Song On Loop Quotes

He’s like a song she can’t get out of her head. Hard as she tries, the melody of their meeting runs through her mind on an endless loop, each time as surprisingly sweet as the last, like a lullaby, like a hymn, and she doesn’t think she could ever get tired of hearing it.

I hit the dance floor, wincing a little bit as the DJ looped feedback through the throbbing of a useless song about someone playing poker with his face or something.

I hate a song that makes you think that you are not any good. I hate a song that makes you think that you are just born to lose. Bound to lose. No good to nobody. No good for nothing. Because you are too old or too young or too fat or too slim or too ugly or too this or too that. Songs that run you down or poke fun at you on account of your bad luck or hard travelling. I am out to fight those songs to my very last breath of air and my last drop of blood. I am out to sing songs that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked you for a dozen loops, no matter what color, what size you are, how you are built, I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work. And the songs that I sing are made up for the most part by all sorts of folks just about like you. I could hire out to the other side, the big money side, and get several dollars every week just to quit singing my own kind of songs and to sing the kind that knock you down still farther and the ones that poke fun at you even more and the ones that make you think that you've not got any sense at all. But I decided a long time ago that I'd starve to death before I'd sing any such songs as that. The radio waves and your movies and your jukeboxes and your songbooks are already loaded down and running over with such no good songs as that anyhow.

We plant the seeds of resilience in the ways we process negative events. After spending decades studying how people deal with setbacks, psychologist Martin Seligman found that three P’s can stunt recovery: (1) personalization—the belief that we are at fault; (2) pervasiveness—the belief that an event will affect all areas of our life; and (3) permanence—the belief that the aftershocks of the event will last forever. The three P’s play like the flip side of the pop song “Everything Is Awesome”—“everything is awful.” The loop in your head repeats, “It’s my fault this is awful. My whole life is awful. And it’s always going to be awful.” Hundreds

Now Hadley presses her forehead against the window of the taxi and once again finds herself smiling at the thought of him. He's like a song she can't get out of her head. Hard as she tries, the melody of their meeting runs through her mind on an endless loop, each time as surprisingly sweet as the last, like a lullaby, like a hymn, and she doesn't think she could ever get tired of hearing it.

The sun rose yellow as a lemon. The sky was round and blue. The birds looped clear water songs in the air. Will and Jim leaned from their windows. Nothing had changed. Except the look in Jim's eyes. "Last night. . ." said Will. "Did or didn't it happen?

Every time the song looped, all I heard was the part about the lies - and how they weigh you down. Tonight, as I drive toward Detroit in my Jeep, I know what those words really mean. It's not just the lies they're referring to. It's life. You can't run to another town, another place, another state. Whatever it is you're running from - it goes with you. It stays with you until you find out how to confront it.

I want to say," he said as he placed my right wrist and right knee together, "If you say stop, it's good enough for me, but we might want to set a safeword." He spread my legs to get the right length under my back and tired my right side together, letting the rest of the loop drop off the edge of the bed. "Tangerine," I said. "Tangerine?" "I doubt you can keep doing whatever it is you're doing if I saw tangerine." "Fine, wiseass.

So on the days that the radio played Ammu’s songs, people avoided her, made little loops around her, because everybody agreed that it was best to just Let Her Be.

Clegane would grunt from time to time, and once Tyrion heard him mutter a curse, but otherwise he fought in a sullen silence. Not Oberyn Martell. "You raped her," he called, feinting. "You murdered her," he said, dodging a looping cut from Gregor's greatsword. "You killed her children," he shouted, slamming the spearpoint into the giant's throat, only to have it glance off the thick steel gorget with a screech.

They sensed somehow that she lived in the prenumbral shadows between two worlds, just beyond the grasp of their power. That a woman that they had already damned, now had little left to lose, and could therefore be dangerous. So on the days that the radio played Ammu's songs, people avoided her, making little loops around her, because everybody agreed that it was best to just Let Her Be.

Jutta drags herself closer; she watches her brother with outsize eyes. A piano chases the violins. Then woodwinds. The strings sprint, woodwinds fluttering behind. More instruments join in. Flutes? Harps? The song races, seems to loop back over itself. “Werner?” Jutta whispers. He blinks;

I didn't wake up with a gasp like in the movies, though that might've made me feel better. Instead I woke up with a sad resignation as the song continued its soft, solemn loop.

A buzzing in his head, a tight skull—certain refrains of songs looped and he said them aloud and smiled.

She looped one side of the closed necklace around it, and in twisting, pulled the chain very tight around Father’s throat. “Now go to sleep,” she whispered, “in chasms deep, with darkness all around you . . .” A lullaby. Shallan spoke the song through her tears—the song he’d sung for her as a child, when she was frightened. Red blood speckled his face and covered her hands. “Though rock and dread may be your bed, so sleep my baby dear.” She felt his eyes on her. Her skin squirmed as she held the necklace tight. “Now comes the storm,” she whispered, “but you’ll be warm, the wind will rock your basket . . .” Shallan had to watch as his eyes bulged out, his face turning colors. His body trembling, straining, trying to move. The eyes looked to her, demanding, betrayed. Almost, Shallan could imagine that the storm’s howls were part of a nightmare. That soon she would awaken in terror, and Father would sing to her. As he’d done when she was a child . . . “The crystals fine . . . will glow sublime . . .” Father stopped moving. “And with a song . . . you’ll sleep . . . my baby dear.

When I wasn't internally grumbling about my physical state, I found my mind playing and replaying scraps of songs and jingles in an eternal, nonsensical loop, as if there were a mix-tape radio station in my head. Up against the silence, my brain answered back with fragmented lines from tunes I'd heard over the course of my life - bits from songs I loved and clear renditions of jingles from commercials that almost drove me mad.

In Banaras, I asked a monk, “To hold onto human character, one must have at least one desire. What is your desire.” He replied, “I have only one desire: Moksha or liberation from mortal bodies.” I said, “You are using the desire to leave the body to hold on to the body. Isn’t that contradiction? Aren’t you stuck in a loop of contradiction?” Recently, I met an old man in Chamundi Hills. He was singing praise of Maa Chamundi. I asked him, “Baba, what is your one desire that you are using to hold onto this body?” He replied, “Desire to sing songs in praise of Maa Chamundi.” I asked, “What about the desire of Moksha? Don’t you want to be free from this bondage?” He replied, “There is just one soul who is free- the Paramatma. I am that.” I said, “But how come you are stuck in this human body?” He said, “Young man! My mortal form is only in your mind. When you let go of your mind, you can meet me as Paramatma - the free soul. Then there is no you and me. There is just Paramatma.

Niv" Max repeated. "Spelled N-I-V?" "Yes" "N-I-V", she repeated. "As in New International Version?" I tilted my head to the side. "New International version of what?" "The B-I-B-L-E -- and now, I am officially going to have Sunday school songs running on a loop all night.

At the edge of the wolfswood, Bran turned in his basket for one last glimpse of the castle that had been his life. Wisps of smoke still rose into the grey sky, but no more than might have risen from Winterfell’s chimneys on a cold autumn afternoon. Soot stains marked some of the arrow loops, and here and there a crack or a missing merlon could be seen in the curtain wall, but it seemed little enough from this distance. Beyond, the tops of the keeps and towers still stood as they had for hundreds of years, and it was hard to tell that the castle had been sacked and burned at all. The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I’m not dead either.

As we sprinted from the Candle Room to the Music Club to the Boudoir to the Virtual Video Room, a song called “Interactive” played on a continuous loop in every room. Aech explained that this was a song Prince wrote exclusively for a Myst-like videogame he released with the same title.

Jonathan went back to the foot of the bed and looped the belt back up. I held my legs open with my hands. “Now, first. The original issue. You’re mine. When you let someone else get to you, you deny me my ownership. That is not acceptable.” He tapped my inner thigh with the belt. “I own you.

THE STAGE: The stage is empty, and you watch as the figure of Medusa steps into the gas-light. Her body is dressed in a crimson traversed by the golden branches of willow trees, colour and light held into shape by sharp black borders. Lifting languidly her hands, she reaches towards you. Her emerald vipers, in the cohesive movements of unseen mechanisms, weave loops about her head. Music is beginning, and from the shadows off-stage the narrator speaks. “Medusa had a beautiful name and a lovely voice, though no one cared to listen; seeking only the gaze of those famous eyes.” Perseus walks onto the stage, cloaked as though he were the blazing sun. Now what you have to understand is his voice – it is like nothing you could tie down. It feels peaceful to hear it, to see him flow into the song with his fine, clear looks and his finer, clearer voice. Is the head quite forgotten? Not quite but the horror exists alongside the beauty and they flow like twin rivers, and neither is able to wash the other from you.

He’s like a song she can’t get out of her head. Hard as she tries, the melody of their meeting runs through her mind on an endless loop, each time as surprisingly sweet as the last, like a lullaby, like a hymn, and she doesn’t think she could ever get tired of hearing it.” ​— ​Jennifer E. Smith, The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight

I am slowly learning to disregard the insatiable desire to be special. I think it began, the soft piano ballad of epiphanic freedom that danced in my head, when you mentioned that "Van Gogh was her thing" while I stood there in my overall dress, admiring his sunflowers at the art museum. And then again on South Street, while we thumbed through old records and I picked up Morrissey and you mentioned her name like it was stuck in your teeth. Each time, I felt a paintbrush on my cheeks, covering my skin in grey and fading me into a quiet, concealed background that hummed everything you've ever loved has been loved before, and everything you are has already been on an endless loop. It echoed in your wrists that I stared at, walking (home) in the middle of the street, and I felt like a ghost moving forward in an eternal line, waiting to haunt anyone who thought I was worth it. But no one keeps my name folded in their wallet. Only girls who are able to carve their names into paintings and vinyl live in pockets and dust bunnies and bathroom mirrors. And so be it, that I am grey and humming in the background. I am forgotten Sundays and chipped fingernail polish and borrowed sheets. I'm the song you'll get stuck in your head, but it will remind you of someone else. I am 2 in the afternoon, I am the last day of winter, I am a face on the sidewalk that won't show up in your dreams. And I am everywhere, and I am nothing at all.

I’m taking her to The Horny Goat, Agent St. James, not charging into battle. You and the rest of security are welcome to accompany us. We’ll have a few drinks—or a few dozen—sing some songs and all will be well.” “Oh, that sounds like so much fun!” Ellie claps her hands. And she turns those heartbreaking eyes on me. “Can we go? Please?” A simmering amusement rises in Prince Henry’s expression as they wait for my answer. Because he’s also a shit-stirrer. It’s what he does—what he lives for: stirring up all the shit, then sitting back and watching everyone slip in it. “Come on, Logan,” Ellie whines pleadingly. Henry loops his arm around her shoulders with a taunting grin. “Yeah, come on, Logan.” Bastard. Two hours later, Ellie Hammond, the younger sister of the new Duchess of Fairstone, and the future King of Wessco are on a karaoke stage at The Horny Goat pub. Together. Bouncing around and singing “I Wanna Be Sedated” by the Ramones. There goes the fucking kingdom.

He is about to hand the earphone to Jutta when—clear and unblemished, about halfway down the coil—he hears the quick, drastic strikes of a bow dashing across the strings of a violin. He tries to hold the pin perfectly still. A second violin joins the first. Jutta drags herself closer; she watches her brother with outsize eyes. A piano chases the violins. Then woodwinds. The strings sprint, woodwinds fluttering behind. More instruments join in. Flutes? Harps? The song races, seems to loop back over itself.

sprint, woodwinds fluttering behind. More instruments join in. Flutes? Harps? The song races, seems to loop back over itself. “Werner?” Jutta whispers. He blinks; he has to swallow back tears. The parlor looks the same as it always has: two cribs beneath two Latin crosses, dust floating in the open mouth of the stove, a dozen layers of paint peeling off the baseboards. A needlepoint of Frau Elena’s snowy Alsatian village above the sink. Yet now there is music. As if, inside Werner’s head, an infinitesimal orchestra has stirred to life. The room seems to fall into a slow spin. His sister says his name more urgently, and he presses the earphone to her ear. “Music,” she says. He holds the pin as stock-still as he can. The signal is weak enough that, though the earphone is six inches away, he can’t hear any trace of the song. But he watches his sister’s face, motionless except for her eyelids, and in the kitchen Frau Elena holds her flour-whitened hands in the air and cocks her head, studying Werner, and two older boys rush in and stop, sensing some change in the air, and the little radio with its four terminals and trailing aerial sits motionless on the floor between them all like a miracle.

Analogous to looping your favorite songs in a repeating playlist at night, we cherry-pick specific slices of your autobiographical past, and preferentially strengthen them by using the individualized sound cues during sleep.VIII I’m sure you can imagine innumerable uses for such a method. That said, you may also feel ethically uncomfortable about the prospect, considering that you would have the power to write and rewrite your own remembered life narrative or, more concerning, that of someone else. This moral dilemma is somewhat far in the future, but should such methods continue to be refined, it is one we may face.

Let’s take a look at one couple. Carol and Jim have a long-running quarrel over his being late to engagements. In a session in my office, Carol carps at Jim over his latest transgression: he didn’t show up on time for their scheduled movie night. “How come you are always late?” she challenges. “Doesn’t it matter to you that we have a date, that I am waiting, that you always let me down?” Jim reacts coolly: “I got held up. But if you are going to start off nagging again, maybe we should just go home and forget the date.” Carol retaliates by listing all the other times Jim has been late. Jim starts to dispute her “list,” then breaks off and retreats into stony silence. In this never-ending dispute, Jim and Carol are caught up in the content of their fights. When was the last time Jim was late? Was it only last week or was it months ago? They careen down the two dead ends of “what really happened”—whose story is more “accurate” and who is most “at fault.” They are convinced that the problem has to be either his irresponsibility or her nagging. In truth, though, it doesn’t matter what they’re fighting about. In another session in my office, Carol and Jim begin to bicker about Jim’s reluctance to talk about their relationship. “Talking about this stuff just gets us into fights,” Jim declares. “What’s the point of that? We go round and round. It just gets frustrating. And anyway, it’s all about my ‘flaws’ in the end. I feel closer when we make love.” Carol shakes her head. “I don’t want sex when we are not even talking!” What’s happened here? Carol and Jim’s attack-withdraw way of dealing with the “lateness” issue has spilled over into two more issues: “we don’t talk” and “we don’t have sex.” They’re caught in a terrible loop, their responses generating more negative responses and emotions in each other. The more Carol blames Jim, the more he withdraws. And the more he withdraws, the more frantic and cutting become her attacks. Eventually, the what of any fight won’t matter at all. When couples reach this point, their entire relationship becomes marked by resentment, caution, and distance. They will see every difference, every disagreement, through a negative filter. They will listen to idle words and hear a threat. They will see an ambiguous action and assume the worst. They will be consumed by catastrophic fears and doubts, be constantly on guard and defensive. Even if they want to come close, they can’t. Jim’s experience is defined perfectly by the title of a Notorious Cherry Bombs song, “It’s Hard to Kiss the Lips at Night that Chew Your Ass Out All Day Long.

Write about an empty birdcage" Write about an empty birdcage. As in: write about your ribcage after robbery. Use negative space to wind a song from the place on the dresser where a music box isn’t. Write about the corners where the two of you used to meet. Draw the intersections, arrow to the sidewalk where her shoes aren’t near yours. Write about an empty birdcage. As in: write about a hinged-open jaw that is neither sigh nor scream. Use this to signify EXIT. Make sure to describe the teeth, the glint of metal deep down in the molars, the smell of breath after lack of water. Make sure to draw this mouth a thirsty and human portrait of what it means to be used up. Write about voice by writing about how it feels when it’s painful to swallow. If you must put noise in the scene make it the sound of bird wings flapping in a cardboard box. Show us an empty cage and give us the sound of confinement. Take hope and fold it small as seed, then suck on it. Slow and selfish. Write about an empty birdcage. Birdcage can read: building, structure, abandoned or adorned. As in: loop and tighten a vine of nostalgia around the room you currently brick yourself into. Recreate the sweet of jasmine, but mortar the door so it will not seep through. Write about an empty birdcage. Replay us the scene. As in: she presses her pale cheek against the window, as he turns his pinstriped back, slow and final. Again. She presses her pale cheek against the window, and he turns his pinstriped back, slow and final. Again. She presses her pale cheek against the window, as he turns his pinstriped back, slow and final. Again. She presses her her pale cheek against the window, as he turns his pinstriped back, slow and final. Write about an empty birdcage. Write about the hinges. Describe them as dry knuckles. Write how I became a moan.

Maybe if they played those poppy, jingling Christmas songs on an endless loop in the tank it would be enough.

I noticed that my fear never changed, never delighted, never offered a surprise twist or an unexpected ending. My fear was a song with only one note—only one word, actually—and that word was “STOP!” My fear never had anything more interesting or subtle to offer than that one emphatic word, repeated at full volume on an endless loop: “STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP!” Which

Yuguo fell apart, into a thousand little pieces. He felt it happen, fragments of his mind detaching from the rest, splitting off, becoming their own, being mapped by Nexus. Here was Yuguo’s knowledge of coding, his comprehension of data structures, of objects and methods, of intents and game players, of threads and loops and conditions. Here was football Yuguo, the precise way his left foot grounded into the grass and his hips swiveled and his arm balanced as his right foot shot forward to kick the checked ball at the goal. Here was Yuguo’s shy lust for girls, the patterns his eyes drew over their curves when he saw them, the anxiety that struck him dumb when they were near. Here was Yuguo’s despair that had led him to this room, his quiet dread that his country and the world were getting worse instead of better, that the future was one of slow strangulation at the electronic hands of smiling tame AIs with famous faces, their forked tongues lapping out of the viewscreens to feed saccharine to the masses, the old men who’d always ruled China laughing and holding their leashes. Here were the words a young woman had said to him just minutes ago. “Critical mass. Weak apart, strong together.” Here were her eyes, fiery eyes, hanging in space. Here was her name: Lifen. Then those pieces fell apart, into smaller pieces, which fell apart into fragments even smaller: Yuguo’s sensation of red. Yuguo’s concept of 1 and 0. Yuguo’s left thumb. The sound in Yuguo’s head when he heard the third note of his favorite pop song. Yuguo’s yes. Yuguo’s no. Yuguo’s and. Yuguo’s or. Yuguo’s xor. Yuguo’s now. Yuguo’s future. Yuguo’s past. He could see himself now. He was a golden statue of Yuguo, immobile, one foot in front of the other, standing in a space of white light. But the statue wasn’t solid, it was made of grains, millions of grains, flecks of gold dust, millions of parts of him. And as he watched they were separating, pulling gradually apart, so that he was no longer a single entity but a cloud, a fog, a fog of Yuguo, and if a strong wind came, he would just blow away, and if the pieces split any more he knew there wouldn’t be any such thing as Yuguo left at all. Yuguo’s fear. Yuguo’s end. And then the pieces rushed together, and he was inside that statue, he was that statue, and he was all of it, 1 and 0, yes and no, future and past, sound and sight, football and coding. He was all of it. He was whole. He was a mind. I’m Yuguo, he realized. I’m him. I’m me. I’m Yuguo! His eyes snapped open. He was in his body. His body made of molten gold. No, not gold, flesh and blood.

She arched an eyebrow. “You already know?” “I stole his soul, lost his soul, exorcised his soul from another person’s body, stuffed him in a bottle, pulled a short con, and now the Choir thinks I’m Gilles de Rais.” Pixie just stared at me. She rested her palms on the tabletop. “You have got,” she said, “to do a better job of keeping me in the loop.” “It’s been a really busy couple of days.

Opening your DAW and listening to your 8 bar loop for twenty minutes is NOT making music. It's just procrastinating.

To redress the balance, in measuring what he liked least, he utilized what he loved most: music! Rather than hours, minutes, seconds, he used albums, songs, and beats. The length of the period between two succeeding things was tantamount to the length of a certain song played over and over again. Basically it was good to be reminded that unlike time, music could always be rewound, forwarded, paused, and replayed. Music was no swollen corpse. It did not glue itself to the one-way current of time heading toward a phony notion of progress. The circular loop of songs eased the burden of the irreversibility of linear time.

Ghost tracks are a common secret among producers. The basic idea is to grab a loop or section from a song you like and start playing along to it.

I don’t want to hurt you,” he said softly, “but I can’t seem to stop myself from wanting you.” Her ribs cinched tight, stealing her air for a second. “Finn…” He looked up, pushing her hair away from her face, apologies in his eyes. “It’s selfish. I feel like a vampire, taking all I can from you, sucking up the light before I have to go back into the cave. I’m trained to evaluate worst-case scenarios. This scenario is only going to get worse the longer I stick around, but I can’t stop, even when I know I should walk away now. I can’t quit you. Tell me to leave you alone, Liv. Tell me you don’t want me here.” The words wound through Liv like a song, a melancholy one that simultaneously made her want to smile and cry. She stared at him, at the earnest green eyes, the stubbled cheeks, the beautiful sweet boy who’d turned into a beautiful caring man. One who thought he was breaking his personal code by being here with her, putting her heart at risk. She slid her hands onto his shoulders. “I’m not going to lie to you. And what’s the worst-case scenario? I fall in love?” He winced and glanced away. “Right.” She leaned forward and brushed her lips over his cheek, bravery swelling in her. “I have good news then.” He met her gaze. “You’re already too late. Worst-case scenario achieved. So you might as well ride it out to the end now and make it worth it.” He inhaled a sharp breath, his expression going slightly panicked. “Liv.” She pressed her fingers over his mouth, her heart beating wildly but her voice staying steady. “Don’t freak out about what’s already done. When you leave, no matter what, you can know that you gave me a gift. You reminded me that I’m capable of feeling this.” She looped her arms around his neck. “Now let me feel it, Finn. Don’t take that away by trying to protect me. I don’t need your protection. I just need you to be yourself with me. I love you. And you will leave. And I will be okay.” She said the words almost more to herself than to him. She had to believe that. Had to hold on to that. Because there was no putting the feelings back in a box. They were there. Maybe had always been there on some level, waiting to bloom again. They would come along with a broken heart, but for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt fully present. Alive. Real. For that, she would pay the price.

Was your dad mad?” I ask. It matters. It really does. I want her parents to like me, but I’m afraid I’m going about it all wrong. I’ve never met a girl’s parents before. Never had any need to. But with Reagan… Everything is different. She shrugs. “A little.” She laughs. “We had a talk about how to knee you in the nuts, the fact that men only want one thing, and then he gave me way TMI about birth control.” I stop walking. Wow. That’s a lot to take in. “You talk with your dad about that stuff?” She shrugs. “Some of it. He sent me to my mom for the rest of it.” “The rest of what?” Her cheeks get even rosier. “The talk about birth control and all that stuff.” “Oh,” I say. I sound like an idiot. But she just threw me for a loop. She walks toward a fence and bends to duck between the rails. I follow her, and Link does, too. He’s in his own world, and I think he’s singing a song. But it’s so soft, I can’t tell. “So, you’re…um…thinking about that kind of stuff, huh?” She bites her lower lip and nods. “Yep.” “I…ah…don’t know what to say about that.” I take my cap off and scratch the back of my head. “You don’t have to say anything,” she says with a shrug. “I just wanted you to know I’m thinking about it.” Oh, Jesus Christ. My heart trips in my chest like crazy. Shit just got real.

Hunter?” She grasped his shoulders for support, digging her nails into his flesh. “Hunter?” “I am here. Be easy.” He slid a hand to the nape of her neck and turned her face back to him. “Be easy.” Loretta’s legs felt like wet clay. As his mouth again claimed hers, a hundred possibilities ran through her mind, all frightening. Then sensation wiped out everything. There was only Hunter, solid and warm and gentle, holding her in rock-hard arms, his body bracing hers. Even in her inexperience, she sensed that kissing was new to him, that he was doing it only to please her. But after a few experimental nibbles, he mastered the art, claiming her mouth with a shattering thoroughness, his tongue thrusting deep, the sensuous rhythm he struck as old as time. Loretta leaned into him, sliding her hands into his hair, forgetting for a moment to be afraid. Looping an arm under her bottom, he lifted her against him. She could feel his heart slamming. Or was it hers? It didn’t matter. All that mattered were the feelings sweeping through her. When at last Hunter drew back for air, his dark eyes were cloudy with tenderness. He smiled a slow, thoughtful smile and, sliding her down his thighs, let her feet touch the floor. With infinite slowness he grasped the tails of her overblouse and skimmed the leather lightly up her ribs, grazing her sensitized breasts. Loretta glued her gaze to his, bracing herself. “I’m frightened,” she said shakily. “I am frightened beside you,” he murmured. “You? But why are you--” “Because you are sunshine. Because you make a glad song inside me. I have great fear that you will go away from me.” He drew the blouse over her head and tossed it aside. Smiling, he smoothed her hair, then lifted its heavy length to resettle it around her white shoulders so it covered her breasts. Skimming his palms down her slender arms, he found the drawstring that held up her skirt and made fast work of untying the knot. “Nei com-mar-pe ein.” She clutched her skirt. “What does that mean?” “I love you.” “Oh, Hunter.

We plant the seeds of resilience in the ways we process negative events. After spending decades studying how people deal with setbacks, psychologist Martin Seligman found that three P’s can stunt recovery: (1) personalization—the belief that we are at fault; (2) pervasiveness—the belief that an event will affect all areas of our life; and (3) permanence—the belief that the aftershocks of the event will last forever. The three P’s play like the flip side of the pop song “Everything Is Awesome”—“everything is awful.” The loop in your head repeats, “It’s my fault this is awful. My whole life is awful. And it’s always going to be awful.

A strip of white paper was looped around the seat of the toilet bowl to certify that no one had sat there since the strip was placed in position. The toilet paper from the toilet-paper holder in the wall to the left of the toilet seat was soft and very absorbent, and would stick to the anus.

Earth, air, fire, and water," he began. "The ancient Greek philosopher Empedocles says that these four elements are the roots of everything." Here was the garden he inherited from Leah. Celia, who mostly tended it, called it her sculpture in four dimensions, the fourth being time. Perhaps all sculpture changed over time, with decay and dissolution setting in, rust and chipping and breakage. But marble or bronze evolved so slowly, and their changes were unintended, while the garden was always in visible flux, each morning a new unfolding. Celia always said that the flower beds were a progression of looping actions: each plant opening, blooming, fading, setting seed, drooping, falling; and each seed rooting, sprouting, budding, blooming. And the seasons, the moons and days, the pendulum of darkness and light, the beat of the cardinal's song. Was the earth, then, our real timepiece? Stop, Pindar. Pay attention. "But Empedocles also said that our spirits have successive lives, born sometimes as the fair-tressed laurel trees, sometimes as lions who live in the golden grass...." A shifting of the light through the trees made Pindar notice the Queen Anne's lace in its brass vase. Constellations of tiny white stars swirled in a galactic umbrella the size of his hand- who was above? Who below? Beside their lacy flaring explosives symmetry, the black-eyed Susans gazed at him with their fierce yellow. Wide-open, with none of the hidden turns and caverns of the lilies whose trumpets would be deep enough to incubate in, or at least hide one's thoughts in, though their scent would be too strong for the dinner table.

At the edge of the wolfswood, Bran turned in his basket for one last glimpse of the castle that had been his life. Wisps of smoke still rose into the grey sky, but no more than might have risen from Winterfell’s chimneys on a cold autumn afternoon. Soot stains marked some of the arrow loops, and here and there a crack or a missing merlon could be seen in the curtain wall, but it seemed little enough from this distance. Beyond, the tops of the keeps and towers still stood as they had for hundreds of years, and it was hard to tell that the castle had been sacked and burned at all. The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I’m not dead either.

She was no stranger to waiting, after all. Her men had always made her wait. “Watch for me, little Cat,” her father would always tell her, when he rode off to court or fair or battle. And she would, standing patiently on the battlements of Riverrun as the waters of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone flowed by. He did not always come when he said he would, and days would ofttimes pass as Catelyn stood her vigil, peering out between crenels and through arrow loops until she caught a glimpse of Lord Hoster on his old brown gelding, trotting along the rivershore toward the landing. “Did you watch for me?” he’d ask when he bent to bug her. “Did you, little Cat?” Brandon Stark had bid her wait as well. “I shall not be long, my lady,” he had vowed. “We will be wed on my return.” Yet when the day came at last, it was his brother Eddard who stood beside her in the sept. Ned had lingered scarcely a fortnight with his new bride before he too had ridden off to war with promises on his lips. At least he had left her with more than words; he had given her a son.

These points all center on self-awareness. When you do anything—eat breakfast, make love, think about the universe, write a pop song—your mind can be in only one of three states: unconscious, aware, and self-aware. When you are unconscious, your mind is passively receiving the constant stream of input from the outside world, with minimal reactions and no creativity. When you are aware, you pay attention to this stream of input. You select, decide, sort, process, and so on, making choices about what to accept and what to reject. When you are self-aware, you loop back on what you are doing, asking How is this for me? At any given moment, all three states coexist.

Love and aspirations! Let me take you behind the rainbow, And show you the colours of love, Let me make you wet with my feelings of love, As every droplet of my colourful feelings kisses you behind that rainbow. Let me borrow some colourful mist from the butterfly, And sprinkle it on your soul, Let me love you whole including your soul, As you become the envy of every butterfly. Let me take you to the garden of roses, lavenders and other beautiful flowers, And love you like careless lovers, Let us be those carefree and self indulgent lovers, As I secretly endow you with the beauty of all these flowers. Let us stand at the banks of the noisy rivulet, And flow with its hastiness in one direction, Let you be the sea and I will be the river flowing in this direction, As you and I become the part of the happily and always rushing rivulet. Let me take you to a place where it is always morning, And let the dew fall on your soul and quench you, Let you be the pasture of million grass blades as the dew drops kiss you, As you witness the wave of pleasure engulfing you , then only for you let me be this morning. Let me take you to the distant valley where the shepherdess sings a beautiful song, And you try to be her melody, Let me then be the every note of this melody, As you get drawn towards the mesmerising song. Let me make you sit before my mirror long enough, And fill myself just with your visual imaginations, Let there be no memory left in me except your imaginations, As I love you today Irma may it be till eternity, and yet not enough! Let me feel your bright body and deep eyes, under the sun, And I shall love you in presence of this universe, Let me kiss you , to feel you and to remember you just like this universe, As sometimes under the moonlight I feel you are my warmth and my only sun! Let me love you forever, Although loving is brief but forgetting is an infinite loop of time, So, let me love you Irma till the end of time, Because we were born for each other and to be together forever. Let me now take you to the pinnacle of hopes, dreams and beautiful aspirations, And you decide if you wish to push me into the abyss of nothingness, Let me tell you though, I shall find you even in that nothingness, Because as we both stood in front of the mirror, I hope you remember, my reflection was a representation of your beauty and aspirations!

A song can take you to so many places you have never been, revisit moments from life, channel a particular emotion, the one which makes you feel elated or lively. A verse, a melody, a couplet, an orchestra, a symphony, they become much more than an art piece, it becomes an emotion, a thought to occupy your mind and attribute focused time and attention.

I tugged her body against mine, tits pressing to me and damn near making me groan with longing before she slid her hands up my chest as we began to dance with one another. My body fell into a rhythm with hers so naturally that I swear even my heart was pounding to the tune. Her chest brushed mine, fingers skimming up my neck as my hand fell to the round curve of her ass and I tugged her closer. My gaze was on her mouth as the heat between us built in time with the movements of our bodies and our breaths mingled in the small space left dividing us. But just as I was starting to give serious consideration to an absolutely terrible idea, she turned in my arms, her ass pushing back into my crotch as she hooked one arm around the back of my neck. A real growl escaped me then as she ground herself against me, making my cock swell and my thoughts scatter as I lost all sense of everything other than this fucking girl in my arms as we danced together. I was vaguely aware of Seth dancing with Gwen beside us, but I couldn't tear my eyes from this perfect temptation in my arms. It was hotter than any sex I could ever remember having and neither of us had removed so much as a single item of clothing. Roxy kept dancing with her hand clasped around the back of my neck, the arch of her spine giving me a view down her shirt which I was having a damn hard time tearing my attention from. The fabric shifted and slipped across her skin, offering me the barest glimpse of her hardened nipples with every thump of the music and I licked my lips with the desire to suck on them. My dick was definitely letting itself be known as she continued to grind herself against me and as much as I was enjoying that friction, I really needed to make some effort to control myself. I grasped her hip and turned her around, the beast in me purring as she instantly looped her arms around my neck to draw me closer. I didn't even know how many songs had played while we'd been dancing and I didn't care because I knew it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. My gaze met hers and the fire in her was enough to set me alight too as she tilted her chin up and bit down on that full bottom lip. My attention was instantly hooked on her mouth, our bodies still moving together in this hot, endless friction which was begging for some relief. My resolve was snapping, all the reasons I had to pull away falling from my mind like flakes of snow trying to land on an inferno and I found myself leaning in, devouring the distance that parted us like I wanted to devour this beautiful creature in my arms. I tightened my grip on her waist, letting her feel the throbbing press of my dick driving into her and making it more than clear what I wanted to spend the rest of the night doing to her. I didn't care if she was a Vega, a princess, the architect of my fall from power, none of that mattered. Because all there was in that moment was her and me and the press of the heavens above us driving us together like we might burn up in the fire which blazed between us if we didn't just dive into it now. (Darius POV)

13. The Chemical Brothers, “Setting Sun” (1996) Everybody’s favorite song in the fall of 1996, uniting rockers, ravers, clubbers, druggers, all factions of the pop massive. The Chemical Brothers turn “Tomorrow Never Knows” into a banging techno loop, warping Ringo’s block-rocking beats into something new. “Setting Sun” is unaccountably obscure these days, considering what a fact of life it was for a year or so, but it’s a song that accurately predicted the future. There was nothing retro about it; instead of capitulating to the past, the Chemicals complimented it enough to ransack it. In this song, the Beatles aren’t legends or saints or icons—they’re a nasty drum break. The vocals were by Oasis’s Noel Gallagher, then Britannia’s biggest rock star, yet he sounded more antique than Ringo’s drums did. It was the ultimate Nineties statement of the Beatles as a right-now thing as opposed to a good-old-days thing.

Two things must happen to partake in this mindset of non-judging so that we can start dealing with stress better and gain greater well-being. Don't get angry at the little weirdo doing its thing. Be like, "whatever I don’t mind." Continue to bring your attention back to the song that you play. Feel the sound vibration. When you meditate, all kinds of thoughts and experiences will come up. Patience: understanding that growth happens in its own time. The mantra therapy session will clear your head and make you happier and brighter and relaxed and free of anxieties–these results are pretty instant. Yet, the meditation's long-term objectives including self-realization, liberation from fate, jumping out of the reincarnation loop... those don't happen overnight. We have a lot of karmic baggage from who knows how many lifetimes of gazillions. Don't overemphasize development. Be rest assured it will happen. Beginner’s mind: a mind that is willing to see everything as it is for the first time. The cornerstone of mindfulness practice lets us catch the "extraordinariness of the ordinary" of our perceptions of the present-moment.  This mentality encourages us to "be able to see everything as if it were the first time" Critical for practicing and participating in organized meditation practices, such as body scan, yoga, meditation, this sort of open-mindedness to new experiences "helps us to be receptive to new ideas and keeps us from getting stuck in the rut of our own wisdom, which often thinks it knows more than it does." They have no assumptions resulting from past experiences with the mind of the beginner.  This reminds us that every single moment, by definition, has unique possibilities.  The subconscious of the novice is working as de-clutterer.  With it, we can see, witness, hear, and learn of our universe's beings, places, and stuff, as they really are and in the moment.  Our ideas, feelings and desires no longer filter or place a curtain on our everyday lives. Trust – No Imitations, Live Own Life, and Honor Own Feelings, Intuitions, Wisdom, and Goodness An integral part of the training and practice of mindfulness includes the development of a simple trust in yourself and emotions.  Guidance comes from within you— your own instincts, your own strength.  The foundation involves looking inward rather than outward.  Your mindset here indicates that you value your own fundamental intelligence and goodness.  Your thoughts are honored.  An analogy here may be linked to backing off a stretch during yoga practice.  The mindfulness ethic "accentuates being your own human and knowing what it means to be yourself" Being your own individual means you are not mimicking someone else.

Singapore Why should I book a live band for my wedding? Merry Bees Merry Bees have serenaded dignitaries at the Istana. Merry bees provide services to their customers like Solo Live Music, Virtual live band, Solo Musician, Solo Wedding Singer, Instrumental live band, Corporate Live Band, wedding livestream etc. their all the services are quite good. Merry bees also performed at TV programmes and other high profile events including APEC, F1 Singapore Grand Prix, Young NTUC Celebrates NDP, DBS, Prudential, Maersk, Singapore Sports Awards, etc. Merry Bees have produced and performed to over 2,000 successful events. When COVID-19 hit us in 2020, Merry Bees was one of the first few events companies in Singapore who adapted quickly to virtual. Merry bees have produced and live streamed to over 250 events and performances by Dec 2020. Apart from that merry bees also provide Content creation, Videography, livestream production, Corporate Videography Merry bees are emotionally attached with their each client. ShiLi & Adi TWO IS BETTER THAN ONE It is no surprise that ShiLi & Adi are a highly sought after duo in the wedding live bands and corporate events circuit due to their fresh piano arrangements and smooth vocal harmony. From duets and their ability to medley any songs dedicated by the audience, their chemistry is unmistakable. John Lye Live Looping Singer Guitarist, Bilingual Emcee & Host, Production & Technical Director John Lye is one of the most versatile performers we know with 12 years of performing experience under his belt. As part of our core team and co-founder of Merry Bees, John wears many hats but his biggest hat would be charming audiences with a wide vocal range and solid guitar live looping skills, as he switches effortlessly from heavy old school rock ballads of Journey and Bon Jovi to classics from Sinatra and Nat King Cole in various languages. Merry bees have many live offers you can book merry bees to make your special day wonderful.

What is it about the Greek character that has allowed this complex culture to thrive for millennia? The Greek Isles are home to an enduring, persevering people with a strong work ethic. Proud, patriotic, devout, and insular, these hardy seafarers are the inheritors of working methods that are centuries old. On any given day, fishermen launch their bots at dawn in search of octopi, cuttlefish, sponges, and other gifts of the ocean. Widows clad in black dresses and veils shop the local produce markets and gather in groups of two and three to share stories. Artisans stich decorative embroidery to adorn traditional costumes. Glassblowers, goldsmiths, and potters continue the work of their ancient ancestors, ultimately displaying their wares in shops along the waterfronts. The Greeks’ dedication to time-honored occupations and hard work is harmoniously complemented by their love of dance, song, food, and games. Some of the earliest works of art from the Greek Isles--including Minoan paintings from the second millennium B.C.E.--depict the central, day-to-day role of dance, and music. Today, life is still lived in common, and the old ways often survive in a deep separation between the worlds of women and men. In the more rural areas, dancing and drinking are--officially at least--reserved for men, as the women watch from windows and doorways before returning to their tasks. At seaside tavernas throughout the Greek Isles, old men sip raki, a popular aniseed-flavored liqueur, while playing cards or backgammon under grape pergolas that in late summer are heavy with ripe fruit. Woven into this love of pleasure, however, are strands of superstition and circumspection. For centuries, Greek artisans have crafted the lovely blue and black glass “eyes” that many wear as amulets to ward off evil spirits. They are given as baby and housewarming gifts, and are thought to bring good luck and protect their wearers from the evil eye. Many Greeks carry loops of wooden or glass beads--so-called “worry beads”--for the same purpose. Elderly women take pride in their ability to tell fortunes from the black grounds left behind in a cup of coffee.

I am the default woman who was never noted as special. I'm the tolerant one that he's blessed to have. Im not the Apple of anyone's eye. I'm not the one longed for or the one that is dreamed about. I am the woman that sticks around and gives her all. Im not the woman that he's always wanted. I remember writing a song for him and he blew it off. I remember trying to spoil him and he barely reacted.. I remember feeling foolish for him and he quickly became comfortable and then I was just "the wife". I remember being told that "I cheated him" as if I deliberately decieved him and little did I know I was the one who was being deceived. I was being looked down on. I would never compare. I was not good enough in the eyes of him, her or the family. I remember trying to motivate only to be blamed for being part of the reason for poor family ties. I remember having to stand up for myself. I remember giving birth multiple times only to feel afterwards that maybe he wished it had been someone else baring his children. Ive read oh God what you think of me. I'm losing the battle in my mind. How many times will I take up arms in this battle only to find myself dying to sleep and waking up to fight it all over again. This woman will not die and the fight is not changing. It's like a self defeat life loop of my reincarnated self. Just thinking.