Nari Quotes

Pulvis et umbra sumus. It's a line from Horace. 'We are dust and shadows'. Appropriate, don't you think?" Will said. "It's not a long life, killing demons; one tends to die young, and then they burn your body - dust to dust, in the literal sense. And then we vanish into the shadows of history, nary a mark on the page of a mundane book to remind the world that once we existed at all.

Oh, 'twould be marvelous if the world and its moral questions were like some game board, with plain black players and white, and fixed rules, and nary a shade of grey.

All the worry people expend over not existing after they die, yet nary a one ever seems to spare a moment to worry about not having existed before they were conceived. Or at all. After all, one sperm over and we would have been our sisters, and we'd never have been missed.

It quickly became a tracking operation, though. My chariot could not keep up with his truck. By the time I caught up with him, his truck was parked in one of those asphalt wastelands. What are they called again"? The Tuatha De Danann have no problem asking Druids for information. That's what we're for, after all. The secret to becoming an Old Druid instead of a dead Druid is to betray nary a hint of condescension when answering even the simplest questions. "They are called parking lots," I replied. "Ah, yes, thank you. He came out of a building called 'Crussh', holding one of these potions. Are you familar with the building, Druid?" "I belive that is a smoothie bar in England." "Quite right. So after I killed him and stowed his body next to the doe, I sampled his smooth concoction in the parking lot and found it to be quite delicious". See, sentences like that are why I nurture a healthy fear of the Tuatha De Danann.

as jolaha ka maram na jana, jinh jag ani pasarinhh tana; dharti akas dou gad khandaya, chand surya dou nari banaya; sahastra tar le purani puri, ajahu bine kathin hai duri; kahai kabir karm se jori, sut kusut bine bhal kori; No one could understand the secret of this weaver who, coming into existence, spread the warp as the world; He fixed the earth and the sky as the pillars, and he used the sun and the moon as two shuttles; He took thousands of stars and perfected the cloth; but even today he weaves, and the end is difficult to fathom. Kabir says that the weaver, getting good or bad yarn and connecting karmas with it, weaves beautifully.

Yay, Old Uns' Smart mastered sicks, miles, seeds, an' made miracles ord'nary, but it din't master one thing, nay, a hunger in the hearts o' humans, yay, a hunger for more.

Writers are in many ways like demi-gods. With one stroke of a pen they can give life to a character, or strike them from existence, with nary a twinge of grief at their passing.

I want to tell them, stay in the cage. There are bet­ter things than free­dom. There are worse things than liv­ing a long bored life in some stranger’s house and then dy­ing and go­ing to ca­nary heav­en.

Every settlement with two shacks and a saloon gave itself a name: Helltown, Fair Play, Grizzly Flats, Piety Hill, Whiskey Flat, You Bet, Nary Red, Lousy Ravine, Petticoat Slide.

Sa fi jurat ca sufletul, e si el, un animal cu plamani si nari, ca are nevoie de mult oxigen si ca se inabusa in praf si printre prea numeroase rasuflari

Nari jumps, and another bank explodes behind her, and for a moment I think our hands will not connect, because she is not tall.

I love you, Nari Zhang. When I first met you, right now, and forever. No matter what, you’re everything to me.

Though she would never admit it to polite Society, Lady Georgette Thorold hated brandy almost as much as she hated husbands. So it was the cruelest of jokes when she awoke with nary a clue to her surroundings, smelling like one and pressed up against the other.

. When the plague struck Chicago, the townspeople here erected the gargoyles, and nary a soul was lost to the Black Death.” “The bubonic plague predates Chicago by about five hundred years.” He lowered himself to the bench. “I know. I was very disappointed when I found out. Almost as bad as when I learned there were no fairies. The world is much more interesting with goblins and plagues.” “Unless you catch the plague.

Gentlemen?” Dr Nari Zhang appeared at the door. Angus jumped. “Jesus.” He looked down at the thick socks on her feet, which were intriguingly dainty. The new doc was way too appealing for him to be this irritated with her. Which only pissed him off more. “New rule. You keep the loud shoes on all day. No changing into socks.” She rolled her eyes. “I had hoped to talk to all three of you about the shooting yesterday. It had to have brought up difficult memories. How did everyone sleep?” “Fantastic,” West said smoothly. “Never better,” Wolfe agreed. “Like a baby,” Angus said. Nari sighed. “You’re all morons. You can take that as my professional opinion.

Hit don’t make no difference what a man perfesses. I been in a heap o’ churches. There’s the Nazarene Church and the Pentecost and the Holy Rollers and the Baptists and I don’t know what-all. I cain’t see much difference to nary one of ‘em. There’s a good to all of ‘em and there’s a bad.

She found the page, cleared her throat and began to read, " 'There was nary a doubt that I had ever seen such big ones, round and ripe. My teeth ached to bite them' " God, what tripe!

By the time I walked down the aisle—or rather, into a judge’s chambers—I had lived fourteen independent years, early adult years that my mother had spent married. I had made friends and fallen out with friends, had moved in and out of apartments, had been hired, fired, promoted, and quit. I had had roommates I liked and roommates I didn’t like and I had lived on my own; I’d been on several forms of birth control and navigated a few serious medical questions; I’d paid my own bills and failed to pay my own bills; I’d fallen in love and fallen out of love and spent five consecutive years with nary a fling. I’d learned my way around new neighborhoods, felt scared and felt completely at home; I’d been heartbroken, afraid, jubilant, and bored. I was a grown-up: a reasonably complicated person. I’d become that person not in the company of any one man, but alongside my friends, my family, my city, my work, and, simply, by myself. I was not alone.

Modern wheat, despite all the genetic alterations to modify hundreds, if not thousands, of its genetically determined characteristics, made its way to the worldwide human food supply with nary a question surrounding its suitability for human consumption.

There were nineteen wide steps down to the lobby. She had counted them enough times to know. Nineteen carpeted stair risers and nary a Jack crouching on any one of them.

buku adalah tempat pikiran menari-nari didalamnya .. #magnificent imagination come from Allah

How it hurts to see you Achingly beyond my craving touch! Perhaps, that's the agony Of a bird with a broken wing The world seemingly at her feet Yet not; And nary a song to sing

Bond is now the Bond Girl of the opening credits. It’s his silhouette we see – and nary a dancing naked babe in sight. Perhaps to compensate for this, in the actual film he gets his tits out a lot. He emerges from the sea glistening, showing off his pumped boobs, like Ursula Andress in ‘Dr No’ — save his nipples are more prominent. Bond has finally become his own Bond Girl.

Them as work hardest get no respect for it – women, ranch hands, sharecroppers, factory help, domestics – and them as spend all their time talking about how hard they work have no idea what an honest day’s labor for nary enough pay to put beans in your family’s bellies is all about.

In the early twentieth century, the Congress of our great nation debated a glorious plan to resolve a meat shortage in America. The idea was this: import hippos and raise them in Louisiana’s bayous. The hippos would eat the ruinously invasive water hyacinth; the American people would eat the hippos; everyone would go home happy. Well, except the hippos. They’d go home eaten. Much to everyone’s disappointment, Congress didn’t follow through on the plan, and today America lives a cursed life—a beef life, with nary a free-range hippo within the borders of our country.

Loki was now captured, and with no thought of mercy he was taken to a cave. They [the Æsir] took three flat stones and, setting them on their edges, broke a hole through each of them. Then they caught Loki’s sons, Vali and Nari or Narfi. The Æsir changed Vali into a wolf, and he ripped apart his brother Narfi. Next the Æsir took his guts, and with them they bound Loki on to the top of the three stones – one under his shoulders, a second under his loins and the third under his knees. The fetters became iron. ‘Then Skadi took a poisonous snake and fastened it above Loki so that its poison drips on to his face. But Sigyn, his wife, placed herself beside him from where she holds a bowl to catch the drops of venom. When the bowl becomes full, she leaves to pour out the poison, and at that moment the poison drips on to Loki’s face. He convulses so violently that the whole earth shakes – it is what is known as an earthquake. He will lie bound there until Ragnarok.

Bahkan tentu saja, ia juga bisa merasa bebas untuk ngapain saja di depan laki laki yang ia sukai. Ia bisa dengan suka hati menari nari sambil mendengarkan musik dangdut, lalu melepas pakaiannya satu persatu. Setelah itu ia akan menggonggong sambil menggoyang goyangkan pantatnya. Seperti anjing yang kesenangan menggoyang goyang ekornya. Dan tentu saja, ia melakukan hal itu tidak cuma sekali dua. Ia hampir melakukannya saban malam di mana ia merasa dapat menemukan kegembiraan dengan cara mempertontonkan dirinya sendiri. Katanya sambil tertawa cekikikan, "Saatnya untuk pertunjukan.

How do people get to this clandestine Archipelago? Hour by hour planes fly there, ships steer their course there, and trains thunder off to it--but all with nary a mark on them to tell of their destination. And at ticket windows or at travel bureaus for Soviet or foreign tourists the employees would be astounded if you were to ask for a ticket to go there. They know nothing and they've never heard of the Archipelago as a whole or any one of its innumerable islands. Those who go to the Archipelago to administer it get there via the training schools of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Those who go there to be guards are conscripted via the military conscription centers. And those who, like you and me, dear reader, go there to die, must get there solely and compulsorily via arrest. Arrest! Need it be said that it is a breaking point in your life, a bolt of lightning which has scored a direct hit on you? That it is an unassimilable spiritual earthquake not every person can cope with, as a result of which people often slip into insanity? The Universe has as many different centers as there are living beings in it. Each of us is a center of the Universe, and that Universe is shattered when they hiss at you: "You are under arrest." If you are arrested, can anything else remain unshattered by this cataclysm? But the darkened mind is incapable of embracing these dis­placements in our universe, and both the most sophisticated and the veriest simpleton among us, drawing on all life's experience, can gasp out only: "Me? What for?" And this is a question which, though repeated millions and millions of times before, has yet to receive an answer. Arrest is an instantaneous, shattering thrust, expulsion, somer­sault from one state into another. We have been happily borne—or perhaps have unhappily dragged our weary way—down the long and crooked streets of our lives, past all kinds of walls and fences made of rotting wood, rammed earth, brick, concrete, iron railings. We have never given a thought to what lies behind them. We have never tried to pene­trate them with our vision or our understanding. But there is where the Gulag country begins, right next to us, two yards away from us. In addition, we have failed to notice an enormous num­ber of closely fitted, well-disguised doors and gates in these fences. All those gates were prepared for us, every last one! And all of a sudden the fateful gate swings quickly open, and four white male hands, unaccustomed to physical labor but none­theless strong and tenacious, grab us by the leg, arm, collar, cap, ear, and drag us in like a sack, and the gate behind us, the gate to our past life, is slammed shut once and for all. That's all there is to it! You are arrested! And you'll find nothing better to respond with than a lamblike bleat: "Me? What for?" That's what arrest is: it's a blinding flash and a blow which shifts the present instantly into the past and the impossible into omnipotent actuality. That's all. And neither for the first hour nor for the first day will you be able to grasp anything else.

Some people harbour so much thorns inside, it strangles out all the beauty. The kingdom under yer aunt’s keep – smothered by nettles and vines – be a reflection of her heart. A rosebush with nary a rose. It weren’t ye that caused it. It were her own dark devices and hatred that drived her. That ugliness be makin‘ bits way out as we speak. It’ll be what vanquishes her in the end.

The internet. Can we trust in that? Of course not. Give it six months and we'll probably discover Google's sewn together by orphans in sweatshops. Or that Wi-Fi does something horrible to your brain, like eating your fondest memories and replacing them with drawings of cross-eyed bats and a strong smell of puke. There's surely a great dystopian sci-fi novel yet to be written about a world in which it's suddenly discovered that wireless broadband signals deaden the human brain, slowly robbing us of all emotion, until after 10 years of exposure we're all either rutting in stairwells or listlessly reversing our cars over our own offspring with nary the merest glimmer of sympathy or pain on our faces. It'll be set in Basingstoke and called, "Cuh, Typical.

A man needs but two things: a reliable moral compass to guide him and a strong dose of integrity to see him through all manner of troubles," Pensive said, raising his untensil with a wink. Tibbs stared doubtfully at the fork and said, "That not integrity. That's boiled potato with cream sauce." Pensive paused before answering, taking a delicate bite and dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "Nary a whit of difference, Tibbs, " he said decidedly. "Nary a whit.

Will you pour out tea, Miss Brent?' The el­der wom­an replied: 'No, you do it, dear. That tea-​pot is so heavy. And I have lost two skeins of my grey knitting-​wool. So an­noy­ing.' Ve­ra moved to the tea-​ta­ble. There was a cheer­ful rat­tle and clink of chi­na. Nor­mal­ity returned. Tea! Blessed or­di­nary everyday af­ter­noon tea! Philip Lom­bard made a cheery re­mark. Blore re­spond­ed. Dr. Arm­strong told a hu­mor­ous sto­ry. Mr. Jus­tice War­grave, who or­di­nar­ily hat­ed tea, sipped ap­prov­ing­ly. In­to this re­laxed at­mo­sphere came Rogers. And Rogers was up­set. He said ner­vous­ly and at ran­dom: 'Ex­cuse me, sir, but does any one know what's become of the bath­room cur­tain?' Lom­bard's head went up with a jerk. 'The bath­room cur­tain? What the dev­il do you mean, Rogers?' 'It's gone, sir, clean van­ished. I was go­ing round draw­ing all the cur­tai­ns and the one in the lav -​ bath­room wasn't there any longer.' Mr. Jus­tice War­grave asked: 'Was it there this morn­ing?' 'Oh, yes, sir.' Blore said: 'What kind of a cur­tain was it?' 'Scar­let oil­silk, sir. It went with the scar­let tiles.' Lom­bard said: 'And it's gone?' 'Gone, Sir.' They stared at each oth­er. Blore said heav­ily: 'Well - af­ter all-​what of it? It's mad - ​but so's everything else. Any­way, it doesn't matter. You can't kill any­body with an oil­silk cur­tain. For­get about it.' Rogers said: 'Yes, sir, thank you, sir.' He went out, shut­ting the door.

Loki hid in the Falls of Frananger in the shape of a salmon, but the gods caught him. He was tied up with the intestines of his son Nari... Skathi took a poisonous snake and tied it up over Loki; poison dripped on his face from its mouth... this hurt him so badly that he trembled, and all the world with him. This is what is called an earthquake.

Oh, ’twould be marvelous if the world and its moral questions were like some game board, with plain black players and white, and fixed rules, and nary a shade of grey.

Yay, Old Uns’ Smart mastered sicks, miles, seeds an’ made miracles ord’nary, but it din’t master one thing, nay, a hunger in the hearts o’ humans, yay, a hunger for more.

Minutes turn into hours, and lifetimes into moments. Universes are created and destroyed with nary a pop. What was saved, no longer ex- ists. What was lost, no longer matters.

Those crazy pot-lickers of mine don’t miss nary a thing that moves around here.

Not bleedin’ likely, Aunt Nanny Goat. I toughened my feet for karate—I can break a four-by-nine with my feet and get nary a bruise. Or run on sharp gravel.

Being a growed woman, it turned out, was harder work than it looked. But that’s a thing, too, ain’t it? Them as work hardest get no respect for it—women, ranch hands, sharecroppers, factory help, domestics—and them as spend all their time talking about how hard they work have no idea what an honest day’s labor for nary enough pay to put beans in your family’s bellies is all about.

P.S. Mrs. Maugery lent me a book last week. It’s called The Oxford Book of Modern Verse, 1892–1935. They let a man named Yeats make the choosings. They shouldn’t have. Who is he—and what does he know about verse? I hunted all through that book for poems by Wilfred Owen or Siegfried Sassoon. There weren’t any—nary a one. And do you know why not? Because this Mr. Yeats said—he said, “I deliberately chose NOT to include any poems from World War I. I have a distaste for them. Passive suffering is not a theme for poetry.” Passive Suffering? Passive Suffering! I nearly seized up. What ailed the man? Lieutenant Owen, he wrote a line, “What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.” What’s passive about that, I’d like to know? That’s exactly how they do die. I saw it with my own eyes, and I say to hell with Mr. Yeats.

Well, I was looking for Justice," said Simple. "I was tired." "Tired of what?" "Of hearing the radio talking about the Four Freedoms all day long during the war and me living in Harlem where nary one of them freedoms worked--nor the ceiling prices either.

Some thoughts on heaven? I have this theory that heaven is different for everyone. It has to be, or it wouldn’t be heaven. My grandmother’s heaven? In her heaven she doesn’t have to share the remote with anyone, and it is Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune on all the time, with nary a rerun ever, and the old lady always wins the big money and a trip to Europe to tour a castle or somewhere warm but not too hot with nice churches. In her heaven your knees don’t hurt and your back doesn’t hurt and you get to be whatever age was your favourite age to be and you still have all your teeth and there are bingo games right after dinner and raspberry hard candies and no one ever has to do the dishes. In my gran’s heaven, you can still have yourself a proper smoke in the living room and it doesn’t ruin the new paint job and the lawn never gets too long and the foxes don’t chase the birds off the birdfeeder. In her heaven, a nice bit of cheese won’t give you the bad stomach and real men don’t beat their wives or fuck their children, and every day is payday, and the Friday of a long weekend. Floors wax themselves, but you still get to hang the laundry, but only if you feel like it.

fishing, my philosophy is that men will treat women like one of these two things: a sports fish or a keeper. How we meet, how the conversation goes, how the relationship develops, and the demands you make on a man will all determine whether you’ll be treated like a sports fish—a throwback—or a keeper, the kind of woman a man can envision settling down with. And the way we separate the two is very simple, as I explain next. A SPORTS FISH . . . Doesn’t have any rules, requirements, respect for herself, or guidelines, and we men can pick up her scent a mile away. She’s the party girl who takes a sip of her Long Island iced tea or a shot of her Patrón, then announces to her suitor that she just wants to “date and see how it goes,” and she’s the conservatively dressed woman at the office who is a master at networking, but clueless about how to approach men. She has no plans for any ongoing relationships, is not expecting anything in particular from a man, and sets absolutely not nary one condition or restriction on anyone standing before her—she makes it very clear that she’s just along for whatever is getting ready to happen. For sure, as soon as she lets a man know through words and action that he can treat her just any old kind of way, he will do just

Yay, Old Uns' Smart mastered sicks, miles, seeds an' made miracles ord'nary, but it din't master one thing, nay, a hunger in the hearts o' humans, yay, a hunger for more. More what? I asked. Old Uns'd got ev'rythin'. Oh, more gear, more food, faster speeds, longer lifes, easier lifes, more power, yay. Now the Hole World is big, but it weren't big 'nuff for that hunger what made Old Uns rip out the skies an' boil up the seas an' poison soil with crazed atoms an' donkey 'bout with rotted seeds so new plagues was borned an' babbits was freak-birthed. Fin'ly, bit'ly, then quicksharp, states busted into bar'bric tribes an' the Civ'lize Days ended, 'cept for a few folds'n'pockets here'n'there, where its last embers glimmer.

Mano mintis visada buvo ta, kad, šalia ekonominių ar gynybinių šalies galių, valstybės stiprybė glūdi visuomenės mąstyme, o tą mąstymą labiausiai kelia ir ugdo būtent kultūra. O atskiram žmogui būtent tai suteikia tikrųjų vertybių sistemą. Čia - ir savęs suvokimas, ir įsipareigojimas... Taip žmogus auga - ir kaip asmenybė, ir kaip visuomenės narys. Tauta be kultūros - kaip medis be šaknų.

Kate?” Anthony yelled again. He couldn’t see anyone; a dislodged bench was blocking the opening. “Can you hear me?” Still no response. “Try the other side,” came Edwina’s frantic voice. “The opening isn’t as crushed.” Anthony jumped to his feet and ran around the back of the carriage to the other side. The door had already come off its hinges, leaving a hole just large enough for him to stuff his upper body into. “Kate?” he called out, trying not to notice the sharp sound of panic in his voice. Every breath from his lips seemed overloud, reverberating in the tight space, reminding him that he wasn’t hearing the same sounds from Kate. And then, as he carefully moved a seat cushion that had turned sideways, he saw her. She was terrifyingly still, but her head didn’t appear to be stuck in an unnatural position, and he didn’t see any blood. That had to be a good sign. He didn’t know much of medicine, but he held on to that thought like a miracle. “You can’t die, Kate,” he said as his terrified fingers yanked away at the wreckage, desperate to open the hole until it was wide enough to pull her through. “Do you hear me? You can’t die!” A jagged piece of wood sliced open the back of his hand, but Anthony didn’t notice the blood running over his skin as he pulled on another broken beam. “You had better be breathing,” he warned, his voice shaking and precariously close to a sob. “This wasn’t supposed to be you. It was never supposed to be you. It isn’t your time. Do you understand me?” He tore away another broken piece of wood and reached through the newly widened hole to grasp her hand. His fingers found her pulse, which seemed steady enough to him, but it was still impossible to tell if she was bleeding, or had broken her back, or had hit her head, or had . . . His heart shuddered. There were so many ways to die. If a bee could bring down a man in his prime, surely a carriage accident could steal the life of one small woman. Anthony grabbed the last piece of wood that stood in his way and heaved, but it didn’t budge. “Don’t do this to me,” he muttered. “Not now. It isn’t her time. Do you hear me? It isn’t her time!” He felt something wet on his cheeks and dimly realized that it was tears. “It was supposed to be me,” he said, choking on the words. “It was always supposed to be me.” And then, just as he was preparing to give that last piece of wood another desperate yank, Kate’s fingers tightened like a claw around his wrist. His eyes flew to her face, just in time to see her eyes open wide and clear, with nary a blink. “What the devil,” she asked, sounding quite lucid and utterly awake, “are you talking about?” Relief flooded his chest so quickly it was almost painful. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice wobbling on every syllable. She grimaced, then said, “I’ll be fine.” Anthony paused for the barest of seconds as he considered her choice of words. “But are you fine right now?” She let out a little cough, and he fancied he could hear her wince with pain. “I did something to my leg,” she admitted. “But I don’t think I’m bleeding.” “Are you faint? Dizzy? Weak?” She shook her head. “Just in pain. What are you doing here?” He smiled through his tears. “I came to find you.” “You did?” she whispered. He nodded. “I came to— That is to say, I realized . . .” He swallowed convulsively. He’d never dreamed that the day would come when he’d say these words to a woman, and they’d grown so big in his heart he could barely squeeze them out. “I love you, Kate,” he said chokingly. “It took me a while to figure it out, but I do, and I had to tell you. Today.” Her lips wobbled into a shaky smile as she motioned to the rest of her body with her chin. “You’ve bloody good timing.

Of all the Founders, Adams may have been the most churchgoing. But as a Unitarian, he did not believe in the Holy Trinity, the Holy Ghost, or the divinity of Jesus.XII Adams was a staunch, lifelong believer in religious liberty. As the primary author of the Massachusetts State Constitution, he wrote, “No subject shall be hurt, molested, or restrained in his person . . . for worshipping God in the manner most agreeable to the dictates of his own conscience.” And nary a word about the Judeo-Christian tradition.

Insofar as his patterns of speech reflect his predominant patterns of thought, Mr. Trump knows no second best, second worst, or second thought, no caveat or concession. His is a worldview painted in blackest black and whitest white, at whose center he and he alone rightly reigns. He grades nary a person, platform, or policy as anything other than the absolute best or worst of all time, which is to say he dips hardly a toe into the gray area that makes up the bulk of our reality—after all, the world is made of more than capstones.

the narcissist in codependent clothing. My friend’s father is this type of charming narcissist. When you meet him, he lures you in with questions and elicitation that make you feel like he is interested in you. But, within a few minutes [once you have taken the bait], he suddenly shifts into monologing like a filibusterer. This particular type often masters the run-on sentence and there is nary a pause to interject or even offer an excuse for escaping. You have become a captive audience and your release will not be procured easily.

The T is the oldest subway system in the United States, and I figure if it has lasted this long, it must have been built right in the first place. The train I took from the airport gradually filled with students. They all seemed to be wearing T-shirts with messages on them. Signaling each other like fireflies. NERD PRIDE, said one, and on the back: A WELL-ROUNDED PERSON HAS NO POINT. Another one: THERE ARE ONLY 10 KINDS OF PEOPLE IN THE WORLD. THOSE WHO UNDERSTAND THE BI-NARY SYSTEM AND THOSE WHO DON’T. Both got off at the MIT stop.

After waking from that magical dream ages ago, little Alice had devoted all her free time to searching the town for anything that reminded her of Wonderland. No place was safe from her explorations: every bell tower she could sneak into, every alleyway she could slip down when her parents' backs were turned. Top to bottom, high and low, nary a stone unturned. (Mostly low: rabbit holes and mushrooms, tiny caterpillars and large spiderwebs, dumbwaiters and surprisingly small doors in other people's houses she really ought not to have explored and opened.)

Thirty-six is an age one looks back on as young. But at the time, living in thirty-six-year-old skin, it doesn't feel young. Women start believing themselves old so soon, don't they? Agatha didn't realize it was her youth that allowed her to sit for hours in that comfortless rock of a chair, staring at her pages without need of spectacles, nary a twinge from the small of her back. One day far into the future she would look back on this time in her life and understand she had not been old, or even middle-aged, but young, with the bulk of her life ahead of her, not to mention the best of it.

I liken modern scientists to conquistadors. They have no idea what they're dealing with, but they're going to conquer it, whatever it is --- all in the name of God. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not opposed to scientific discovery and exploration. I love this stuff. What I despise is reckless disregard for how little we know. We create trans fats with nary a question about whether they're good for us or not. We develop a food pyramid with carbohydrates on the bottom and thirty years later we realize it created an obesity and type 2 diabetes epidemic. It should give us all pause that we would be a much healthier nation if the government had never told us how to eat.

I recken Nunn's gone, too,” Lureenie said as they walked along. Her voice rose in shrill anger. “Rans went a fox-hunten with th others, an him with nary a hound, an I heared em a comen an I went to th door an he stopped jist long enough to tell me he wasnt' comen in. Aimen to foller that gigglen fool of a Willie Cooksey over th river to J. D. Duffey's still; that's where they was a goen.” She added bitterly, “An in all this cold an th youngens all croupy an not but two sticks a wood for th fireplace, an th ax so dull I cain't make it cut, an him spenden money for that foxhound, an then liquor an hardly a bite to eat in th—” She stopped and bit her lip and walked quickly ahead.

Menuju Kamu Saat nama indah mu disebut-sebut mentari pun meredup rembulan pun menunduk alunan nama mu umpama ritma dengan bait-bait keindahan seakan ada tangan-tangan yang menjemput siapa pun yang mendengarkan terkumat-kamit menyanyi-nyanyi meliuk-lentok menari-nari bertemasya aku dengan nama mu biar kamu tak aku temukan namun kamu yang aku rasakan biar kamu tak mereka pedulikan namun kamu yang aku bicarakan kerana ini barangkali bukti mengerti kerana ini barangkali erti memahami masih berbicara tentang mu semilir angin menyinggahi waktu menyapa bahuku dingin dan nyaman ini umpama ilusi sayangku umpama titis embun yang terlihatkan di padang pasir yang bosan dan menghampakan umpama bintang timur yang bergemerlapan di langit hitam yang hujan dan mengecewakan apa ilusi-ilusi ini hadiah aku kerana bekerja keras menuju kamu? dan semestinya ilusi yang paling menenangkan adalah menemui kamu lantas terus jatuh cinta yang paling dalam hingga kedalaman muka bumi aku ragukan jatuh cinta yang paling besar hingga besarnya alam ini aku bimbangkan Aku yakini yang mencari lantas menemui hingga akhir nanti tetap sahaja dengan nama mu menyanyi aku menari aku deria-deria lantas bertumbuh melawan aras mencari cinta yang paling deras; Kamu pancaindera pantas bercambah lebih tegal menuju rindu yang paling tebal; Tetap Kamu, Penciptaku Rumah Gapena, 4 April 2015

I know for a fact that I would be awful if I was built like Serena Williams or Jennifer Lopez... If I had a body remotely close to what they have, I would be a terror. My ass would cause me to do really inappropriate and rude things. I'd be so ridiculous that people would be able to pick my labia out of a lineup. I'd wear zero clothes any- and everywhere, every day. I'd show up at church rocking a denim thong and a cropped T-shirt and have the nerve to sit right next to the head usher and dare her to say anything to me. And if anyone did say something to me, I'd tell them, "Jesus blessed me in many ways, and I am just showing off His works. HALLELUJAH." People would be disgusted and appalled by me and I wouldn't care. All insults would bounce off my ample backside. To whom much is given, much is required, and I'd require that my much would be given nary an inch of fabric. I'd hire a band whose sole job would be to follow me around and play theme music for my yansh, based on the mood I was in... I might opt to walk backwards into any room I entered, because why not?... I might also declare my booty its own limited liability corporation, assigning myself as CEO and chairman of the Donk. My jeans would be tax-deductible business expenses, and I would add my ass to my LinkedIn profile's Skills section. Everyone would throw hate ration in my dancery, and I wouldn't even see it, protected as I would be by the throne I sat atop.

Despite Imbry's demurrals, Ghyll never missed an opportunity to expound on his creed, and was now again launched upon a lecture. "Life, after all," he said, "is but a succession of greater and lesser probabilities—a melange of maybes, as the Grand Prognosticator so aptly put it. Look at you, here in the supposed security of Bolly's Snug, supping and swilling with nary a care. Yet can you deny that a fragment of some asteroid, shattered in a collision far out in thither space back when humankind was still adrip with the primordial slime, having spent millions of years looming toward us, might now, its moment come, lance down through the atmosphere at immense speed and obliterate you where you stand?" "I do not deny the possibility," said Imbry. "I say that the likelihood is remote." "Yet still it exists! And if we couple that existence to a divine appetite for upsetting mortal plans—" "I can think of other, less far-fetched scenarios that might lead to the obliteration of someone in this room," said the thief. He accompanied the remark with an unwinking stare that ought to have caused Ghyll to stop to consider that, though Imbry was so corpulent as to be almost spherical, he was capable of sudden and conclusive acts of violence. And that consideration would have led, in turn, to a change of subject. But the Computant was too deeply set in his philosophy to take note of how others responded to it, and continued to discourse on abstruse concerns.

After Wilmington, the daily drinking stopped. He’d go a week, sometimes two, without anything stronger than diet soda. He’d wake up without a hangover, which was good. He’d wake up thirsty and miserable—wanting—which wasn’t. Then there would come a night. Or a weekend. Sometimes it was a Budweiser ad on TV that set him off—fresh-faced young people with nary a beergut among them, having cold ones after a vigorous volleyball game. Sometimes it was seeing a couple of nice-looking women having after-work drinks outside some pleasant little café, the kind of place with a French name and lots of hanging plants. The drinks were almost always the kind that came with little umbrellas. Sometimes it was a song on the radio. Once it was Styx, singing “Mr. Roboto.” When he was dry, he was completely dry. When he drank, he got drunk. If he

The path was a familiar one. Over the years she’d resided in Spindle Cove, Susanna must have walked it thousands of times. She knew each curve of the land, every last mottled depression in the road. More than once, she’d covered this distance in the dark of night with nary a misstep. Today, she stumbled. He was there, catching her elbow in his strong, sure grip. She hadn’t realized he was following so close. Just when she thought she’d regained her balance, his heat and presence unsteadied her all over again. “Are you well?” “Yes. I think so.” In an effort to dispel the awkwardness, she joked, “Mondays are country walks; Tuesdays, sea bathing…” He didn’t laugh. Nor even smile. He released her without comment, moving on ahead to take the lead. His strides were long, but she noticed he was still favoring that right leg. She did what a good healer ought never do. She hoped it hurt.

The Mystery of Futile Debate: Why do we engage endlessly in futile political debates? We can argue politics forever, with nary a hint of progress. The likelihood of anyone changing his or her mind as the result of a political argument is negligible, but we debate anyway. Whether on street corners or on "Meet the Press," political discussions go on and on, and are only rarely resolved by polite compromise. It would be astonishing if a presidential candidate were to decide, mid-debate, that the other candidate was right: CANDIDATE: You know, Senator, I never looked at it that way before, but you're actually completely right! Since it's such an important point, I guess I'll just concede the whole election to you right now -- you are definitely the better candidate. Congratulations! If a candidate actually did say something like that, he or she would soon face overpowering citizen anger** -- at having violated the unspoken rule that debates are supposed to be futile. ** Not to mention, a free one-way ticket to a psychiatric institution.

But as soon as you enter a university, we witness a radical and communal face of Communism. Here, they propagate the weaknesses and evils of Hindu culture. They manipulate and twist ancient books to misrepresent them and provoke students. For example, they use Tulsidas’ chaupai, without mentioning the rest of the Ramcharitmanas, which is the real context. “ढोल गंवार शूद्र पशु नारी, सकल ताडना के अधिकारी.” Dhol ganvar shudra pashu nari, sakal tadana ke adhikari. ‘The above lines are spoken by the Sea Deity Samudra to Ram. When Lord Ram got angry and took out his weapon in order to evaporate the whole sea, the deity appeared and said the above lines in the context of boundaries that are created by God himself in order to hold his creations.  ‘What Leftists do is that they very cleverly translate it literally in Hindi, ignoring the fact that Ramcharitmanas is written in Awadhi and the same word means one thing in Hindi and another in Awadhi. While the literal meaning of the line in Hindi is ‘Drums, the illiterate, lower caste, animals and women deserve a beating to straighten up and get the acts together’, its real meaning in Awadhi is different. In Awadhi, tadna means to take care, to protect. Whereas, in Hindi, the same word means punishment, torture, oppression. Samudra meant that like drums, the illiterate, Shudra, animals and women need special care and need to be protected in the boundary of a social safety net. In the same way, the sea also needs to reside within the boundaries created by God. And hence, Samudra gave the suggestion to create the iconic Ram Setu. ‘Here, Shudra doesn’t mean lower caste or today’s Dalit. It meant people employed in cottage industries.’ I remember there is a book by R.C. Dutta, Economic Interpretation of History, in which he has said that when the Indian economy was based on the principles of Varna, handicrafts accounted for over twenty-five percent of the economy. Artisans and labour who were involved in the handicraft business were called ‘Shudra’. If there was so much caste-based discrimination, why would Brahmins use their produce? Both Dutta and Dadabhai Naoroji have written that the terminology of ‘caste discrimination’ was used by the British to divide Indian society on those lines.

So now Nathan had a new partner, who, by all accounts, was a dour old drudge with nary a daughter to his name. She’d seen Nathan in town once since then. He had not looked happy. But she was insanely happy, especially after what the doctor had hold her yesterday. With only a few days left at home, she and Freddy had dragged Jane and Oliver on a romantic picnic. So far, it wasn’t going all that well. Poor Jane darted up at every sound. Freddy’s mischievous brothers had convinced her that wild Indians might descend upon them any minute, and no amount of Freddy’s posturing with the sword could relieve her fears. Oliver was no help, either. He kept pretending to see feather headdresses behind every bush, though Maria had told him repeatedly that the only tribes in their area had left long ago. He was every bit as devilish as her cousins, who’d embraced him instantly as a man after their own heats. Aunt Rose had pronounced Oliver a smooth-tongued rogue the first time he told her how fetching she looked in her peacock bonnet. Little did she know. “Are you sure there’s a fish pond back there, Freddy?” Jane asked skeptically as Freddy led her around a deserted cabin. “Quite sure.” He puffed out his chest. “I’ve caught many a fine trout in that pond.” “More like trout bait,” Maria told Oliver, who was stretched out on the blanket beside her, reading a letter from Jarret. “I’ve never seen a fish longer than my thumb in that pond.

Whenever that tiny bulb of revelation flashes over your head, it almost always follows a period of uncertainty. These periods are usually dark and distorted, with nary a sliver of light, yet they serve us because they contribute to understanding.

Katia, Tim, Nari, Shiro, Kurt, Sarah, Shelby, and I have been playing poker, together

It is for good reason that men fear the dark. Our kind are transient, hopeless things. Things destined to live and die, leaving nary an echo in the yawning corridor of eons. I've always marveled at time, and at its ability to change things—to worsen, weaken and, however seldom, to improve—despite its intangibility. The cruelty of this world is that there is nothing in it that equates to permanence, and it is the burden of our kind to be saddled with—cursed by—that knowledge. The only commodity that endlessly endures is that invisible force that turns the pages; time.

It is for good reason that men fear the dark. Our kind are transient, hopeless things. Things destined to live and die, leaving nary an echo in the yawning corridor of eons.

I am no longer the faerie prince with soft words. My poetry for you is a vow. The world may burn down around us, but nary a flame shall touch thy beloved flesh. The ocean may swallow the land, but I shall be your ship and feed you sweet air. A sword may try to cut you down, but I will bear all your wounds. I have lived a thousand years in the dark, waiting for the rays of your sunlight

Try as he did at such times, his thoughts would inevitably turn to the pretty girl named Annie. Tony was always able to sense when the cowboy's deep longing for the girl was at its worst, and nudged him with his nose. He reached up and stroked the horse's mane absently, his thoughts further away than those stars above him. A pretty girl like that was probably at some dance, courted by a long list of admirers. A mere cowboy stood nary a chance, and one with a reputation like Wyn's even less. Even being seen with a man like Wyn should give Annie pause. With this sad realization he dozed, his gun always within reach. Even the quickest and most accurate of men could take nothing for granted in a land whose beauty often  masked its danger. Wyn knew the biggest danger, however, was the men who rode these untamed lands, which were often a haven for outlaws and bad men, as well as men like himself who simply loved the land. A wanted man could disappear completely in the wild country.

Masih adakah lagu yang ingin kau nyanyikan untukku, seperti desah suara angin yang sejuk dan membuatku terlena. Jemari tangan embun yang basah menari nari di atas rambutmu. Dan celoteh riangnya bergema di sela sela rerumputan jauh hingga ke tengah perkebunan tebu. Sudah lama sekali rasanya kuingat kembali perasaan serupa itu. Seperti melupakan himpitan kemarau berdebu yang terlanjur menenggelamkan kita pada pecah tanah rengkah. Melumatkan perasaan perasaan yang dulu pernah membuat kita berdua mengecap rasa bahagia dalam sebongkah batok kelapa. Ingin mengingat kembali manis perjalanan, bahwa kita tidak pernah sendirian. Bagiku, suaramu masih seperti dulu. Serupa ricik air dingin yang mengalir dari belik di perbukitan. Kicauan burung yang menghampiriku seperti desau angin yang berhembus dari hutan menerabas pokok pohon sengon dan dedaunan jati. Menyentuh seluruh pori pori tubuhku dengan kenangan dan kerinduan menyibak selimut mimpi yang merebak saat subuh dini hari. Seperti hangat mentari yang turun ke bilik pemandian. Bening air sendang memeluk sepenuh tubuhku dengan cinta yang selamanya mengalir. Membawa kesenangan kecil, kegembiraan sederhana. Perasaan yang aku tahu, tak akan pernah pergi meninggalkan diriku.

Modern wheat, despite all the genetic alterations to modify thousands of its genetically determined characteristics, made its way to the worldwide human food supply with nary a question surrounding its suitability for human consumption.

Hug the earth, now! as a child it's mother letting nary a moment by chance pass by; As surely as it will akin a loving mother give solace, embrace you when time comes to die.

Thirty-six is an age one looks back on as young. But at the time, living in thirty-six-year-old skin, it doesn’t feel young. Women start believing themselves old so soon, don’t they? Agatha didn’t realize it was her youth that allowed her to sit for hours in that comfortless rock of a chair, staring at her pages without need of spectacles, nary a twinge from the small of her back. One day far into the future she would look back on this time in her life and understand she had not been old, or even middle-aged, but young, with the bulk of her life ahead of her, not to mention the best of it.

The cunning woman of the village becomes a witch only when her powers to heal do not work. Before that, she is everyone's good sorceress, and there is nary the slightest talk of devils.

Only a fool wouldn't be terrified of the beast I sensed lurking beneath his skin. He radiated power - vast and ancient. I had little doubt he could end my life with nary a thought. All the same, the corner of my mouth twitched. Then, without warning, I bent over and began laughing.

Oh, Mattie an’ de baby jes’ a-layin’ in de shade, A-waitin’ for yo’ dollar, an’ you ain’ got nary one cent. Shake, shake, Mattie, shake, a-rattle an’ a-roll, Oh, shake, shake, Mattie, Mattie want to win my gol’.

Bennett,” she murmured, her brow damp from labor. “I’d like to call him Bennett.” She held the babe out to me, and I rocked him. But even as I did, my hands itched to hold something else. When I passed Bennett back to Petra, I slipped my fingers into my pocket for the Providence Cards I kept there. Only then did I smile. I took Bennett to the wood. Asked the Spirit to bless him with her magic. A day later, his infant veins were dark as ink. His magic was the antithesis of mine, the trees told me. My heir, my counterweight. But that was our secret, his and mine. Our fond, silent riddle. More children were born. Boys—all yellow of eye like me. Lenor. Fenly. A pair of twins, Afton and Ilyc, so alike I could hardly tell them apart even when I took the time to try. I visited their nurseries, their rooms and tutor sessions, but often I was in another chamber, one I had built around the stone in the meadow. I brought my sons to the wood—asked the Spirit to bless them with magic. But for all four, she kept her gifts to herself. Then, a little girl was born. Tilly. Full of whim and a deviousness that reminded me of Ayris. Only, unlike my sister, the Spirit christened Tilly with the fever, and she was granted strange, wonderful magic. She could heal. With a single touch of her little hand, Tilly could wipe away any wound—and often did so without intention. The cuts I’d dealt myself, bartering for Providence Cards, vanished whenever Tilly reached for me. It hurt, feeling her touch. But when the pain was gone, I was left with nary a scar. But it cost her, little Tilly, to heal. Every time she did, her own body grew more frail. And so, for my next Providence Card, I asked the trees, the Spirit, for magic that healed. Magic that made its user as beautiful and unblemished as a pink rose—Tilly’s favorite flower.

weren’t sick. And people talk.” “I fucked up.” He shrugged, took a sip of his drink. It wasn’t worth nine dollars. “It

Any soul who has survived to the age of eighty - two with nary a secret would be extremely dull. I, for one, would have very little interest in making their acquaintance.

Most of us stumble into the kingdom with nary a clue how to do this. So we thrash about, make reckless attempts, arm ourselves with slogans, goad ourselves with guilt, fail and fail and fail, and finally settle for spiritual mediocrity. Our inner lives remain cramped and musty. We resort to mere conformity, to a masquerade of piety to cover up for our lack of real Christlikeness.

What are you doing tonight?” Myron asked. Win shrugged. “I’m not sure.” “I can get you a ticket to the game,” Myron said. Win said nothing. “Do you want to go?” “No.” Without another word, Win slipped behind the wheel of his Jag, started the engine, peeled out with nary a squeal. Myron stood and watched him speed away, puzzled by his friend’s abruptness. But then again, to paraphrase one of the four questions of Passover: why should today be different than any other day? He

Wanita Tua Menukil Kata hingga dinding erti ditabraki hingga itulah rasa-rasa empati menari-nari di permukaan nurani hingga suatu saat aku mendewasa nanti hingga itulah aku bakal berhenti menyoal diri Usah dipanggil aku wanita tua yang hanya menukil kata cuma aku jua ingin berjasa pada dunia hentilah menabraki dinding mimpi yang tidak kau punyai Subang Jaya, 22 Jan 2015

Pity is nary a friend you want to invite, nor an acquaintance you would accompany.

Wait a minute!" you say. "Didn't Jesus answer, Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and unto God the things that are God's when the Pharisees tried to trick him into denouncing a Roman-imposed tax?" Yes indeed, he did say that. It's found first in the Gospel of Matthew, 22:15–22, and later in the Gospel of Mark, 12:13–17. But notice that everything depends on just what truly did belong to Caesar and what didn't, which is actually a rather powerful endorsement of property rights. Jesus said nothing like "It belongs to Caesar if Caesar simply says it does, no matter how much he wants, how he gets it, or how he chooses to spend it." The fact is, one can scour the Scriptures with a fine-tooth comb and find nary a word from Jesus that endorses the forcible redistribution of wealth by political authorities. None, period.

Slavery, that was a kind of alchemy for such White folk, or so they reckoned. They calculated a way of turning each bead of a Black man's sweat into gold and each moan of despair from a Black woman's throat into the sweet clear sound of a silver coin ringing on the money-changer's table. There was buying and selling of souls in that place. Yet there was nary a one of them who understood the whole price they paid for owning other folk.

So they went to a place that only they knew-- the mixed-nut forest where the mixed-nut trees grew. As the cubs picked almonds and walnuts, pistachios, too, which Papa Bear claimed as his Thanksgiving due, the entire forest started to lurch. The cubs fell like stones from their top-lofty perch. But they landed not with a bone-jarring bump. They landed instead with a comfortable “whump.” For you see, the cubs had been caught in mid-air in the dumpster-sized paw of a monster-sized bear. It was Bigpaw, of course. The monster HAD come. Talk about scared! The normally talkative cubs were struck dumb. Suffice it to say, Something surprising Happened that day. With a bit of a smile and nary a sound, he gently placed them down on the ground. What a shock! What a surprise! For despite his manner and imposing size, Bigpaw was nice, gentle, and shy-- a friendly, helpful sort of a guy. Those cubs knew what they had to do-- tell that only part of the legend was true. Though he was powerful, fearsome, and tall, the monster called Bigpaw was no monster at all. It was important news, so off they hurried, leaving Bigpaw looking a little worried. “Little cubs! Little cubs! You forgot your mixed nuts!” This certainly was true, no ifs, ands, or buts.

I’m the mean girl. My personality is razor wire drenched in lemon juice. I was raised with a sword in my hand and nary a kind thought in my head.

were your men treated?” Ashby shrugged. “There were so many from so many different countries, I don’t think we stood out. When we got back, the palace staff looked like they wanted to spit on us, but the people down below knew nothing of our arrival. Nary a word about it.” “Thank you, Ashby,” Owen said, finishing his work. He stood and buckled his scabbard around his waist. “So what you’re saying is the kingdom is vulnerable.

You would think that after fifteen years of war on terror, waged by a country with nuclear submarines, all terror on earth would be destroyed. I’m shocked that nary a nightmare has made it out alive. Yet somehow, killing the shit out of people – thousands and thousands of people – doesn’t make the living not scared. What you do wind up with are millions of refugees and armies of genocidal fanatics.

Did you know that rage is nothing more than releasing your own shackles? Society says you should be quiet and pretty. Your faith says you should be respectable. Your education says you should think first and do only for others. None of that is a hard and fast rule. None of it is true, Nari.

Where have you come by all this information, my lady?” he asked. By God, he would suffer anything before he chained himself to another Celeste. Strangely, however, something inside him told him the petite, dark-haired woman before him could not be further from Celeste than the moon from the sun. “Will you have me pay calls to all of them?” Her composure was impeccable. She showed nary a hint of fear. “Or will you tell me which of the many ladies in your acquaintance I must meet?” Sin did not know what came over him then. One moment, he was at a complete impasse with Lady Calliope, and the next, he was slamming his mouth down on hers. He told himself it was to shut her up. To stop her sharp tongue from its endless wagging. To remind her which of them was in control. But the saddest bit of it was, the moment her lips moved beneath his, he was stunningly, surreally aware of where all the control lay. In her power. In her bewitching lips. He was not kissing her to command her. Rather, he was kissing her because he wanted to kiss her. This would not do.

Nari Vashikaran Mantra ❤️️ +91-8875717274

Southern Baptists normalized and minimized the sexual predations of a president in much the same way they normalized and minimized the sexual predations of their clergy colleagues. Then, with nary a care, they left the rest of us – now the whole of our democracy – to deal with the fallout. With an identity and beliefs rooted in an authoritarian theology, they wound up supporting an authoritarian president.

Of course it’s shit.” Nari squeezes her hand. “But it’s the only world we have.

I turned to Nari. “But getting back to the big picture,” I continued, “without your intervention, the odds we’d unleash some kind of WMD on ourselves were basically a hundred percent, right? So what are the odds now, given that we do have your help?” “Still fairly high,” admitted the alien. “About eighteen percent.” “Why?” “Mainly due to social media,” replied Brad. “It’s the most divisive technology the world has ever seen. It’s polarizing and promotes our worst tendencies. Mistrust, tribalism, zealotry. And it fosters and aids in the mobilization of those intent on violence. We’ve been working on ways to eliminate social media for years, but short of killing the internet—which would cripple the world—we haven’t come up with any solutions. So we just have to continue battling the violence it inspires.

The majority of PSSU systems won’t be in dire straits if they’re cut off from other systems. For a political structure like that, there’s nary any point to having a federal government. For all intents and purposes, that federal government exists to maintain the military.

I’m slick as a Slip ’N Slide down there. And should he feel so inclined to eat ass, nary a hair survived that Brutal Brunhilda wax-a-thon I endured on all fours at the spa. I’m ready for anything. I’ve practically been

What have I done to deserve this’ if a cry of pride. What did Jesus do? What did Mary do? Let there be no complaint against God for sending a cross; let there only be wisdom enough to see that Nary is there making it lighter, making it sweeter, making it hers

Why bother trying to emulate her, when even my hair defied her ladylike expectations? That’s why I both envied and pitied my friend’s glossy-smooth hair—so lovely and compliant, with nary a single strand escaping its thick black

I am no longer the faerie prince with soft words. My poetry for you is a vow. The world may burn down around us, but nary a flame shall touch thy beloved flesh. The ocean may swallow the land, but I shall be your ship and feed you sweet air. A sword may try to cut you down, but I will bear all your wounds. I have lived a thousand years in the dark, waiting for the rays of your sunlight.

Years where nary a blade of grass. Nary birdsong. But one day a small seed took hold. Then anchor. Soon, beetles and spiders came back, and then, and then, the birds were chatting in the new growth.