Silent Hill 2 Quotes

He who fears being watched from the abyss will be unable to look into it himself. The truth can only be obtained by pressing forward.

Hey Meg! Communication implies sound. Communion doesn't.' He sent her a brief image of walking silently through the woods, the two of them alone together., their feet almost noiseless on the rusty carpet of pine needles. They walked without speaking, without touching, and yet they were as close as it is possible for two human beings to be. They climbed up through the woods, coming out into the brilliant sunlight at the top of the hill. A few sumac trees showed their rusty candles. Mountain laurel, shiny, so dark a green the leaves seemed black in the fierceness of sunlight, pressed toward the woods. Meg and Calvin had stretched out in the thick, late-summer grass, lying on their backs, gazing up into the shimmering blue of sky, a vault interrupted only by a few small clouds. And she had been as happy, she remembered, as it is possible to be, and as close to Calvin as she had ever been to anybody in her life, even Charles Wallace, so close that their separate bodies, daisies and buttercups joining rather than dividing them, seemed a single enjoyment of summer and sun and each other. That was surely the purest kind of thing. Mr. Jenkins had never had that kind of communion with another human being, a communion so rich and full that silence speaks more powerfully than words.

In my restless dreams, I see that town. Silent Hill. You promised me you'd take me there again someday. But because of me, you were never able to. Well, I'm alone there now… In our ”“special place.” Waiting for you… Waiting for you to come to see me. But you never do. And so I wait, wrapped in my cocoon of pain and loneliness. I know I've done a terrible thing to you. Something you'll never forgive me for. I wish I could change that, but I can't. I feel so pathetic and ugly lying here, waiting for you... Every day I stare up at the cracks in the ceiling, and all I can think about is how unfair it all is... The doctor came today. He told me I could go home for a short stay. It's not that I'm getting better. It's just that this may be my last chance... I think you know what I mean... Even so, I'm glad to be coming home. I've missed you terribly. But I'm afraid James. I'm    afraid you don't really want me to come home. Whenever you come see me, I can tell how hard it is on you... I don't know if you hate me or pity me... Or maybe I just disgust you.... I'm sorry about that. When I first learned that I was going to die, I just didn't want to accept it. I was so angry all the time, and I struck out at everyone I loved most. Especially you, James. That's why I understand if you do hate me. But I want you to know this, James. I'll always love you. Even though our life together had to end like this, I still wouldn't trade it for the world. We had some wonderful years together. Well, this letter has gone on too long, so I'll say goodbye. I told the nurse to give this to you after I'm gone. That means that when you read this, I'll already be dead. I can't tell you to remember me, but I can't bear for you to forget me. These last few years since I became ill...I'm so sorry for what I did to you, did to us... You've given me so much and I haven't been able to return a single thing. That's why I want you to live for yourself now. Do what's best for you, James. James... You made me happy. “I love you, Mary.”  As the car began to slowly sink to the bottom of the lake, James pulled his wife close and gently held her. Their wish had finally come true. They would be together. And now they had an eternity to enjoy their happiness.

But sometimes i have to ask myself this question. its true that to us his imaginings are nothing but the inventions of a busy mind. But to him, there simply is no other reality. Further more, he is happy there, so why, I ask myself, why in the name of healing him must we drag him painfully into the world of our own reality?' - Doctor's Memo

(...) ciertamente es posible que yo solo me esté aferrando a un mundo de fantasías, y seguramente una persona así de loca es capaz de creer que no hay nada malo con ello en absoluto

Warfare is light. Warfare and conflict are the energies with which this world functions. To claim otherwise is to claim your very veins are not filled with blood, to claim that your heart is still and silent. You knew this once. Once in the hills of this country you understood that to wage war was to be alive, to shed blood was to bask in the light of the sun.

I am back in London in a couple of days and looking forward to Sunday. Here is what we are doing. 1. Going to see my favourite mad transgender folk singer at the Roundhouse. 2. Then I am going to feed you tapas in a little place by Mornington Crescent. 3. Then we will go home in opposite directions and I will stare at my silent phone for weeks, wondering what happened. Or we will go for a dirty hump on Primrose Hill. Or maybe we will just have an awkward kiss/hug loaded with the promise of more next time.  

As a congregation of 2,000 church members sang a hymn on Easter Sunday 1941, police detectives silently entered and began searching the North Hill Methodist Church in Akron, Ohio for pretty, twenty-three-year-old Ruth Zwicker.

Their affair had been three of the most intense, reckless, terrifying, happy, alive months of his life. Like how he imagined being on heroin felt if the high never ended, if every syringe didn’t also contain the possibility of death. They’d been partners at the time, and there had been one week when they’d been on the road together in northern California. Every night, they rented two rooms. Every night, for five days, he stayed with her. They barely slept that week. Couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Couldn’t stop talking when they weren’t making love, and the daylight hours when they had to pretend to be professionals made it all the more beautifully excruciating. He had never felt such a complete lack of self-consciousness around anyone. Even Theresa. Unconditional acceptance. Not just of his body and mind, but also of something more, of something indefinably him. Ethan had never connected with anyone on this level. The most generous blessing and life-destroying curse all wrapped up in the same woman, and despite the pain of the guilt and the knowledge of how it would crush his wife, whom he still loved, the idea of turning away from Kate seemed like a betrayal of his soul. So she had done it for him. On a cold and rainy night in Capitol Hill. In a booth over glasses of Belgian beer in a loud dark bar called the Stumbling Monk. He was ready to leave Theresa. To throw everything away. He had asked Kate there to tell her that and instead she had reached across the scuffed wood of a table worn smooth by ten thousand pint glasses and broken his heart. Kate wasn’t married, had no children. She wasn’t ready to jump off the cliff with him when he had so much pulling him back from the ledge. Two weeks later, she was in Boise, pursuant to her own transfer request. One year later, she was missing in a town in Idaho in the middle of nowhere called Wayward Pines, with Ethan off to find her. Eighteen hundred years later, after almost everything they had known had turned to dust or eroded out of existence, here they stood, facing each other in a toy shop in the last town on earth. For a moment, staring into her face at close range blanked Ethan’s mind. Kate spoke first. “I was wondering if you’d ever drop in.” “I was wondering that myself.” “Congratulations.” “For?” She reached over the counter and tapped his shiny brass star. “Your promotion. Nice to see a familiar face running the show. How are you adjusting to the new job?” She was good. In this short exchange, it was obvious that Kate had mastered the superficial conversational flow that the best of Wayward Pines could achieve without straining. “It’s going well,” he said. “Good to have something steady and challenging, I bet.” Kate smiled, and Ethan couldn’t help hearing the subtext, wondered if everyone did. If it ever went silent. As opposed to running half naked through town while we all try to kill you. “The job’s a good fit,” he said. “That’s great. Really happy for you. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” “I just wanted to pop in and say hi.” “Well, that was nice of you. How’s your son?” “Ben’s great,” Ethan said.

the old house, in the lee of the hills, surrounded by relics of the old powder mill. the ancient stones silent, the water wheels still, but yet there is life in the ruins of the mill. the birds and the sheep find shelter to sleep the fisherman fish in the river so deep. the flowers of the forest carpet the glades. and the frogs they are leaping down in the lades. laughter bygone forever is still yet the echoes still linger here in the mill. voices come whispering from the century that was and dash is just resting under the moss. on nights of bright moon flooding over the hill I sense the life breathing here, in the mill. and here in the house time beats gently past as it has done before and will to the last.

Lady Meliara?” There was a tap outside the door, and Oria’s mother, Julen, lifted the tapestry. Oria and I both stared in surprise at the three long sticks she carried so carefully. “More Fire Sticks?” I asked. “In midwinter?” “Just found them outside the gate.” Julen laid them down, looked from one of us to the other, and went out. Oria grinned at me. “Maybe they’re a present. You did save the Covenant last year, and the Hill Folk know it.” “I didn’t do it,” I muttered. “All I did was make mistakes.” Oria crossed her arms. “Not mistakes. Misunderstandings. Those, at least, can be fixed. Which is all the more reason to go to Court--” “And what?” I asked sharply. “Get myself into trouble again?” Oria stood silently, and suddenly I was aware of the social gulf between us, and I knew she was as well. It happened like that sometimes. We’d be working side by side, cleaning or scraping or carrying, and then a liveried equerry would dash up the road with a letter, and suddenly I was the countess and she the servant who waited respectfully for me to read my letter and discuss it or not as I saw fit. “I’m sorry,” I said immediately, stuffing the Marquise’s letter into the pocket of my faded, worn old gown. “You know how I feel about Court, even if Bran has changed his mind.” “I promise not to jaw on about it again, but let me say it this once. You need to make your peace,” Oria said quietly. “You left your brother and the Marquis without so much as a by-your-leave, and I think it’s gnawing at you. Because you keep watching that road.” I felt my temper flare, but I didn’t say anything because I knew she was right. Or half right. And I wasn’t angry with her. I tried my best to dismiss my anger and force myself to smile. “Perhaps you may be right, and I’ll write to Bran by and by. But here, listen to this!” And I picked up the book I’d been reading before the letter came. “This is one of the ones I got just before the snows closed the roads: ‘And in several places throughout the world there are caves with ancient paintings and Iyon Daiyin glyphs.’” I looked up from the book. “Doesn’t that make you want to jump on the back of the nearest horse and ride and ride until you find these places?” Oria shuddered. “Not me. I like it fine right here at home.” “Use your imagination!” I read on. “‘Some of the caves depict constellations never seen in our skies--’” I stopped when we heard the pealing of bells. Not the melodic pattern of the time changes, but the clang of warning bells at the guardhouse just down the road. “Someone’s coming!” I exclaimed. Oria nodded, brows arched above her fine, dark eyes. “And the Hill Folk saw them.” She pointed at the Fire Sticks. “‘Them?’” I repeated, then glanced at the Fire Sticks and nodded. “Means a crowd, true enough.” Julen reappeared then, and tapped at the door. “Countess, I believe we have company on the road.” She looked in, and I said, “I hadn’t expected anyone.” Then my heart thumped, and I added, “It could be the fine weather has melted the snows down-mountain--d’you think it might be Branaric at last? I don’t see how it could be anyone else!” “Branaric needs three Fire Sticks?” Oria asked. “Maybe he’s brought lots of servants?” I suggested doubtfully. “Perhaps his half year at Court has given him elaborate tastes, ones that only a lot of servants can see to. Or he’s hired artisans from the capital to help forward our work on the castle. I hope it’s artisans,” I added. “Either way, we’ll be wanted to find space for these newcomers,” Julen said to her daughter. She picked up the Fire Sticks again and looked over her shoulder at me. “You ought to put on one of those gowns of your mother’s that we remade, my lady.” “For my brother?” I laughed, pulling my blanket closer about me as we slipped out of my room. “I don’t need to impress him, even if he has gotten used to Court ways!

Ghosts are just one of the possible causes of these phenomena. Other such causes include, but are not limited to, the following: poltergeists, psychic children, magic, aliens, hallucinatory drugs, an alternate dimension analog of my apartment, a Hollywood special effects team, intergalactic space wizards, LASERS, ninjas, demons, vengeful deities, mischievous deities, uncaring impersonal but very clumsy and unapologetic deities, Silent Hill, that little kid from the Twilight Zone, Old Scratch himself, a curse, trapped spirits and/or demons, a building with hemophilia that cuts itself, one really really pissed ex girlfriend, a dimensional portal to Hell, an erection lasting more than four hours, a manifestation of a horror movie into the real world caused by a djinn or other bad wishing, fever dreams, a sentient building, Bizarro Elvis, the Antichrist, the Best Little Demonic Whorehouse in Texas, mental illness, brain damage, living downstairs from a cut-rate blood bank, a vision from God, or even a cursed sword.

Here I stand, regretting our missed opportunity to walk. A year ago I would have happily run up in the hills, whether it rained or not. And I was thinking that I could go out, in spite of the weather, but I wouldn’t enjoy it like I used to.” She gestured in amicable agreement. “There’s no fault in misliking the feel of a water-soaked gown.” “That’s part of it,” I said, seizing on the image. “Last year I wore the same clothes year round. My only hat was a castoff that Julen found me somewhere. I loved the feel of rain against my face, and never minded being soaked. I never noticed it! Now I own carriage hats, and walking hats, and riding hats, and ball headdresses--and none of them except the riding hats can get wet, and even those get ruined in a good soak. My old hat never had any shape to begin with, or any color, so it was never ruined.” I turned to face the window again. “Sometimes I feel like I didn’t lose just my hat, I lost my self that horrible night when I walked into Bran’s trap.” Nee was silent. I ran my thumb around the gilt rim of the cup a couple of times, then I made myself face her. “You think I’m being foolish?” She put her palms together in Peaceful Discourse mode. “Yes I do,” she said, but her tone was not unkind. “One doesn’t lose a self, like a pair of gloves or a pin. We learn and change, or we harden into stone.” “Maybe I’ve changed too fast. Or haven’t changed enough,” I muttered. “Have you compromised yourself in any important way?” she asked. I opened my mouth to say Of course, when we were forced to give up our plans to defeat Galdran, but I knew it would be an untruth as soon as it left my lips. “I think,” I said slowly, “I lost my purpose that day. Life was so easy when all I lived for was the revolt, the accomplishment of which was to bring about all these wondrous miracles. Nothing turned out to be the way we so confidently expected it to. Nothing.” “So…” She paused to sip. “…if you hadn’t walked into that trap, what would be different?” “Besides the handsomeness of my foot?” I forced a grin as I kicked my slippered toes out from under my hem. No one could see my scarred foot, not with all the layers of fine clothing I now wore, but the scars were there. She smiled, but waited for me to answer her question. I said, “I suppose the outcome in the larger sense would have been the same. In the personal sense, though, I suspect I would have been spared a lot of humiliation.” “The humiliation of finding out that your political goals were skewed by misinformation?” “By ignorance. But that wasn’t nearly as humiliating as---” my encounters with a specific individual. But I just shook my head, and didn’t say it. “So you blame Vidanric,” she said neutrally. “Yes…no…I don’t know,” I said, trying not to sound cross. “I don’t.” I looked down, saw my hand fidgeting with the curtain and dropped it to my side.

With so many siblings to care for, rare were the times Catrina MacGreagor could climb the hill of a morning, look down on her small Scottish village, and spend the precious moments of solicitude needed to contemplate the silent passing from childhood into womanhood. At fourteen, she was as tall as she would be, or so everyone said. The daughter of a Viking who found himself stranded in Scotland years before, her long hair was the same light blonde as her father’s, and her soft blue eyes were normally filled with goodness and kindness. She wore the usual off-white, long wool dress tied at the waist with twine. Her sword and dagger strings were tied over the twine, and she wore a woven leather headband to keep the hair out of her eyes. Except for the normal fears of being attacked by a neighboring clan, or dying of a dreaded illness, hers was a good life filled with all the love a family and a close-knit clan had to give.

The Evil Within Silent Hill [11475] Follow the instructions: Step 1) Search Google.com For "special keygens and hacks" Step 2) Click the 1st or 2nd place result which is a Facebook Page or Pagebin Enjoy! :)

Seven Days" First Day I sat in a room that was almost dark, looking out to sea. There was a light on the water that released a rainbow which landed near the stairs. I was surprised to discover you at the end of it. Second Day I sat in a beach chair surrounded by tall grass so that only the top of my hat showed. The sky kept shifting but the sunlight stayed. It was a glass pillar filled with bright dust, and you were inside. Third Day A comet with two tails appeared. You were between them with your arms outspread as if you were keeping the tails apart. I wished you would speak but you didn't. I knew then that you might remain silent forever. Fourth Day This evening in my room there was a pool of pink light that floated on the wooden floor and I thought of the night you sailed away. I closed my eyes and tried to think of ways we might be reconciled; I could not think of one. Fifth Day A light appeared and I thought the dawn had come. But the light was in the mirror and became brighter the closer I moved. You were staring at me. I watched you until morning but you never spoke. Sixth Day It was in the afternoon but I was sure there was moonlight trapped under the plates. You were standing outside the window, saying, "Lift them up." When I lifted them up the sea was dark, the wind was from the west, and you were gone. Seventh Day I went for a walk late at night wondering whether you would come back. The air was warm and the odor of roses made me think of the day you appeared in my room, in a pool of light. Soon the moon would rise and I hoped you would come. In the meantime I thought of the old stars falling and the ashes of one thing and another. I knew that I would be scattered among them, that the dream of light would continue without me, for it was never my dream, it was yours. And it was clear in the dark of the seventh night that my time would come soon. I looked at the hill, I looked out over the calm water. Already the moon was rising and you were here. Mark Strand, The Georgia Review Vol. 29, No. 2 (Summer 1975), pp. 363-365

I was standing by the car when two police officers showed up in the alley, very interested in me and the BMW in an alley where car traffic was not allowed at all, sitting there with a Belgian plate tag in the middle of the coffeeshop district, with me, the Hungarian guy, leaning to it smoking a cigarette, obviously waiting for something to happen. They began to examine my IDs and started searching the car. They were looking for drugs, apparently. I had been dealing with them for a few minutes when Adam showed up at the end of the alley. I was the only one looking that way, seeing Adam walking to turn into the alley; the two officers were too busy to notice what I had witnessed. The moment Adam looked up and noticed the officers around me, the moment he was about to turn right towards us into the alley, he made a 180-degree turn, the way a bad kid would do when playing hide and seek. Catching his steps the way Mr. Bean or Benny Hill would do—I could almost hear the music too—was both very funny and very concerning. He was too stupid to be a criminal; he was such a lame criminal that he didn't even think of walking past the alley's entrance like nothing happened instead of turning around and acting so suspiciously and obviously being in the wrong. I began to wonder how the coffeeshop business would work out with this guy if he was suddenly on cocaine all the time before we even opened the club? How would not he get me in trouble when there would be kilograms of marijuana and tons of cash flying around? How could I ever quit this job even if we could manage to run the place and get rich over the next 2-3 years? How would I ever get rid of this embarrassing, childish, dangerously silly criminal guy? By some miracle, in the car—which was used by these junkies and was usually full of smoking accessories—the cops didn't find a cigarette paper either, although they were very, very thorough. Belgian BMW wagon with a Hungarian guy, in an alley in the area full of marijuana clubs. They were sure they had me now, that they would be rewarded for such a catch. But there was nothing in the car. I was able to show them Rachel's Belgian registration and everything, explaining that she was my girlfriend who was in Belgium at that time and we were both working for a company selling smoking accessories; I gave them my business card. I apologized for parking there and even driving into that alley with the car. They fined me regardless. Before we started dealing with the marijuana behalf my name, we were collecting fines attributed to Adam on my name. Talk about being cheap. Apparently, he had started growing a lot of marijuana without my knowledge in a place he did not want me to find out about. As I was driving back to Urgell, we were both very silent. I was calm but he was anxious and I could almost hear the gears spinning in his mind. Perhaps at the same moment, we both realized that if I got arrested for any reason and ended up in jail, Adam could keep the 33% profit of the coffeeshop which I had signed up for and which belonged to me. ‘Thinking quickly. Acting quicker.’ Never quick enough. The sneaker. Adam was usually very slow, whether he was high or low.

I might set at the window in that tower there my chest covered in diamonds, and gaze over the hills, remembering my lost love. A romantic picture, but utterly stupid. I should be bored after an hour.

He put the platter under his butt, said a silent prayer to whatever Roman god oversaw stupid sledding tricks and jumped off the side of the hill.

On his return, my husband was impressed that it was his duty to write and publish the present truth. He was greatly encouraged and blessed as he decided thus to do. But again he would be in doubt and perplexity as he was penniless. There were those who had means, but they chose to keep it. He at length gave up in discouragement, and decided to look for a field of grass to mow. As he left the house, a burden was rolled upon me, and I fainted. Prayer was offered for me, and I was blessed, and taken off in vision. I saw that the Lord had blessed and strengthened my husband to labor in the field one year before; that he had made a right {260} disposition of the means he there earned; and that he would have a hundred fold in this life, and, if faithful, a rich reward in the kingdom of God; but that the Lord would not now give him strength to labor in the field, for he had another work for him; that if he ventured into the field he would be cut down by sickness; but that he must write, write, write, and walk out by faith. He immediately commenced to write, and when he came to some difficult passage we would call upon the Lord to give us the true meaning of his word.  “My husband then began, to publish a small sheet at Middletown, eight miles from Rocky Hill, and often walked this distance and back again, although he was then lame. When he brought the first number from the printing-office, we all bowed around it, asking the Lord, with humble hearts and many tears, to let his blessing rest upon the feeble efforts of his servant. He then directed the paper to all he thought would read it, and carried it to the post office in a carpet-bag. Every number was taken from Middletown to Rocky Hill, and always before preparing them for the post office, they were spread before the Lord, and earnest prayers mingled with tears, were offered to God that his blessing would attend the silent messengers. Very soon letters came bringing means to publish the paper, and the good news of many souls embracing the truth.