart Shun anything wicked for you to hear Listen, so you too can be heard Choose to be of good influence Invest in a better tomorrow Become no one’s shadow Learn not to be shallow Lead so others can follow Let go of what brings you sorrow Know where to find joy Even when I am gone Remain strong In the storm, do not get lost Fix your eyes upon the Lord Fill your mind with the Word of God For in it are infinite wells of wisdom Hold on to His promises Pursue your purpose Say a prayer Make sure you prosper Each day on this Earth Remember the things Mommy taught

As had occurred so many times before, their eyes met and intertwined, a continuation of that gaze they had held in front of the Mona Lisa’s smile two centuries before. They had discovered that the language of the eyes that Zhuang Yan had dreamed up was now a reality, or maybe loving humans had always possessed this language. When they looked at each other, a richness of meaning poured from their eyes just as the clouds poured from the cloud well created by the gravitational beam, endless and unceasing. But it wasn’t a language of this world. It constructed a world that gave it meaning, and only in that rosy world did the words of the language find their corresponding referents. Everyone in that world was god; all had the ability to instantaneously count and remember every grain of sand in the desert; all were able to string together stars into a crystal necklace to hang around a lover’s neck….

And here’s what I realize: she would never wear mittens shaped like kittens or a dress with a Peter Pan collar. She would never say, Love your dress, if she fucking hated your dress. She would never say, How are you? if she didn’t care how you were. She would never eat a lavender cupcake that tasted like perfume or wear a perfume that made her smell like a cupcake. She would never wear lip balm for cosmetic purposes. She would never wear it unless her lips were seriously, seriously cracked. And even if they were, she’d still put Lady Danger on them, which is the name of her lipstick, this bright blue-red that looks surreally beautiful on her but when I tried it on once made me look insane. Her perfume smells like rain and smoke and her eye makeup scares small children and she wears pumps even though she’s at least two inches taller than I am and I’m a freak. Why? Because life is shorter than we are, she says, so why beat around the bush?

I wonder where it all goes. Mel asked me once. What? Our fat. After we lose it. I know we sweat but that can't be all it is. It can't just turn into water and salt. It can't just disappear. We don't just melt, do we? She looked at me, smiling, bouncing a little in her chair. She was in a good mood because she'd been on a diet for a while, was losing. Feeling philosophical in her slinky velvet dress, stirring a peppermint tea she'd doctored with a million Twins. I think we do melt, actually, I told her. I read an article about it once in a science magazine. I can't remember exactly what it said, though. I think it even comes out in our breath. Mel wasn't listening. She was looking at her reflection in the window, pleased. Maybe it's all around us, she said at last, waving a hand at the dusty café air, making her voice spooky, her eyes big and wide like we were teenagers and she was trying to scare me. Maybe we're all around us. Maybe the universe is made up of it. Our old fat. She smiled. Wouldn't that be so funny?

We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can’t recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn’t immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I’ve literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can’t anymore. I don’t know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script.

We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. (…) I’ve literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can’t anymore. (…) If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don’t have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I’m not a real person and neither is anyone else.

Gomi. Thirty-five percent of the landmass of Tokyo was built on gomi, on level tracts reclaimed from the Bay through a century's systematic dumping. Gomi, there, was a resource to be managed, to be collected, carefully plowed under. London's relationship to gomi was more subtle, more oblique. To Kumiko's eyes, the bulk of the city consisted of gomi, of structures the Japanese economy would long ago have devoured in its relentless hunger for space in which to build. Yet these structures revealed, even to Kumiko, the fabric of time, each wall patched by generation of hands in an ongoing task of restoration. The English valued their gomi in its own right, in a way she had only begun to understand; they inhabited it. Gomi in the Sprawl was something else: a rich humus, a decay that sprouted prodigies in steel and polymer. The apparent lack of planning alone was enough to dizzy her, running so entirely opposite the value her own culture placed on efficient land use. Her tax ride from the airport had already shown her decay, whole blocks in ruins, unglazed windows gaping above sidewalks heaped with trash. And faces staring as the armoed hover made its way through the streets.

Rock and Roll adolescent hoodlums storm the streets of all nations. They rush into the Louvre and throw acid in the Mona Lisa's face. They open zoos, insane asylums, prisons, burst water mains with air hammers, chop the floor out of passenger plane lavatories, shoot out lighthouses, file elevator cables to one thin wire, turn sewers into the water supply, throw sharks and sting rays, electric eels and candiru into swimming pools (the candiru is a small eel-like fish or worm about one-quarter inch through and two inches long patronizing certain rivers of ill repute in the Greater Amazon Basin, will dart up your prick or your asshole or a woman's cunt faute de mieux, and hold himself there by sharp spines with precisely what motives is not known since no one has stepped forward to observe the candiru's life-cycle in situ), in nautical costumes ram the Queen Mary full speed into New York Harbor, play chicken with passenger planes and buses, rush into hospitals in white coats carrying saws and axes and scalpels three feet long, throw paralytics out of iron lungs (mimic their suffocations flopping about on the floor and rolling their eyes up), administer injections with bicycle pumps, disconnect artificial kidneys, saw a woman in half with a two-man surgical saw, they drive herds of squealing pigs into the Ka'bah, they shit on the floor of the United Nations and wipe their ass with treaties, pacts, alliances.

We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can't recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn't immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I've literally seen it all, and the worst thing is, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can't anymore. I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I'm not a real person and neither is anyone else.

For several years, I had been bored. Not a whining, restless child's boredom (although I was not above that) but a dense, blanketing malaise. It seemed to me that there was nothing new to be discovered ever again. Our society was utterly, ruinously derivative (although the word derivative as a criticism is itself derivative). We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can't recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn't immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I've literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can't anymore. I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I'm not a real person and neither is anyone else. I would have done anything to feel real again.

A woman of vision comprehends that current circumstances do not reflect what her future holds. In her eyes, she sees continuance. In her mind, she thinks influence and in her heart, she longs for affluence.

He looked round at Mona, who looked back at him with non-committal eyes. She had better control of herself than either of the two men, and was like the core of calm at the heart of a cyclone.

A woman of vision comprehends that current circumstances do not reflect what her future holds. In her eyes, she sees continuance. In her mind, she thinks influence, and in her heart, she longs for affluence.

Faith is a fierce determination to accept in your heart that a great God exists, even if you have not seen Him with your eyes.

Faith is being able to say, "Lord, with my canal eye, I do not see you, but with my heart, I believe in you.

Faith is more than just imagination. It is a reality. A reality that allows your eyes to see what only people of Faith can see.

A successful, intelligent, beautiful woman with a Mona Lisa smile, arctic laser beam eyes, and a reputation for being not only a ruthless bitch but also a voracious lover?

My heart aches with pent-up yearning as I hold the girl of my dreams in my arms. I look into those wonderful eyes and a million questions rush into my fevered mind at that instant. I try to speak, but Marty places her index finger on my lips and gently shushes me with a Mona Lisa smile. “Don’t say a word,” she whispers. “Let’s just dance, okay?

When the teenager with the retainer and unfortunate dad bod asked me what movie I wanted to see behind the box office glass, I pointed at the one with Kate Hudson on the poster. “M—Mona Lisa a—and the Blood Moon?” he sputtered, pushing his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Problem?” I drawled. The kid shook his head, his shoulders quaking with a suppressed laugh. He was about to get a front row seat to How to Lose an Eye in Ten Seconds if he wasn’t careful.

The "Monalisa Lisa" is an optical illusion created by Leonardo Da Vinci. The woman in the painting "The Mona Lisa" doesn't appear to be always smiling. When you look at the mouth you feel she looks sad, melancholic, and hostile. But when you look at the eyes you feel she is happy and cheerful. Leonardo perfected the "sfumato technique," which translated literally from Italian means "vanished or evaporated." He created imperceptible transitions between light and shade, and sometimes between colors. "Why the Silhouette?" appears as a simple story of a few individuals, but when you look at it from a distance, it appears to show you the philosophy of life. I have tried to create imperceptible transitions between light and darkness and sometimes between colors. Hope you see the illusion in "Why the Silhouette?

The "Mona Lisa" is an optical illusion created by Leonardo Da Vinci. The woman in the painting "The Mona Lisa" doesn't appear to be always smiling. When you look at the mouth you feel she looks sad, melancholic, and hostile. But when you look at the eyes you feel she is happy and cheerful. Leonardo perfected the "sfumato technique," which translated literally from Italian means "vanished or evaporated." He created imperceptible transitions between light and shade, and sometimes between colors. "Why the Silhouette?" appears as a simple story of a few individuals, but when you look at it from a distance, it appears to show you the philosophy of life. I have tried to create imperceptible transitions between light and darkness and sometimes between colors. Hope you see the illusion in "Why the Silhouette?

The "Mona Lisa" is an optical illusion created by Leonardo Da Vinci. The woman in the painting "The Mona Lisa" doesn't appear to be always smiling. When you look at her mouth you feel she looks sad, melancholic, and hostile. But when you look at her eyes you feel she is happy and cheerful. Leonardo perfected the "sfumato technique," which translated literally from Italian means "vanished or evaporated." He created imperceptible transitions between light and shade, and sometimes between colors. "Why the Silhouette?" appears as a simple story of a few individuals, but when you look at it from a distance, it appears to show you the philosophy of life. I have tried to create imperceptible transitions between light and darkness and sometimes between colors. Hope you see the illusion in "Why the Silhouette?

Sulli stares at my eyes and nothing else. Even as I hold her cheek, as I plant hot kisses along the nape of her neck, her collar, back up to her lips—she never stops looking at me like I’m worth more than the Mona Lisa. I’ve never felt this rich.

the woman glancing across at Eilish, she introduces herself as Mona and Eilish sees into her eyes and knows the story of the woman’s life without a word having to be spoken.

When Winona whispered her memories to me in later years, she said that Whitestone Hill was the day the world ended. I never asked what she meant, how the world could be gone when the sun was still in the sky and my parents alive. I felt such a question would diminish her pain, which was clear to see from the stain of ancient tears trailing her indigo eyes.

The sooner you close your eyes to that which affects your ability to thrive, the faster you will open your eyes to that which will enable you to thrive.

When you train your eyes to see greatness, it becomes a common sight. When you fill your mind with positive thoughts, positivity becomes a natural state of mind. When you surround yourself with kind people, kindness becomes a powerful force in your life.

Summon the courage to challenge the status quo. Keep your eyes on your goals and not on the curveballs.

Even if you lost everything, pray for the determination to start all over again, and do better than you have ever done. Defeat adversity even in the eyes of despair. Never give up hope. Pray for the fortitude to start anew and work towards a better tomorrow.

Purpose requires a valiant heart to keep pushing and praying even when the right doors seem closed because you know at the right time, they will open right in front of your eyes.

A blind man with purposeful eyes will always possess a powerful vision and the aptitude to achieve it.

Nothing can hinder a man whose eyes are on the end goal and whose heart is after purpose. He will overcome any obstacle and never miss his purpose, no matter the prevailing circumstances.

Nothing can hinder a man whose eyes are on the end goal and whose heart is after purpose. He will overcome any obstacle and never miss his purpose, no matter the prevailing circumstances.

Purpose requires a valiant heart to keep pushing and praying even when the right doors seem closed, because you know at the right time, they will open right in front of your eyes.

A blind man with purposeful eyes will always possess a powerful vision and the aptitude to achieve it.

When you set goals, do not forsake them. Keep your eyes, mind, and hands-on them until they manifest.

Even if you lost everything, pray for the determination to start all over again and do better than you have ever done. Defeat adversity even in the eyes of despair; never give up hope. Pray for the fortitude to start anew and work towards a better tomorrow.

Your limbs may be limited, your eyes may be short-sighted, your ears may be party defeated, and your mouth may be somehow muted, but your purpose will take you to faraway places because the spirit transcends physical spaces.

Do not stress out when a door slams right in front of your eyes. Not every door is meant for you in life. The right doors will open for you at the right time.

To keep your eye on the prize, you ought to arise and be smart in managing your time.

Time management is critical for those whose eyes are open enough to realize the value of time.

Keep your eyes on your vision. When you envision where you are going, you will not have time to worry about yesterday. You will be empowered to use the present to plan and position yourself for a better tomorrow.

Slick stayed where he was, looking up at Gentry’s pale eyes, gray in this light, his taut face. Why did he put up with Gentry anyway? Because you needed somebody, in the Solitude. Not just for electricity; that whole landlord routine was really just a shuck. He guessed because you needed somebody around.

The more you gaze into her eyes, the more you will see what you want, what is actually inside your heart. And then she will suddenly vanish and you will wonder how you lost her. So you must close the door on your emotions. Eros is not a painter and he often spoils our work.

So what’s the story your grandpa told you?” I leaned back against the blanket, propping my head in one hand and looking up at him. “It wasn’t about the pond, I guess. It’s more about the town. I didn’t ever come to Mona when I lived here. I never had reason to - so when I asked my grandpa if there were any good fishing spots around here, and he mentioned this pond, I asked him about the town. He said Burl Ives, the singer, was once thrown in jail here in Mona. It was before his time, but he thought it was a funny story.” “I’ve never heard about that!” “It was the 1940’s, and Burl Ives traveled around singing. I guess the authorities didn’t like one of his songs - they thought it was bawdy, so they put him in jail.” “What was the song?” I snickered. “It was called Foggy, Foggy Dew. My grandpa sang it for me.” “Let’s hear it!” I challenged. “It’s far too lewd.” Samuel pulled his mouth into a serious frown, but his eyes twinkled sardonically. “All right you’ve convinced me,” he said without me begging at all, and we laughed together. He cleared his throat and began to sing, with a touch of an Irish lilt, about a bachelor living all alone whose only sin had been to try to protect a fair young maiden from the foggy, foggy dew. One night she came to my bedside When I was fast asleep. She laid her head upon my bed And she began to weep She sighed, she cried, she damn near died She said what shall I do? So I hauled her into bed and covered up her head Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew. “Oh my!” I laughed, covering my mouth. “I don’t think I would have stuck Burl Ives in jail for that, but it is pretty funny,” “Marine’s are the lewdest, crudest, foulest talking bunch you’ll ever find. I’ve heard much, much worse. I’ve sung much, much worse. I tried to remain chaste and virtuous, and I still have the nickname Preacher after all these years - but I have been somewhat corrupted.” He waggled his eyebrows at his ribaldry. “I kind of liked that song…” I mused, half kidding. “Sing something else but without the Irish.” “Without the Irish? That’s the best part.” Samuel smiled crookedly. “I had a member of my platoon whose mom was born and raised in Ireland. This guy could do an authentic Irish accent, and man, could he sing. When he sang Danny Boy everybody cried. All these tough, lethal Marines, bawling like babies

When you’re in the eye of the tornado, the world looks blurry—especially when you’re working hard to avoid clear vision.” Mona

If you have legs that work, walk in the right direction. If you have an audible voice, say constructive words. If you have functional eyes, see great things. If you are in a position of power, use it productively and if you have a sound mind, think exceptionally; for such is not a given, but grace.

Watch him, he’s dangerous.’ ‘He’s lying,’ said Frederic, stepping closer. ‘I need you to stop,’ warned Etienne, keeping his gun trained on Frederic while he took out his radio with his other hand. ‘Don’t do that,’ warned Frederic, coming even closer. ‘Stop!’ Frederic’s demeanor changed. He was wired, and Pierre saw that he had begun to shake. He would not be able to control himself for much longer. Etienne pressed the radio’s talk button. ‘I need assistance.’ ‘Coming in, over, is that you, Etienne?’ ‘Yes, I —’ Chapter 54 Before the officer could say another word, Frederic lashed out with his right hand. He had retrieved his pistol that was wedged in his back belt and fired off a single bullet with perfect precision, right between the young officer’s brown eyes. The policeman’s body fell backwards, hands flailing as they hit the ground, his radio and pistol skittering away across the marble floor. He’d been killed instantly and now lay still, eyes wide open. Frederic turned his angry gaze on Pierre. ‘I’m so sorry, Frederic,’ said Pierre, back-pedaling. ‘I had no choice, you have to understand that.’ ‘No, boss, you always have a choice,’ said Frederic with a sigh. ‘You just picked the wrong one.’ Frederic trained his weapon on his longtime friend, his hand now rock-steady. ‘So it seems you will never get to see the inside of Alexander the Great’s tomb after all.’ ‘No, Frederic, don’t be stupid. I made a mistake.’ ‘Yes, you did,’ replied Frederic, and with no remorse emptied his gun’s chamber.

Art—at least great art—by its very nature has varying levels, or layers, of meaning. In fact, a masterpiece comes to be considered a masterpiece because we know instinctively, even subconsciously, that there is much more to the work than meets the eye. We don’t love the Mona Lisa because she is beautiful (in fact, in today’s aesthetic, she would be considered plain by many), but because she is mysterious. That is the key to the world’s fascination with her for the last five centuries. We know that there is something else there beneath the surface, beneath that smile, and we can’t quite figure it out.

haven’t

When his eyes gazed upon her, he thought of Mona Lisa, all these suitors going by looking at beautiful objects until they came upon her, they stop, they stare, they critique, they compare. In the end they won't find another that captivates their soul as she. Others have come, more will come later, alas there is only one now, Her.

Mona: "There's this girl who's following me around. I've been trying to lose her." Elaine: "Black hair and amazing eye shadow, right? You can't lose her, Mona. But you're okay if we stick together. Anyone who's with me she sort of ignores.

Within the blink of an eye, another waitress—this one giving her no more than a small smile and a “Here you are, shug”—has slipped her a ponderous mug of steaming coffee, along with some cream and sugar. Mona takes a sip, and she can immediately understand why it’s talked about: it is rich and strong and faintly chocolatey, so good it induces a sigh of satisfaction.

After all, Mona Lisa didn’t endure throughout the ages because she was sparkling and beautiful and perfect. She was small, dark, cloudy, bizarre – her eyes held ten thousand secrets that could only have been learned by making ten thousand mistakes. So savor the mystery in your eyes. Cherish the life behind you. Every day you are breathing on this Earth is a new chance to either fuck it all up or start all over again – meet that chance with wide-open arms.

Before they could decide what to do, the witches were upon them. Leona cackled even louder. Just look over there. You’ll see something scary. It’s Tinkerbell Mona Dressed up like a fairy! The witches squealed and guffawed. They snorted and wheezed and rolled on the ground. Mona waited until the laughter died down. Then her eyes flashed, and suddenly so did her magic wand. “Now I’ve got a poem for you,” she said, and pointed her wand straight at them. Ibbity bibbity, bobbity boad. Leona Fleebish, you’re a toad! Instantly, a bolt of white light shot out from the wand, Followed by a clap of thunder and a great puff of smoke! The next thing they knew, Wendell, Floyd, Mona, and Alice landed right back on the corner where their evening had begun. There wasn’t a witch in sight, and their bags were filled with wonderful, ordinary candy. Wendell stared at Mona’s wand. “How did you do that?” She just shrugged. “You said anything can happen on Halloween.” Later, they sat in Floyd’s living room, sorting their candy and sipping cocoa. “You know, Floyd,” said Wendell. “You make a pretty good pirate.” “Thanks. You’re a good mad scientist too, even if you are pink. But Mona was the best of all.” She smiled. “I guess being a fairy princess was okay. Still, I’m sort of glad it’s over. Now we can all get back to normal.” After a while, Leona Fleebish even stopped being a toad.

Open your eyes. See the sunrise. It is there to remind you that you still have another chance to rewrite the story of your life.

It’s the same Julius, isn’t it?” He shut his eyes tightly. Damn him. “Yes, Ariel. It’s the same one.” Chapter 5 Ariel got dressed then sat on the bed, refusing to move until Brayden told her more.

The drunk watched it come from between the man’s lips, a small nebulous cloud that kind of looked like the foreigner was blowing a bubble of fog in his unconscious state. The shroud floated silently from his lips and hovered over his chest, almost sitting on his sternum. In the adjacent cell, Connie forgot to breathe when he saw a face — a woman’s face — manifest in the cloud, looking about the cell in slow motion. The long lank hair, albino white, hung about her doughy pale face in wet strands. The closed mouth was too wide for the face and didn’t appear to have lips, just a thin line curving into a vague amphibious Mona Lisa smile which took Connie back five decades to his childhood pet frog, Leap. The black eyes moved slowly about the room, left and right. That nightmarish countenance turned to Connie and held him in its vacant gaze. He saw how the mouth opened and closed, almost like a fish…or was she saying something to him? The eyes weren’t completely black. Connie made out a fine ring of white around the rims of those hallucinogenic pupils. Her eyes were two solar eclipses.

The power of money can’t be underestimated, ever. As Karl Marx said, “It transforms fidelity into infidelity, love into hate, hate into love, virtue into vice, vice into virtue, servant into master, master into servant, idiocy into intelligence, and intelligence into idiocy.

If I had to locate an exact cause of the crisis, above all others, it would be the ideology of extreme austerity and “all government is bad government.” The state of Michigan didn’t need less government; it needed more and better government, responsible and effective government. And people who are not being poisoned by the tap water.

Dear Daughter, No one has a perfect life, not even those whose lives seem perfect in your eyes. So, do not feel miserable based on what you see on social media. Value your life and celebrate it no matter what.

Forgiveness is looking the offender in the eyes and declaring yourself the ultimate overcomer.

Noble leaders do not seek marbles for their own houses; they desire a better life for those they lead. In the eyes of noble leaders, leadership is not about what one acquires. It is about making an impact.

The eyes of revolutionary leaders are fixated nowhere else, but on the revolution itself.

A woman of vision comprehends that her current circumstances do not reflect what her future holds. In her eyes, she sees continuance. In her mind, she thinks of influence, and in her heart, she longs for affluence.

A woman of vision may have lost her eyesight, but she can see afar because through her mind, she conceives far beyond what the eyes can see.

Prayer opens your spiritual eyes so you can follow the right direction and not dwell in confusion.

Our Mothers Your eyes see hope for tomorrow Your hearts are made of gold that many wish to borrow Your minds sharp enough for others follow Your hands ensure that children grow Your feet go places where some cannot know Your courage makes you stand where strong winds blow Your presence becomes warmth, regardless of the snow Your influence can be felt within a stone’s throw You hold nothing back for whom you protect You speak words with good intent You treat others with so much respect You fight and never retract You pursue a path that keeps your faith intact You fulfil dreams and make a significant impact You pass through tough times while remaining steadfast You conquer battles as you pray and fast You instil discipline that becomes a great shield You serve others until they succeed You give inspiration among those who bleed You understand that you are rearing a rare breed You plant and nurture the right seed You help attract breakthroughs with speed You care for those in need You touch lives, indeed You lead your own to be great every step of the way You play your role very well, even without a pay You smile as if every day is your pay day You exude wisdom and put it on full display You save generations from going astray You run your race just like in a relay You pass the baton with no delay You carry so much worth as you get to be gray Hence, we salute you, our Mothers

God Bless My Darling Child This is from your dear Mother Who expected you for months Sometimes feeling distressed and exhausted Though excited about carrying another soul Eyes watched how she gained weight Tummy bulging with time Cravings shooting sky high Conduct, a little bit unusual She had many questions in mind Said endless prayers for you Believed God for your safe arrival Hoped for your survival Wished you become a responsible human And a respectable woman like her The brightest without fear Great in this world When she saw your face for the first time She embraced her treasure Looked at you and declared ‘God bless my darling child.

Dear Daughter, Learn to give honour to those who stick around and wipe the tears in your eyes, when things get tough.

While our human minds are limited to the physical, God knows what is above and beyond what the eyes can see. That is the unquestionable wisdom of God.

You are valuable on this Earth. That is why God in His Might, took time to create you. For you, He has a purpose greater than what the eyes can see. Hence, you need to value the greatness in you.

God only gives us what we need because if He had to give us what we want, we would become unwanted in His eyes.

A Godly Woman Ode to a woman who loves God wholeheartedly A Godly Woman Walks according to the Word Wherever she is in this world When circumstances do not allow She still knows her worth A Godly Woman Follows the route of righteousness Although it may seem inconvenient She finds a way to understand The path she ought to travel A Godly Woman Subscribes to the Gospel No matter how others question it She spreads good news to the nations Even if it means taking on a new dimension A Godly Woman Kneels even when she is weak She searches the heart of God Until she finds it Despite what she has lost A Godly Woman Keeps her eyes fixed on the Cross Her aid does not come from across Hence, she is always afloat Even in the midst of floods A Godly Woman Inspires other people She is someone you can look up to Or easily reach for help A kind-hearted Soul celebrated by Heaven A Godly Woman Has Divine power Always a conqueror More than a fighter In every battle, she is victorious A Godly Woman Can never afford to live Without acknowledging her Maker Every single day, she relies on her Saviour Because she is a devoted Believer No one can ever dispute the fact that She is a godly woman

Prayer is the most powerful weapon to conquer battles that cannot be seen with the naked eye.

Some battles can never be conquered until you pray, because what you see in the physical is controlled in the spiritual realm. Hence, you ought to pray for your spiritual eyes to open. When that happens, you will clearly see your opponent, fight with the help of the Heavens and become triumphant.

As you opened your eyes this morning, someone else’s remained shut forever. As you said your prayers, someone else was breathing their last. As you were saying good morning to your loved ones, someone else was saying their final goodbyes. That is why it is essential to pray and thank God for the life you still have.

Dear Daughter, Nothing is new in the eyes of God. He knew you before you were born. He knows how to help you become more. Do not lose hope in your journey at all. Hold on!

Dear Daughter, Learn to give honour to those who stick around and wipe the tears in your eyes, when things get tough.

Faith is fixing your eyes on the mighty hand of God because you know He is the hope beyond the horizon.

Faith is more than just an imagination. It is a reality. A reality that allows your eyes to see what only people of faith can see.

As you journey through the face of the Earth, you will face afflictions every so often. Fear not. Weep not. Wipe your tears and fix your eyes on God. Stay strong. Let faith bring forth light, peace and hope in your life.

The mystery of free will versus predestination. You’re going to tie yourself up with that one, Mona. Either God is in charge or He’s not. We can go round and round about the origin of evil, but the buck stops at God. The question isn’t who causes something to happen, but rather, whether you see the outcome with His eyes or yours. Whether or not you trust He’s got it all in His hands.

Mona rushed through the shower and selected her best dress, a slinky black wraparound number that she ordered on a whim, online. She piled her hair into a messy up do and lined her eyes in black liner with grey eye shadow for a smoky effect. Berry lip stick, dangly silver earrings and a spritz of perfume completed the look. Just as she was slipping on a pair of strappy heels, her cell phone buzzed. It was her Aunt Bee calling. “Darling! The BOGO sale is a great success. Alana says you almost brought the Frugalicious server down!” “I did!” “Blackberry ginger jam is a knock out!” “Well, it may have been knocked off too.” “Whatdya mean?” Aunt Bee asked. “Lacey MacInroy got hold of my recipes, and I understand she’s preparing my jam for the As You Slice It gala reception tonight.” “Why that little rat!” Aunt Bee said. “Are you going to the reception?” Mona asked. “No way! Alexander has never honored, not one of the Coupon Clipper’s requests for a sale. Are you going?” Aunt Bee asked. “Yup. On my way now. Wish me luck,” and as Mona hung up, she heard Aunt Bee squeak out, “Luck with what?” Mona admired her reflection in the mirror and declared herself ready for action. Grabbing her car keys and purse, she nearly stumbled, racing down the front steps. Driving into town, she felt a feeling she had not experienced in a long time, bravery. This new-found liberation from caring about what anyone thought about her was freeing. She felt like her old self once more, that girl she used to be the

Life is not a series. It has no omnibus. Live it without worrying about the past. Do not relive it. Close your eyes and mind to what lies behind, so you can focus on the now.

Life is not a series. It has no omnibus. Live it without worrying about the past. Do not relive it. Close your eyes, and mind to what lies behind; so you can focus on the now.

Fixate your eyes on things that can fix your life.

Depend not on human beings because they change time and again. People who were once close can become estranged. That is the strange thing about life, it changes right in front of your eyes.

Wisdom is the ability to close your eyes and open your mouth to ask God about His plans for your life.

Dear Daughter, Nothing is new in the eyes of God. He knew you before you were born. He knows how to help you become more. Do not lose hope in your journey at all. Hold on!

I cannot turn a blind eye to the injustices perpetrated against the Palestinians, or to any dispossessed or subjugated people. Can I forgive, or forget, what was, and is still being done to the Palestinians? With work, forgiving is doable, but forgetting is unthinkable. I cannot and do not want to forget the tragedies that have shaped my family and my people’s lives. I want to honor the memory of their forced exile and share their story with the rest of the world.

You look different, Paige. Are you falling in love with Jake Donovan?” “Don’t even say it.” “Why not?” Dana looked into her friend’s eyes. “Would that be so bad?” Dana’s piercing look made her uncomfortable. “It’s just that everything has happened so quickly. It doesn’t happen that way in real life.” “Says who?” Dana gave her another quick hug. “It’s been my experience that love has the strangest way of creeping up on us when we least expect it. Remember that.

Grandma Mona told Kyla to sit down, close her eyes, and let the words of this blessing she said fill her: “May you always have walls for the winds, a roof for the rain, tea beside the fire, laughter to cheer you, those you love near you, and all your heart might desire.

Her blonde hair flowed down her shoulders, soft, silky. She curled her fingers around the hair at the nape of his neck, and brought her mouth close to his. His heart beat erratically in anticipation of the moment their lips would touch. He shut his eyes, then felt the softest, sweetest sensation of his life. He tasted her sweet lips, shuddered as her tongue played with his. He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her closely, tightly. His entire body quivered as it was pressed against hers. She began to pull away. He held her to him. She broke the kiss.

Unleash your potential. The time is now. The opportunity is staring you in the eye.

Seek wisdom. It will open your eyes to see beyond the horizon.

Not everything needs to be prioritized. Open your eyes and mind to the things that need your focus.

Son, Protect your eyes from distraction, your ears from contamination, your heart from deterioration, and your mind from condemnation. On a daily basis, guard your soul with determination.

Son, Some solutions may seem helpful for now, but they may cause more complications later in life. Learn to discern beyond what you see with your eyes. Pray for wisdom from Above.

Dear Son, Protect your eyes from spiritual distraction, your ears from spiritual contamination, your heart from spiritual deterioration, and your mind from spiritual condemnation. On a daily basis, guard your soul with steadfast determination.

Rise before the eyes of those who look down on you. Never let their negative perceptions diminish you.

Really? I mean, she’s known them, what, a little over an hour? And already, she’s saying good-bye with a hug? I shook my head. Toni’s about a thousand times better with people than I am. Could be it’s a gender thing. I didn’t used to pay any attention, but now I’m starting to notice that with guys, we tend to talk, ask questions, process information, and then move on. Not much in the way of subtleties, not much nuance—usually not much emotion unless we get pissed off for some reason. For us, things are pretty much black and white, thank you very much. Since I’ve been with Toni, I’ve learned that with women, it’s way different. They look for—and often seem to find—hidden layers of meanings, feelings, and whatnot—the kind of stuff guys like me never even see—the crap that goes right past us. Women find messages inside of messages. “What do you think she meant by that?” Toni would say after we’d leave a conversation with someone. I’d

Really? I mean, she’s known them, what, a little over an hour? And already, she’s saying good-bye with a hug? I shook my head. Toni’s about a thousand times better with people than I am. Could be it’s a gender thing. I didn’t used to pay any attention, but now I’m starting to notice that with guys, we tend to talk, ask questions, process information, and then move on. Not much in the way of subtleties, not much nuance—usually not much emotion unless we get pissed off for some reason. For us, things are pretty much black and white, thank you very much. Since I’ve been with Toni, I’ve learned that with women, it’s way different. They look for—and often seem to find—hidden layers of meanings, feelings, and whatnot—the kind of stuff guys like me never even see—the crap that goes right past us. Women find messages inside of messages. “What do you think she meant by that?” Toni would say after we’d leave a conversation with someone. I’d look at her, confused, and then I’d shrug. “I don’t know. Probably meant just what she said.” She’d give me a look that basically said I was completely hopeless. Fifty shades of gray? Yeah, I’d say . . . at least. In early 2007 I was still in the army stationed at Fort Lewis. I was taking classes part-time at the University of Washington, working on my bachelor’s in law, societies, and justice—the U-Dub’s version of a criminal justice degree. I was

But remember the old saying—just because you walk through a pit of snakes and come out the other side without getting bit the first time doesn’t mean the next snake you meet’s not gonna kill you.

God Bless My Darling Child This is from your dear Mother Who expected you for months Sometimes feeling distressed and exhausted Though excited, from carrying another Soul Eyes watched how she gained weight Tummy bulging with time Cravings shooting sky high Conduct, a little bit unusual She had many questions in mind Said endless prayers for you Believed God for a safe arrival Hoped for your survival Wishing you become a responsible human And a respectable woman like her The brightest without fear Great in this world When she saw your face for the first time She embraced her treasure Yearned for what was best She looked at you and declared ‘God bless my darling child

God only gives us what we need. Because, if He had to give us we want, we would become unwanted in His eyes.

While our human minds are limited to the physical. God knows what is above and beyond what eyes can see. That is the unquestionable wisdom of God.

You are valuable on this Earth. That is why God in His Might, took time to create you. For you, He has a purpose greater than what eyes can see. Hence, you need to value the greatness in you.

You are valuable on this Earth. That is why God in His Might took time to create you. For you, He has a purpose greater than what eyes can see. Hence, you need to value the greatness in you.

Here I abruptly took leave of him. He was still standing with hand outstretched, as if immobilized, when I got to the other side of the street. I gave him one parting glance and spat out a gob of juicy disgust. «You prick!» I said to myself. «Yon and your fucking Comforter! For a pair of heartless shits I’ve never seen the like of you. Pray? You bet I’ll pray. I’ll pray that you have to crawl on hands and knees to scratch for a penny. I’ll pray that your wrists and knees give out, that you have to crawl on your belly, that your eyes will become bleary, and filled with scum.» The house was dark when I got back. No Mona. I sank into the big chair and gave myself up to moody reflections. In the soft light of my table lamp the room looked better than ever. Even the table, which was in a state of huge disorder, affected me pleasantly. It was obvious that there had been a long interruption. Manuscripts were lying about everywhere, books lay open at the pages where I had left off reading. The dictionary too was lying open on top of the book-case. As I sat there ‘I realized that the room was impregnated with my spirit. I belonged here, nowhere else. It was foolish of

A train horn blew, but it seemed a little distant, like it was coming from somewhere up ahead. It blew again, louder this time. “There’s another train coming!” shouted Ruby. “We’re going to crash!” “Don’t worry,” said the captain cheerfully. “Vermillion knows what to do.” Matt closed his eyes and waited for impact, but it never came. The train picked up speed, faster and faster. It roared so loud Matt couldn’t even hear his own voice. He covered his ears. The whole train was vibrating violently, and then it lurched forward with such a jolt that the three Hudsons toppled over each other and landed hard on the floor. Ruby gasped. “The floor!” she said. “What the . . . what?” said Corey. Matt looked down. He could hardly believe his eyes. The floor appeared to be melting, morphing from the smooth worn floors of the subway car to cracked and rough wooden planks. A nail head poked at his hand. Matt looked up. All around him the train car was altering, growing, transforming. The walls expanded, and the windows shrank. Lacy curtains unfurled and crawled down the sides of the windows like fast-growing vines. The hard plastic benches of the subway swelled into plush chairs and tables with white tablecloths. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling contracted and then dropped, forming crystal chandeliers. A plush rug sprouted beneath him. It grew through the floor as though it were a carpet of grass pushing through dirt. Matt picked himself up, then helped Corey and Ruby, who had somehow gotten tangled in the rug. It seemed to have grown up and around Ruby’s wrists and ankles, as though it were trying to weave her into itself. Matt and Corey helped free her, and then Ruby yelped as the white rat leaped across their faces and landed on a little table. It pulled a match out of the table drawer with its tail, struck it against the wall, and began lighting lanterns and sconces, then the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, until the space was well lit once again. It was not at all like the train they had been in before. The subway car no longer looked like a subway at all. Rather, it looked like a very old-fashioned train, but one for rich passengers.

The future? Like the past, like the present. Little girls who lose their fathers cry all their lives. Hard to blame Edgar for her tears: no doubt she makes Edgar the cause of them. He says so often enough. Mona and Minne shall not lose their father, she is determined on it. She will cry now and for ever, so that Minnie and Mona can grow up to laugh — though no doubt their laughter, as they look back, will be tinged with pity, at best, and derision, at worst, for a mother who lives as theirs did. Minnie and Mona, saved from understanding. ("The Man With No Eyes")

God only gives us what we need. Because, if He had to give us what we want, we would become unwanted in His eyes.

A woman of vision looks at things from a different viewpoint, because she does not rely on her eyesight to visualize great things.