Sanctuary Moon Quotes

I hate having emotions about reality; I’d much rather have them about Sanctuary Moon.

Libraries aren't in the real world, after all. They're places apart, sanctuaries of pure thought. In this way I can go on living on the moon for the rest of my life.

Mostly something called Sanctuary Moon.” He shook his head, dismissing it. “It’s probably using it to encode data for the company. It can’t be watching it, not in that volume; we’d notice.” I snorted. He underestimated me. Ratthi said, “The one where the colony’s solicitor killed the terraforming supervisor who was the secondary donor for her implanted baby?” Again, I couldn’t help it. I said, “She didn’t kill him, that’s a fucking lie.” Ratthi turned to Mensah. “It’s watching it.

In the feed, ART started to play the soundtrack to Sanctuary Moon and weirdly, that helped.

I know everything about everything and before I dry off completely, which is something I truly hate, you better go outside, collect Trates, and have both your asses out of here or I’m going to lose what little patience I have. You will play by the rules I’ve set up for sanctuary, or I’ll use your entrails for armbands. (Savitar)

I was also planning to use the time to watch some Sanctuary Moon and recharge my ability to cope with humans at close quarters without losing my mind.

Sanctuary, home of the Howlers and stragglers of the Were universe. (Damien)

The night garden felt like a home, with the glittering sky for the ceiling, the bushes our rug, and the dilapidated pavilion our bed. He lit up the place like a heart-warming hearth fire. He was the walls of my sanctuary, the food for my eyes, the scent of a home. He was everything.

I found it odd that the transport was less interested in Sanctuary Moon, which took place on a colony, than Worldhoppers, which was about the crew of a large exploration ship. You’d think it would be too much like work—I avoided serials about survey teams and mining installations—but maybe familiar things were easier for

It's a sanctuary where the darkest desires of the people are shared in the light of a Georgia moon; with a picture perfect town as a backdrop.

Disinformation, which is the same as lying but for some reason has a different name, is the top tactic in corporate negotiation/warfare. (There had been a whole episode about it on Sanctuary Moon.)

O Light Invisible, we praise Thee! Too bright for mortal vision. O Greater Light, we praise Thee for the less; The eastern light our spires touch at morning, The light that slants upon our western doors at evening, The twilight over stagnant pools at batflight, Moon light and star light, owl and moth light, Glow-worm glowlight on a grassblade. O Light Invisible, we worship Thee! We thank Thee for the light that we have kindled, The light of altar and of sanctuary; Small lights of those who meditate at midnight And lights directed through the coloured panes of windows And light reflected from the polished stone, The gilded carven wood, the coloured fresco. Our gaze is submarine, our eyes look upward And see the light that fractures through unquiet water. We see the light but see not whence it comes. O Light Invisible, we glorify Thee!

tracking by the good full moon to sanctuary.

Those dark, forbidden places; they offer me refuge and sanctuary. Peace and tranquility. Darkness is my serenity.

Yes, blodyn bach. If your heart is not whole yet, you have use of ours." Laszlo kissed the back of my neck, nose nuzzling the spot. "My wings are yours, dear one." "And my fire," Hywel whispered, kissing me once more.

We can’t save everyone. But that doesn’t mean we can’t try. Sometimes a useful delusion is better than a useless truth. Nothing’s going to grow in this mean cold, but we can still have flowers. “Here’s one delusion: that we can escape slavery. We can’t. Its scars will never fade. When you saw your mother sold off, your father beaten, your sister abused by some boss or master, did you ever think you would sit here today, without chains, without the yoke, among a new family? Everything you ever knew told you that freedom was a trick—yet here you are. Still we run, tracking by the good full moon to sanctuary.

Then Volescu said, “Gurathin, you wanted to know how it spends its time. That was what you were originally looking for in the logs. Tell them.” Mensah lifted her brows. “Well?” Gurathin hesitated. “It’s downloaded seven hundred hours of entertainment programming since we landed. Mostly serials. Mostly something called Sanctuary Moon.” He shook his head, dismissing it. “It’s probably using it to encode data for the company. It can’t be watching it, not in that volume; we’d notice.” I snorted. He underestimated me. Ratthi said, “The one where the colony’s solicitor killed the terraforming supervisor who was the secondary donor for her implanted baby?” Again, I couldn’t help it. I said, “She didn’t kill him, that’s a fucking lie.” Ratthi turned to Mensah. “It’s watching it.

The moon made its twinkling pathway on the sea. A dark shade broke it, the little island of Dionysos; I saw the sanctuary roof with its Cretan horns, and one small lighted window. They had left her with a lamp, I thought, lest waking in a strange place she should be afraid. When midnight had passed, and we put out into the strait under the sinking Pleiads, I saw it was still burning. It shone steadfastly until the sea-line hid it, keeping faith with her sleep while I fled away.

For the woman who has not hidden the hag within herself, that darkness at the centre of the soul is a magical sanctuary. In Druidry, we speak of it as a nemeton deep within the soul, a place of exquisite peace and natural healing. Indeed, it is often referred to as a great dark cauldron; it is only when a woman is able to sit, balanced and grounded, upon the three feet of that inner cauldron, that she is able to find the strength of her soul’s creativity, an ancient and bottomless pot containing that infinite universal darkness, this is the great cauldron of myth and legend, and mumbling beside it is her inner hag who, like Cerridwen, the old witch goddess of the sickle moon, stirs her brew of transformative inspiration.

The bonds of family can be wonderful but there is a time to know when to stand apart." She held out a hand to Rycca on the nearby bench. "Besides, we are your family now, all of us, and we know your worth." Deeply touched, Rycca had to blink several times before she could respond. She knew both women spoke pure truth and loved them for it.After a lifetime of emotional solitude unbroken but for Thurlow, it was still difficult for her to comprehend that she was no longer alone. Yet was she beginning to understand it. Softly,she said, "I worry over Dragon. He refuses to talk of my father or of what will happen now that we are here, but I fear he is planning to take matters into his own hands." Cymbra and Krysta exchanged a glance. Quietly,Cymbra said, "Your instinct is not wrong. Dragon simmers with rage at the harm attempted to you. In Landsende I caught a mere glimpse of it,and it was like peering into one of those mountains that belch fire." Despite the heat of the sauna, Rycca shivered. "He came close to losing his life once because of me.I cannot bear for it to happen again." There was silence for a moment,broken only by the crackling of the fire and the hiss of steam.Finally, Cymbra said, "We are each of us married to an extraordinary man. There is something about them...even now I don't really know how to explain it." She looked at Krysta. "Have you told Rycca about Thorgold and Raven?" Krysta shook her head. "There was no time before." She turned on her side on the bench,facing the other two. "Thorgold and Raven are my...friends. They are somewhat unusual." Cymbra laughed at that,prompting a chiding look from Krysta,who went on to say, "I'm not sure how but I think somehow I called them to me when I was a child and needed them very much." "Krysta has the gift of calling," Cymbra said, "as I do of feeling and you do of truthsaying. Doesn't it strike you as odd that three very unusual women, all bearing special gifts, ccame to be married to three extraordinary men who are united by a common purpose,to bring peace to their peoples?" "I had not really thought about it," said Rycca, who also had not known of Krysta's gift and was looking at her with some surprise. All three of them? That was odd. "I believe," said Cymbra, who clearly had been thinking about it, "that there is a reason for it beyond mere coincidence. I think we are meant to be at their sides, to help them as best we can, the better to transform peace from dream to reality." "It is a good thought," Krysta said. Rycca nodded. Very quietly, she said, "Blessed are the peacemakers." Cymbra grinned. "And poor things, we appear to be their blessings. So worry not for Dragon, Rycca. He will prevail. We will all see to it." They laughed then,the trio of them, ancient and feminine laughter hidden in a chamber held in the palm of the earth. The steam rose around them, half obscuringm half revealing them. In time,when the heat had become too intense,they rose, wrapped themselves in billowing cloths,and ran through the gathering darkness to the river, where they frolicked in cool water and laughed again beneath the stars. The torches had been lit by the time they returned to the stronghold high on the hill. They dressed and hastened to the hall,where they greeted their husbands, who stood as one when they entered,silent and watchful men before beauty and strength, and took their seats at table. Wine was poured, food brought,music played. They lingered over the evening,taking it into night. The moon was high when they found the sweet,languid sanctuary of their beds. Day came too swiftly.

Oedipa spent the next several days in and out of libraries and earnest discussions with Emory Bortz and Genghis Cohen. She feared a little for their security in view of what was happening to everyone else she knew. The day after reading Blobb's Peregrinations she, with Bortz, Grace, and the graduate students, attended Randolph Driblette's burial, listened to a younger brother's helpless, stricken eulogy, watched the mother, spectral in afternoon smog, cry, and came back at night to sit on the grave and drink Napa Valley muscatel, which Driblette in his time had put away barrels of. There was no moon, smog covered the stars, all black as a Tristero rider. Oedipa sat on the earth, ass getting cold, wondering whether, as Driblette had suggested that night from the shower, some version of herself hadn't vanished with him. Perhaps her mind would go on flexing psychic muscles that no longer existed; would be betrayed and mocked by a phantom self as the amputee is by a phantom limb. Someday she might replace whatever of her had gone away by some prosthetic device, a dress of a certain color, a phrase in a ' letter, another lover. She tried to reach out, to whatever coded tenacity of protein might improbably have held on six feet below, still resisting decay-any stubborn quiescence perhaps gathering itself for some last burst, some last scramble up through earth, just-glimmering, holding together with its final strength a transient, winged shape, needing to settle at once in the warm host, or dissipate forever into the dark. If you come to me, prayed Oedipa, bring your memories of the last night. Or if you have to keep down your payload, the last five minutes-that may be enough. But so I'll know if your walk into the sea had anything to do with Tristero. If they got rid of you for the reason they got rid of Hilarius and Mucho and Metzger-maybe because they thought I no longer needed you. They were wrong. I needed you. Only bring me that memory, and you can live with me for whatever time I've got. She remembered his head, floating in the shower, saying, you could fall in love with me. But could she have saved him? She looked over at the girl who'd given her the news of his death. Had they been in love? Did she know why Driblette had put in those two extra lines that night? Had he even known why? No one could begin to trace it. A hundred hangups, permuted, combined-sex, money, illness, despair with the history of his time and place, who knew. Changing the script had no clearer motive than his suicide. There was the same whimsy to both. Perhaps-she felt briefly penetrated, as if the bright winged thing had actually made it to the sanctuary of her heart-perhaps, springing from the same slick labyrinth, adding those two lines had even, in a way never to be explained, served him as a rehearsal for his night's walk away into that vast sink of the primal blood the Pacific. She waited for the winged brightness to announce its safe arrival. But there was silence. Driblette, she called. The signal echoing down twisted miles of brain circuitry. Driblette! But as with Maxwell's Demon, so now. Either she could not communicate, or he did not exist.

That summer I had met three children on a road and a volcano had come out of the sea. The American astronauts came to train before flying off to the moon, in this corner of Earth that resembles it. I saw it immediately as a setting for science fiction: the landscape of another planet. Or rather no, let it be the landscape of our own planet for someone who comes from elsewhere, from very far away. I imagine him moving slowly, heavily, about the volcanic soil that sticks to the soles. All of a sudden he stumbles, and the next step it’s a year later. He’s walking on a small path near the Dutch border along a sea bird sanctuary. That’s for a start. Now why this cut in time, this connection of memories? That’s just it, he can’t understand. He hasn’t come from another planet he comes from our future, four thousand and one: the time when the human brain has reached the era of full employment. Everything works to perfection, all that we allow to slumber, including memory. Logical consequence: total recall is memory anesthetized. After so many stories of men who had lost their memory, here is the story of one who has lost forgetting, and who—through some peculiarity of his nature—instead of drawing pride from the fact and scorning mankind of the past and its shadows, turned to it first with curiosity and then with compassion. In the world he comes from, to call forth a vision, to be moved by a portrait, to tremble at the sound of music, can only be signs of a long and painful pre-history. He wants to understand. He feels these infirmities of time like an injustice, and he reacts to that injustice like Ché Guevara, like the youth of the sixties, with indignation. He is a Third Worlder of time. The idea that unhappiness had existed in his planet’s past is as unbearable to him as to them the existence of poverty in their present.

I was not a lodestone or a tool or a body to sleeve a monster's pleasure. I was a woman, and I wanted to live again!

Then you must go to the Sanctuary Moon and wait for him.” Vader was skeptical. “He will come to me?” “I have foreseen it,” the Emperor said as he eased back into his chair. “His compassion for you will be his undoing. He will come to you, and then you will bring him before me.

Well, trouble never comes when you're well-rested and ready for a good fight, my dear," he answered primly,

but enough to remind them that their mother had been a life raft to anyone and everyone but them. The dredges of society had found sanctuary with Rosa yet her own offspring had been held to impossible standards, expected to be righteous and pure, selfless and sacrificial. They had grown inside her, so she’d expected them to be exactly what she’d anticipated—beautiful woman; loving daughter; caretaker of the family matriarch.

It's easy to convince a man that the monster he faces in battle is wildly different than him.

BY NORA ROBERTS Hot Ice Sacred Sins Brazen Virtue Sweet Revenge Public Secrets Genuine Lies Carnal Innocence Divine Evil Honest Illusions Private Scandals Hidden Riches True Betrayals Montana Sky Sanctuary Homeport The Reef River’s End Carolina Moon The Villa Midnight Bayou Three Fates Birthright

We can't hide from time passing forever, can we, my love?

Mensah set up a watch schedule, including a time for me to go into standby and do a diagnostic and recharge cycle. I was also planning to use the time to watch some Sanctuary Moon and recharge my ability to cope with humans at close quarters without losing my mind."--Murderbot

Now, if faith is the gaze of the heart at God, and if this gaze is but the raising of the inward eyes to meet the all-seeing eyes of God, then it follows that it is one of the easiest things possible to do. It would be like God to make the most vital thing easy and place it within the range of possibility for the weakest and poorest of us. Several conclusions may fairly be drawn from all this. The simplicity of it, for instance. Since believing is looking, it can be done without special equipment or religious paraphernalia. God has seen to it that the one life-and-death essential can never be subject to the caprice of accident. Equipment can break down or get lost, water can leak away, records can be destroyed by fire, the minister can be delayed or the church burn down. All these are external to the soul and are subject to accident or mechanical failure: but looking is of the heart and can be done successfully by any man standing up or kneeling down or lying in his last agony a thousand miles from any church. Since believing is looking it can be done any time. No season is superior to another season for this sweetest of all acts. God never made salvation depend upon new moons nor holy days or sabbaths. A man is not nearer to Christ on Easter Sunday than he is, say, on Saturday, August 3, or Monday, October 4. As long as Christ sits on the mediatorial throne every day is a good day and all days are days of salvation. Neither does place matter in this blessed work of believing God. Lift your heart and let it rest upon Jesus and you are instantly in a sanctuary though it be a Pullman berth or a factory or a kitchen. You can see God from anywhere if your mind is set to love and obey Him.

He told me I had too many books, how would I ever read them all! I looked at him for the monkey lunatic I suddenly realized he was, and politely told him it was time for him to go…back to whatever jungle from which he came. How foolish of me to let him into my intellec-tual sanctuary. A girl like me, who lives for adventure, mindgasms, fairytales and soul stimulation have too many books? Read too much poetry? Pffff!

The Death Star and its Sanctuary Moon hang distant in space as the Rebel fleet comes out of hyperspace with an awesome roar.

It's a sanctuary where the darkest desires of the people are shared in the light of a Georgia moon; with a picture perfect town as a backdrop.

During this full moon we ask that our sanctuary always be there for us in our time of need.

Depending on the planets Venus interacts with, this planetary influence can be lovingly compassionate or excessively hedonistic. It’s a planet that points out what you value with your money, time, and energy. Venus energy also manifests in the way that we seek pleasure, pampering, and money. Venus’s energy is feminine, but not in the same way as the moon. Where the moon’s take on femininity is about security and nurturing, Venus’s femininity is all about seduction, charm, and attraction. No matter your gender or your belief about your own ability to charm people’s socks off, Venus’s influence is present in your psychological makeup, and when you learn to work with this energy, you find a deep reserve of power and confidence. To illustrate all the ways Venusian energy influences our lives, let’s consider the zodiac signs that Venus rules. Personal Planets The planets closest to the sun including Mars, Venus, and Mercury are called “the personal planets” because their impacts are more readily felt in our lives. The luminaries (sun and moon) are also sometimes considered personal planets. All of these together form the basic energies of our charts, and their influence in our lives depends on where (which house) these planets are in.

Luminaries From the Latin word for “light,” this is the name astrologers give to the sun and moon as they illuminate your chart. The luminaries shine their light on two of the basic sides of your personality and your karma. The sun illuminates your overarching self, and the moonlight reveals your inner world.

I will sleep with Hywel. By choice," I said, not wanting another ridiculous argument about my ability to choose from the man who elected to ignore me when I chose him.

The full moon illuminated the house in a silvery hue. My mom had fallen in love with the ancient Victorian on a trip out here with my dad. He’d, of course, found a way to make it hers.

We're going to take your heart, Evanthia," Hywel whispered. "We lay claim to it and to all of you. And if you want to fight us with your pretty claws and sweet little teeth, we will take your scratches and bites too. All of you.

Nora Roberts Hot Ice Sacred Sins Brazen Virtue Sweet Revenge Public Secrets Genuine Lies Carnal Innocence Divine Evil Honest Illusions Private Scandals Hidden Riches True Betrayals Montana Sky Sanctuary Homeport The Reef River’s End Carolina Moon

hate having emotions about reality; I’d much rather have them about Sanctuary Moon.

Also, in Adventures in Living with Your Own Killware Cozied Up Inside Your Head, 2.0 had partitioned off a corner of my processing space. It would have worried me more if it wasn't in there watching episode 172 of Sanctuary Moon.

(it was a line from Sanctuary Moon)

I watched seven more episodes of Sanctuary Moon with it hanging around my feed. Then it pinged me, like I somehow might not know it had been in my feed all this time, and sent me a request to go back to the new adventure show I had started to watch when it had interrupted me. (It was called Worldhoppers, and was about freelance explorers who extended the wormhole and ring networks into uninhabited star systems. It looked very unrealistic and inaccurate, which was exactly what I liked.)

There is always more to know. That’s the beauty of learning another person

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I jumped down, my sandal-clad feet hitting the gravel. The full moon illuminated the house in a silvery hue. My mom had fallen in love with the ancient Victorian on a trip out here with my dad. He’d, of course, found a way to make it hers.

Reliquary of the Soul is a poetic sanctuary — a place where pain kneels, silence speaks, and the soul remembers who it is. Each line is a prayer without religion, a mirror for those who feel too deeply, a gentle embrace for souls that don’t fit anywhere. This is not a book to be read; it is a reliquary to be felt. Every page was born from real pain, whispered hope, and light that rose from darkness. Here, you will find pages that cry, pray, whisper, and scream — all written with the tender blood of a feeling soul. It is mirror, shoulder, refuge — and a whisper that says: “I understand you, even without knowing you.” The book unfolds like constellations — intimate maps to guide you back home: *Nature as the soul’s mirror: inner seasons (winter to withdraw, spring to bloom), mountains that teach patience, and rivers that win without hurting. *Emotions as inner constellations: each feeling a star lit in the chest, named with tenderness and courage. *Invisible illnesses as soul wounds: depression, anxiety, panic, dysphoria, burnout — pains that don’t bleed outside but scream within, now given voice, poetry, and a sacred space of belonging. *The rare light of the different ones: an embrace to neurodivergent, highly sensitive, and intense souls. *Between sky and skin: sensory and philosophical spirituality — the invisible touch of the universe, the breath of wind, the silence that teaches. This reliquary is your refuge and secret mirror — an intimate altar that reminds you, every day, that feeling deeply was never a flaw: it is gift, awakening, and God pulsing where the world has fallen asleep. If you made it here, it’s because a part of you is tired of pretending not to feel. Feel. Feel everything. Without fear. Pain has a place in this book — and so does rebirth. When the fog returns or the rush of the world makes you lose yourself, come back to this reliquary. Rest your forehead on the page — it will remember you.

Reliquary of the Soul — A Journey Through the Sacred, the Wounded, and the Infinite (by Phoenix Moon) This is not a poetry book. It’s a reliquary — a sacred chest holding the remains of everything your soul once whispered and the world made you forget. Every phrase is a heartbeat. Every silence, a confession. Every line, a bridge between what you feel and what you never dared to say. Phoenix Moon writes with the raw honesty of someone who’s seen both heaven and hell and still chose tenderness. Her voice is spiritual, existential, cosmic a blend of philosophy, faith, rebellion, and love. This book is a sanctuary for souls who no longer fit the noise. A mirror for those who love deeply, question everything, and ache for meaning in a numb world. Here, you’ll find prayers disguised as poetry, truths that sting before they heal, and fragments of the divine hidden in human pain. You won’t read this book, you’ll feel it. You’ll recognize yourself in it. It’s not about understanding. It’s about remembering. For every soul that ever felt too much — welcome home. If you’ve ever felt too deep for this shallow world, this book was written for you. Read it slowly — like a prayer, like a confession, like coming home. The book is available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited, exclusively in its digital version.

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I'd just told these men I could be nothing to them, nothing real. I was accepting too much as it was—their protection, their attention, their bodies. But it irritated me that Asterion believed that he would be lesser. I should've been convincing him that he meant nothing, not less, but that would've been a lie, and instead I found myself wanting to prove to him that I did hold him as dearly as the others.

But would I give up Laszlo, who had tended me and soothed me and lavished me with all the delicate presents and touches and the ceremony of lovemaking? Or Hywel, who had saved my life and kept my dreams safe, who'd sworn vengeance on my behalf? Or Conall, who teased and chased me and reminded me of the sound of my own laughter, of being wild and silly and careless again? I wouldn't. Perhaps I'd already lost the war I'd been waging against my own feelings.

I know every piece of you as well as I know myself now. You are mine. Your scent tells me so. Your touch," Asterion murmured, barely audible, teasing me closer, higher, my chest brushing to his with every heaving breath.

Our pretty, perfect mate," Hywel growled. He moved now, thrusting softly into us both, Laszlo panting into my throat.

I have knelt before cathedrals, But none have summoned my reverence the way your body does, a sanctuary not carved in stone but sinew, breath, and pulse.