Rhapsodic Quotes

And the mountains may rise and fall, and the sun might wither away, and the sea may claim the land and swallow the sky. But you will always be mine. And the stars might fall from the heavens, and night might cloak the earth, but until darkness dies, I will always be yours.

I love you. I've loved you from the beginning. And I will love you long after the last stars dies. I will love you until the end of darkness itself.

People like us are not victims. We’re someone’s nightmare.

I have heard what poets write about women. They rhyme and rhapsodize and lie. I have watched sailors on the shore stare mutely at the slow-rolling swell of the sea. I have watched old soldiers with hearts like leather grow teary-eyed at their king's colors stretched against the wind. Listen to me: these men know nothing of love. You will not find it in the words of poets or the longing eyes of sailors. If you want to know of love, look to a trouper's hands as he makes his music. A trouper knows.

I’ll be at your side, till the darkness dies.

From flame to ashes, dawn to dusk, for the rest of our lives, be mine always, Desmond Flynn.

I want to wake up every morning to you, cherub, and I want to marry the shit out of you, and then I want to have lots and lots of babies with you. If, that is, you will have me.

Teach me again how to be someone's nightmare

I’m sorry,” I say, “your ponytail is very masculine. I feel like I’m going to grow a beard just looking at it” “Mouthy

Speak to me...be eloquent, be brilliant for me. Improvise! Rhapsodize!... I ask for cream and you give me milk and water... Please gather your dreams together into words. - Roxanne, Cyrano de Bergerac

He sees it all. Hears it all,” another boys adds. Ten points to Slytherin for the creepy answer.

Fireflies out on a warm summer's night, seeing the urgent, flashing, yellow-white phosphorescence below them, go crazy with desire; moths cast to the winds an enchantment potion that draws the opposite sex, wings beating hurriedly, from kilometers away; peacocks display a devastating corona of blue and green and the peahens are all aflutter; competing pollen grains extrude tiny tubes that race each other down the female flower's orifice to the waiting egg below; luminescent squid present rhapsodic light shows, altering the pattern, brightness and color radiated from their heads, tentacles, and eyeballs; a tapeworm diligently lays a hundred thousand fertilized eggs in a single day; a great whale rumbles through the ocean depths uttering plaintive cries that are understood hundreds of thousands of kilometers away, where another lonely behemoth is attentively listening; bacteria sidle up to one another and merge; cicadas chorus in a collective serenade of love; honeybee couples soar on matrimonial flights from which only one partner returns; male fish spray their spunk over a slimy clutch of eggs laid by God-knows-who; dogs, out cruising, sniff each other's nether parts, seeking erotic stimuli; flowers exude sultry perfumes and decorate their petals with garish ultraviolet advertisements for passing insects, birds, and bats; and men and women sing, dance, dress, adorn, paint, posture, self-mutilate, demand, coerce, dissemble, plead, succumb, and risk their lives. To say that love makes the world go around is to go too far. The Earth spins because it did so as it was formed and there has been nothing to stop it since. But the nearly maniacal devotion to sex and love by most of the plants, animals, and microbes with which we are familiar is a pervasive and striking aspect of life on Earth. It cries out for explanation. What is all this in aid of? What is the torrent of passion and obsession about? Why will organisms go without sleep, without food, gladly put themselves in mortal danger for sex? ... For more than half the history of life on Earth organisms seem to have done perfectly well without it. What good is sex?... Through 4 billion years of natural selection, instructions have been honed and fine-tuned...sequences of As, Cs, Gs, and Ts, manuals written out in the alphabet of life in competition with other similar manuals published by other firms. The organisms become the means through which the instructions flow and copy themselves, by which new instructions are tried out, on which selection operates. 'The hen,' said Samuel Butler, 'is the egg's way of making another egg.' It is on this level that we must understand what sex is for. ... The sockeye salmon exhaust themselves swimming up the mighty Columbia River to spawn, heroically hurdling cataracts, in a single-minded effort that works to propagate their DNA sequences into future generation. The moment their work is done, they fall to pieces. Scales flake off, fins drop, and soon--often within hours of spawning--they are dead and becoming distinctly aromatic. They've served their purpose. Nature is unsentimental. Death is built in.

I’ll be yours. If you'll be mine.

C’mon, it’ll be fun,” I say, grabbing his hand and tugging him towards a little area along the canal where several gondolas wait. Behind me the Bargainer says, “I’ll only agree to this if you do me one favor—” Me do him a favor? “Yeah, anything.” “Please give me my balls back at the end of the evening.” Present

I don’t follow any of this. I don’t speak psycho.

Let our enemies come. They have a reckoning waiting at the end of my blade- and my siren’s vengeance to deal with. Let our enemies come, and I will kill them all. So long as you're at my side, I have something to fight for.

A fairy doesn’t show his wings to his betrothed.” He slides his hand behind my neck, his thumb stroking my skin. “A fairy shows them to his soulmate.

Having the Bargainer’s full attention is like catching a tiger’s eye. All you wanted to do was pet the creature, but as soon as it turns its gaze on you, you realize it’s simply going to tear you apart.

Secrets are like currency. The more you have, the more powerful you are.

so-help-me-black-Jesus, I will smite that hairy little shit and make a coat out of his fur. Ya feel me?” The

Pure truth," I said. "You are my bright penny by the roadside. You are worth more than salt or the moon on a long night of walking. You are sweet wine in my mouth, a song in my throat, and laughter in my heart. [...] "You are too good for me," I said, "You are a luxury I cannot afford. Despite this, I insist you come with me today. I will buy you dinner and spend hours waxing rhapsodic over the vast landscape of wonder that is you." [...] "I will play you music. I will sing you songs. For the rest of the afternoon, the rest of the world cannot touch us.

I can’t believe I’m about to say this. “How did you feel, leaving me?” I ask. He holds my gaze. “Like my soul was ripped in two.” I still. Is he serious?

want to know a truth of mine?” “Always,” I say, turning my head to better face him. He takes my hand and presses it against his chest. Beneath my palm I feel his heartbeat racing. My eyes move from his chest to his face. “It does that whenever I’m around you,” he says. I

And mountains may rise and fall, and the sun might wither away, and the sea claim the land and swallow the sky. But you will always be mine.” He runs his knuckles over my cheekbone. “And the stars might fall from the heavens, and night might cloak the earth, but until darkness dies, I will always be yours.

I'm not asking you to never feel sad, Callie, I'm asking you to fight. Always fight. You can do that, can't you?" I suck in a deep breath. "I don't know," I say honestly. His entire demeanor gentles with that confession. "Can you try?

I'll be at your side until darkness dies.

I veer rhapsodic; my prose purples.

would be if you weren’t wearing your hair in a girly little ponytail,” I say, reaching for the ends of his white hair. He catches my hand. “It’s not good manners to taunt a fairy. We have notoriously thin skin.” Despite the threat, his eyes spark with excitement. “I’m sorry,” I say, “your ponytail is very masculine. I feel like I’m going to grow a beard just looking at it

I couldn’t stay away, I could barely resist you at all, but I didn’t want to push you into something. Not when you’d just escaped a man that took and took. I didn’t want you to think that was all men were good for.

Bitch, just give it to me straight: are you bobbing for this guy’s bananas? Is that what this is about?” she asks. “No—no,

Why are you telling me this?” I say softly. His stares into my eyes. “I am the scariest thing out here. And if anything tries to touch you, they will reckon with me.

You will think me rhapsodizing; but when I am out of doors, especially when I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into this sort of wondering strain. One cannot fix one's eyes on the commonest natural production without finding food for a rambling fancy.

My knuckles go white as my grip on the porcelain tightens. Now I know what Desmond cashed that one particular bead in for. Sobriety. Forget the supernatural bounty hunters that are after him; that fucker is mine. That

You’re not going to stop living your life because some days are harder than others.

From flame to ashes, dawn to dusk, for the rest of our lives, be mine always... And the mountains may rise and fall, and the sun might wither away, and the sea may claim the land and swallow the sky. But you will always be mine. And the stars might fall from the heavens, and night might cloak the earth, but until darkness dies, I will always be yours. - Callie and Desmond

They are for ‘freedom’ when it is freedom to kill third-term fetuses or engage in same-sex marriages or stuff coke up their noses; they do not define freedom as anything to do with captive peoples around the world having the chance to escape the tyrannies that constrain them. They like Fidel because he is a thorn in America’s side and a sort of dime-store existentialist, and they rhapsodize about his spreading of literacy in Cuba without considering the fact that at the same time that he teaches people to read he tortures writers like Armando Valladares whose books he doesn’t like.

I didn’t fall for Des because he was handsome, or because he knew my secrets, but because he stuck around when I was least lovable. Because he was a man who didn’t try to take anything from me even when I lay next to him, but instead gave me peace and comfort. Because each one of those nights he saved me all over again, even if it was from myself.

The truth is that I'm a connoisseur of addictions, and this is one of my favorite.

I close my eyes, and words from an old book flow from my lips. “From flame to ashes, dawn to dusk, for the rest of our lives, be mine always, Desmond Flynn.” All

Her absorption was strange, almost rhapsodic. Both Birkin and Ursula were suspended. The little red pistillate flowers had some strange, almost mystic-passionate attraction for her.

Oh my God", Marc rhapsodized. "Who is that ?" "An asshole," I mumbled, turning back to him and picking up my tea. I was so rattled I sloshed some of the hot liquid on my hand, but I didn't feel a thing. "He's coming over here !" Marc squealed. "Oh my God, oh my God, ohmyGod!" "Will you get a hold of yourself?" I hissed. "You sound like a girl with a crush. Ah-ha!

I am thinking of a summer on the Baltic when I was a child: how talkative I was to sea and forest; how, filled with unaccustomed exuberance, I tried to leap over all limits with the hasty excitement of my words. And how, as I had to take my leave on a morning in September, I saw that we never give utterance to what is final and most blessed, and that all my rhapsodic Table d’hote conversations did not approach either my inchoate feelings or the ocean’s eternal self-revelation.

Please give me my balls back at the end of the evening.

Hell couldn’t give me a more wicked man; heaven couldn’t give me a more perfect moment.

His mouth twitches. “You give a siren a secret … and she asks for another.” “You have so many of them,” I say. “Don’t be a Grinch.” He lets out a long-suffering sigh, but the effect is ruined by the smile spreading across his lips. He leans in close. “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but if you want a secret …” I wait. “You drooled all over my chest during the second movie,” he confesses. “To be honest, I thought you were crying again.” I

Next time I fall for someone, it won’t be a conniving, manipulative— His hand moves lower, cupping my ass. —horny fae king. Next time it will be a good boy.

An orgy of words, after all, is still an orgy.

Now, cherub,” his words roll off his lips like honey, “the first repayment of the day: you’re coming home with me, and you’re not leaving until your debts have all been paid.

There’s a finality to his words. I feel a tear drip out because I know what this is. It’s a goodbye. And I don’t understand any of it. His voice drops. 'Don’t cry.

Weird is just a euphemism for an emotion I can’t actually put a name on.

SOCRATES: But you do say that he who is a good rhapsode is also a good general. ION: Certainly.

My mind was a blithering gush, a pandemonium of rhapsodic thoughts.

I veer rhapsodic; my prose purples.

Wine is so complex, I mused. Thousands of experts and hundreds of thousands of amateur experts would rhapsodize or vilify the vinification of these seemingly simple bunches of grapes. But in the end, it was just these innocuous clusters, photosynthesis, rain or no rain, cool ocean breezes, alluvial soils, that produced these epiphanies in the bottle hundreds and thousands of miles away.

Do you know that the spectator is the last of the rings which, as I am saying, receive the power of the original magnet from one another? The rhapsode like yourself and the actor are intermediate links, and the poet himself is the first of them. Through all these the God sways the souls of men in any direction which he pleases, and makes one man hang down from another. Thus there is a vast chain of dancers and masters and undermasters of choruses, who are suspended, as if from the stone, at the side of the rings which hang down from the Muse. And every poet has some Muse from whom he is suspended, and by whom he is said to be possessed, which is nearly the Ion 5 same thing; for he is taken hold of.

We tread water like that for almost a minute, neither of us saying anything. I drift to my back and stare up at the dim stars. His world is above us, and mine is below. There’s something very satisfying about that.

Forget the supernatural bounty hunters that are after him; that fucker is mine.

And naturally, I see a whopping three stars in the sky—and one of them might be a plane.

There’s a finality to his words. I feel a tear drip out because I know what this is. It’s a goodbye. And I don’t understand any of it. His voice drops. 'Don’t cry.

The night,” he repeats, his thumb stroking the skin of my stomach through the fabric of my dress. “That is precisely why people take my kingdom for granted. No one sees the darkness, and yet it’s everywhere. We are surrounded by an entire universe of it. It came before us, it will live on long after us. Even the stars might form and then die, but the darkness will always be there.

the best possible scenario I could come up with was that you had some angry-as-fuck make up sex with Eli and that ohmygod-he-probably-went-beastie-on-you-that’s-so-goddamn-nasty.” It all comes out in a rush. “And yeah. He shredded shit up—and you in the process.” I

She wanted them to argue with her, to gush, to rhapsodize. She wanted them to sparkle, not to chew. Words...words...words... She gobbled them up, spewed them out again, added them up, juggled them, nursed them along, carried them to bed and put them under the pillow like soiled pajamas, slept on them, snored over them. Words... When every other memory of her had fled there would remain-HER WORDS.

The Greeks who rhapsodized about democracy in their rhetoric rarely created democratic institutions. A few cities such as Athens occasionally attempted a system vaguely akin to democracy for a few years. These cities functioned as slave societies and were certainly not egalitarian or democratic in the Indian sense.

...no matter how rhapsodic one waxes about the process of wresting edible plants and tamed animals from the sprawling vagaries of nature, there's a timeless, unwavering truth espoused by those who worked the land for ages: no matter how responsible agriculture is, it is essentially about achieving the lesser of evils. To work the land is to change the land, to shape it to benefit one species over another, and thus necessarily to tame what is wild. Our task should be to deliver our blows gently.

I need to be more in the moment, like when I was wet and wild in the waves. Being in the moment—right now!—equals freedom. It can't be scrutinized, analyzed, rhapsodized, mythologized. It can't be desecrated, debated, prognosticated. Right now can only be lived. Isn't this the same message I tried to get across to the kiddies in the lecture that got me fired? Isn't this the same advice Gladdie gave me right before she died? Why is it that the most fundamental life lesson—LIVE!—is the one I continually forget to put into practice?

Being a private investigator, I've seen and heard my fair share of twisted shit. Fairies always manage to top it.

And I will love you long after the last star dies. I will love you until the end of darkness itself.

his shoulder. “Keep talking to me like that, cherub,” the Bargainer says. “You don’t know how much it turns me on.” He pats my ass, and I see red.

A warrior king. And my lady parts were having trouble enough around him as it was. I’m now officially a lost cause.

I should just swear off men. Nothing but heartache comes of them.

Hmmm, well, you'll let me know if everything isn't okay, won't you?" she asks. No. "Of course.

Jesus. He looks like an assassin—a bangable one.

For the rhapsode ought to interpret the mind of the poet to his hearers, but how can he interpret him well unless he knows what he means?

He takes my hand and presses it against his chest. Beneath my palm I feel his heartbeat racing. My eyes move from his chest to his face. “It does that whenever I’m around you,” he says.

You have over three hundred favors to repay me. By the time we’re done, you will realize that Eli and all those other men were just a dissatisfying dream. That this, and only this, is real.

But on safe opportunities, she had an indirect mode of making her negative wisdom tell upon Dorothea, and calling her down from her rhapsodic mood by reminding her that people were staring, not listening.

You are too good for me,” I said. “You are a luxury I cannot afford. Despite this, I insist you come with me today. I will buy you dinner and spend hours waxing rhapsodic over the vast landscape of wonder that is you.

Truth: Had you bothered to stick around, I would have given you every single one of your wickedest desires.” I move my hips against him to punctuate my words. I feel him react, something that brings me no little pleasure. Leaning in extra close, my tongue tastes the shell of his ear. “And I know my dark king has many wicked desires,” I whisper. I turn his face to mine, pulling it to me until only the barest bit of distance separates our lips. But instead of kissing him, I say, “I’m going to make you ache, and ache, and ache, and I will do nothing to alleviate it. I’m going to make you pay for leaving me.” I step off of him and saunter away. “Cherub,” Des says at my back, “I will enjoy every sweet second of it.

Most days I'm good. Most days I can pretend I'm like everyone else. But then there are the days when I can't, days when my past catches up to me. Days like today. I'm too depressed to get out of bed. I'm being dragged under by all those bad memories.

The culmination of Sehnsucht [Longing, Joy] in the rhapsodic joy of heaven is, for me at least, the strongest single element in Lewis. In one way or other it hovers over nearly every one of his books and suggests to me that Lewis’s apocalyptic vision is perhaps more real than that of anyone since St. John on Patmos.

I like it that he's fucked up like me, that he's wicked and sinful and makes no excuses for it. I like it that he doesn't care that I might be a little wicked and sinful too. I like it that he's taught me how to play poker and that I've made him watch Harry Potter ... and read the books. (He hadn't touched them before me, the heathen.) I like it that I get to travel the world with him every time he decides to take me on one of his bargains, that my room has become a collection of kinckknacks of us.

Jennifer now understood the meaning of the cadence: the black and white drawing, the watercolor painting,and the notes. The cadence had at last developed into a concerto for violin, the instrument of gypsies, with a prevailing rhapsodic "leitmotif". The final movement had revealed itself when they were at the gypsy camp. And now it was complete.

Fine,” he rasps. “I’ll help you at”—more teeth gnashing and another raking gaze which pauses on the tear on my cheek—“no cost.” He practically chokes on the words.

His stares into my eyes. “I am the scariest thing out here. And if anything tries to touch you, they will reckon with me.

I think I know who the Thief of Souls is. Karnon.

And now we’re afraid of each other. That’s what the two of us are. Afraid of hoping when all hope’s ever done is break us. Afraid of getting exactly what we want.

Hell couldn't give me a more wicked man; heaven couldn't give me a more perfect moment.

Who do I have to hurt?

The year 1945 in this sense marked the origin of a rivalry between the United States and China’s Communists that, like a recurring illness, has always reinstated itself, and has bedeviled the relations between the two sides even after periods of near-rhapsodic warmth and declarations of common interest, during which the suspicions and animosities of the past seem to have been put permanently to rest.

High cheekbones, aristocratic nose, sensual lips, chiseled jaw. Hair so pale that it appears white. He’s still far too pretty for a man. So pretty I can’t seem to look away when I know I should. It’s his eyes that have always captivated me the most. They’re every shade of silver, darkest at their edges where a thick band of charcoal grey rings them and lightest near their centers. The color of shadows and moonbeams.

A morning-flowered dalliance demured and dulcet-sweet with ebullience and efflorescence admiring, cozy cottages and elixirs of eloquence lie waiting at our feet - We'll dance through fetching pleasantries as we walk ephemeral roads evocative epiphanies ethereal, though we know our hearts are linked with gossamer halcyon our day a harbinger of pretty things infused with whispers longing still and gamboling in sultry ways to feelings, all ineffable screaming with insouciance masking labyrinthine paths where, in our nonchalance, we walk through the lilt of love’s new morning rays. Mellifluous murmurings from a babbling brook that soothes our heated passion-songs and panoplies perplexed with thought of shadows carried off with clouds in stormy summer rains… My dear, and that I can call you 'dear' after ripples turned to crashing waves after pyrrhic wins, emotions drained we find our palace sunned and rayed with quintessential moments lit with wildflower lanterns arrayed on verandahs lush with mutual love, the softest love – our preferred décor of life's lilly-blossom gate in white-fenced serendipity… Twilight sunlit heavens cross our gardens, graced with perseverance, bliss, and thee, and thou, so splendid, delicate as a morning dove of charm and mirth – at least with me; our misty mornings glide through air... So with whippoorwill’d sweet poetry - of moonstones, triumphs, wonder-woven in chandliers of winglet cherubs wrought with time immemorial, crafted with innocence, stowed away and brought to light upon our day in hallelujah tapestries of ocean-windswept galleries in breaths of ballet kisses, light, skipping to the breakfast room cascading chrysalis's love in diaphanous imaginings delightful, fleeting, celestial-viewed as in our eyes which come to rest evocative, exuberant on one another’s moon-stowed dreams idyllic, in quiescent ways, peaceful in their radiance resplendent with a myriad of thought soothing muse, rhapsodic song until the somnolence of night spreads out again its shaded truss of luminescent fantasies waiting to be loved by us… Oh, love! Your sincerest pardons begged! I’ve gone too long, I’ve rambled, dear, and on and on and on and on - as if our hours were endless here… A morning toast, with orange-juiced lips exalting transcendent minds suffused with sunrise symphonies organic-born tranquilities sublimed sonorous assemblages with scintillas of eternity beating at our breasts – their embraces but a blushing, longing glance away… I’ll end my charms this enraptured morn' before cacophony and chafe coarse in crude and rough abrade when cynical distrust is laid by hoarse and leeching parasites, distaste fraught with smug disgust by hairy, smelly maladroit mediocrities born of poisoned wells grotesque with selfish lies - shrill and shrieking, biting, creeping around our love, as if they rose from Edgar Allen’s own immortal rumpled decomposing clothes… Oh me, oh my! I am so sorry! can you forgive me? I gone and kissed you for so long, in my morning imaginings, through these words, through this song - ‘twas supposed to be "a trifle treat," but little treats do sometimes last a little longer; and, oh, but oh, but if I could, I surly would keep you just a little longer tarrying here, tarrying here with me this pleasant morn

Back home, Huxley drew from this experience to compose a series of audacious attacks against the Romantic love of wilderness. The worship of nature, he wrote, is "a modern, artificial, and somewhat precarious invention of refined minds." Byron and Wordsworth could only rhapsodize about their love of nature because the English countryside had already been "enslaved to man." In the tropics, he observed, where forests dripped with venom and vines, Romantic poets were notably absent. Tropical peoples knew something Englishmen didn't. "Nature," Huxley wrote, "is always alien and inhuman, and occasionally diabolic." And he meant always: Even in the gentle woods of Westermain, the Romantics were naive in assuming that the environment was humane, that it would not callously snuff out their lives with a bolt of lightning or a sudden cold snap. After three days amid the Tuckamore, I was inclined to agree.

... but we should wrong these illustrious men very greatly if we insisted that they got nothing from these alliances but comfort, flattery and the pleasures of the body. What they got, it is obvious, was something that their own sex was unable to supply; and it would not be rash, perhaps, to define it further, without quoting the doubtless rhapsodical words of poets, as some stimulus; some renewal of creative power which is in the gift only of the opposite sex to bestow.

have heard what poets write about women. They rhyme and rhapsodize and lie. I have watched sailors on the shore stare mutely at the slow-rolling swell of the sea. I have watched old soldiers with hearts like leather grow teary-eyed at their king’s colors stretched against the wind. Listen to me: these men know nothing of love. You will not find it in the words of poets or the longing eyes of sailors. If you want to know of love, look to a trouper’s hands as he makes his music. A trouper knows.

When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature! -- In some countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety, but that does not make it less amazing, that the same soil and the same sun should nurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their existence. You will think me rhapsodizing; but when I am out of doors, especially when I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into this sort of wondering strain. One cannot fix one's eyes on the commonest natural production without finding food for a rambling fancy.

Suppose the gods decided what I needed now was to marry an extraordinarily intelligent wife? I think they’re fully capable of arranging that, don’t you?” He spoke earnestly, not as if he meant to flatter me but almost as if he were talking to himself. If he had written me a dozen poems rhapsodizing about my eyes, my hair, and my dulcet voice, it would have meant far less to me. It is a joy to be appreciated for the thing you want to be appreciated for. To be appreciated as a woman, and also to be appreciated as a creature with a mind—what more could I have wanted?

I catch up to his side. “That was insanity back there,” I say, because I can’t think of anything better. “That was hellacious,” he says, “and I’m used to events like this. Thank fuck I never went to high school.” That gets him a look or two from people who’ve overheard us. “You never went to high school?” I ask as we weave between couples. I don’t know why I’m surprised; nothing about Des seems particularly normal. But still. “My upbringing was a little more unconventional.” Because Des is a king of the Otherworld. A king. I took a fae king to my supernatural prom. Jesus. All I need is the Monster Mash playing in the background to round this out.

A finger dips into me, and my mind goes utterly blank. He slips in another finger and I let out a low moan. “That’s it, Callie.” “Des.” I need more. Far more. He removes his fingers and, while I’m watching, he licks them one by one. That is so filthy. And Lord help me, I’m aroused by it. He lets out a groan. “Better than my imagination.” He hitches one of my legs over his shoulder, then the other, opening me to him. It’s all so very indecent. The Bargainer’s eyes move from my core, to my eyes.

STARLIGHT and THUNDER The Limits of Art is an anthological collection for the ages...for a lifetime. A veritable ark containing excerpts from the sound and fury representative of the finest literary scriveners the world has yet produced. Unequivocally, intellectual nourishment breeds a fire in the mind...a conflagration of ideas and incendiary thoughts that furnish the spirit with conviction and courage to confront the ballet and ballistics of life with passion, wit, tenderness, reason, resolve, humor, imagination and unconditional curiosity. Amidst the clamor brought forth by the alarums and excursions of modern day pontifications, nevertheless, conform and commit your mind to the abolition of ignorance! Accede your sensibilities to the rapture of beauty and her ineffable grace. For beauty is enchantment, a romantic allegiance to the rhapsodic seduction celebratory of the ephemeral, the eternal and the esoteric nature and narratives of fictive splendor, which valorously emanate from this voluptuous volume. This magisterial tome is a figurative brocade of both starlight and thunder transcribed into an insatiable verbal delirium groping toward an unbridled exposition on life’s wonders and mysteries. Drink mightily from its gilded chalice.

The Bargainer is prowling up my bed—and up me while he’s at it. I can’t breathe. I legit don’t think I can breathe. The dangerous look in his eyes shuts down all coherent thought. This might be the moment when our relationship goes from a strange sort of friendship to something more. I’m so frightened of that possibility. I’m so eager for it. He straddles my waist, his powerful, leather-clad thighs trapping me between him. Leaning down, he takes my hand, the one that isn’t wearing the bracelet. My heart’s going to escape my chest. It’s galloping away like crazy. I’ve never been this close to Des. And now I’m pretty sure I’m never going to be satisfied until it’s natural to be this close with him. My skin begins to glow, and Des is kind enough to ignore the fact that I’m pretty much turned way the hell on.