Stare Into The Void Quotes

I'm in love with you," he said quietly. "Augustus," I said. "I am," he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'm in love with you, and I'm not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I'm in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we're all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we'll ever have, and I am in love with you.

Stood in firelight, sweltering. Bloodstain on chest like map of violent new continent. Felt cleansed. Felt dark planet turn under my feet and knew what cats know that makes them scream like babies in night. Looked at sky through smoke heavy with human fat and God was not there. The cold, suffocating dark goes on forever and we are alone. Live our lives, lacking anything better to do. Devise reason later. Born from oblivion; bear children, hell-bound as ourselves, go into oblivion. There is nothing else. Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It’s us. Only us. Streets stank of fire. The void breathed hard on my heart, turning its illusions to ice, shattering them. Was reborn then, free to scrawl own design on this morally blank world. Was Rorschach. Does that answer your Questions, Doctor?

Like the famous mad philosopher said, when you stare into the void, the void stares also; but if you cast into the void, you get a type conversion error. (Which just goes to show Nietzsche wasn't a C++ programmer.)

The weaver went on, “I have to create, or it was all for nothing. I have to create, or I will crumple up with despair and never leave my bed. I have to create because I have no other way of voicing this.” Her hand rested on her heart, and my eyes burned. “It is hard,” the weaver said, her stare never leaving mine, “and it hurts, but if I were to stop, if I were to let this loom or the spindle go silent …” She broke my gaze at last to look to her tapestry. “Then there would be no Hope shining in the Void.

I’m in love with you,” he said quietly. "Augustus," I said. "I am," he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I’m in love with you, and I’m not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I’m in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we’re all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we’ll ever have, and I am in love with you.

I did my best to fight and claw my way back to the life I once knew, but panic had taken over and colors were swirling and fading all around me. It was all turning into a great cloud of blackness, just like the one I had seen in my dream. The looming cloud of nothingness I had feared for so long was finally grabbing me, wiping my world dark and blank. The darkness was thick and intense, an inky void that stretched to eternity in every direction. Eventually my panic burnt itself out and I simply stayed there in the dark, feeling as if someone had drained my adrenal glands. I was no longer responding to the dark with fear, but acceptance. In fact, curiosity was beginning to take over. The longer I let myself stare into it, the less dark it appeared. After some time, I realized that it was all different shades of murky black and foggy gray overlapping and undulating, just out of focus. I blinked mentally and suddenly she was there, standing above me with concern etched in sooty-colored lines on her monochromatic face.

But sometimes even shouting into a void feels better than just staring into it.

Love"I'm in love with you," he said quietly. "Augustus,"I said. "I am," he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'm in love with you, and I'm not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I'm in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we're all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we'll ever have, and I am in love with you." "Augustus," I said again, not knowing what else to say. It felt like everything was rising up in me, like I was drowning in this weirdly painful joy, but I couldn't say it back. I couldn't say anything back. I just looked at him and let him look at me until he nodded, lips pursed, and turned away, placing the side of his head against the window.

Okay, you know, is it weird to get so depressed watching a children’s Christmas special— Oh, wait, I shouldn’t say that. I mean, that’s not a good word. It’s not just “sadness,” the way one feels sad at a film or a funeral. It’s more of a plummeting quality. Or the way, you know, the way that light gets in winter just before dusk, or the way she is with me. All right, at the height of lovemaking, you know, the very height, when she’s starting to climax, and she’s really responding to you now, you know, her eyes widening in that way that’s both, you know, surprise and recognition, which not a woman alive could fake or feign if you really look intently at her, really see her. And I don’t know, this moment has this piercing sadness to it, of the loss of her in her eyes. And as her eyes, you know, widen to their widest point and as she begins to climax and arch her back, they close. You know, shut, the eyes do. And I can tell that she’s closed her eyes to shut me out. You know, I become like an intruder. And behind those closed lids, you know, her eyes are now rolled all the way around and staring intently inward into some void where l, who sent them, can’t follow.

I argued for a Kindle but they pointed out that if it could be associated with me, then the information bleed—Amazon logging every page turn and annotation—was a potential security hazard. Not to mention the darker esoteric potential of spending too much time staring at a device controlled by a secretive billionaire in Seattle. The void stares also, and so on.

Still perfect,” he said. “Read to me.” “This isn’t really a poem to read aloud when you are sitting next to your sleeping mother. It has, like, sodomy and angel dust in it,” I said. “You just named two of my favorite pastimes,” he said. “Okay, read me something else then?” “Um,” I said. “I don’t have anything else?” “That’s too bad. I am so in the mood for poetry. Do you have anything memorized?” “‘Let us go then, you and I,’” I started nervously, “‘When the evening is spread out against the sky / Like a patient etherized upon a table.’” “Slower,” he said. I felt bashful, like I had when I’d first told him of An Imperial Affliction. “Um, okay. Okay. ‘Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, / The muttering retreats / Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels / And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: / Streets that follow like a tedious argument / Of insidious intent / To lead you to an overwhelming question . . . / Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” / Let us go and make our visit.’” “I’m in love with you,” he said quietly. “Augustus,” I said. “I am,” he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I’m in love with you, and I’m not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I’m in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we’re all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we’ll ever have, and I am in love with you.” “Augustus,” I said again, not knowing what else to say. It felt like everything was rising up in me, like I was drowning in this weirdly painful joy, but I couldn’t say it back. I

In French, there’s a phrase for the random urge to jump from high places, the irrational desire to swerve into traffic despite imminent destruction: l'appel du vide, the call of the void. Those sudden feral impulses tend to be shoved away immediately, but humans still experience them. What if you jumped? What if you touched the fire? What if? What if? When I looked at him, staring at me, the void called.

It's not going to make the slightest difference...But sometimes even shouting into a void feels better than just staring into it.

Stare deep into the world before you as if it were the void: innumerable holy ghosts, buddhies, and savior gods there hide, smiling. All the atoms emitting light inside wavehood, there is no personal separation of any of it. A hummingbird can come into a house and a hawk will not: so rest and be assured. While looking for the light, you may suddenly be devoured by the darkness and find the true light.

She paused, staring into the void. The void, for its part, stared back unblinking.

When outsiders stare into the void that is today’s North Korea, they think of remote villages of Africa or Southeast Asia where the civilizing hand of electricity has not yet reached. But North Korea is not an undeveloped country; it is a country that has fallen out of the developed world. You can see the evidence of what once was and what has been lost dangling overhead alongside any major North Korean road — the skeletal wires of the rusted electrical grid that once covered the entire country.

Winter looked at Leven. Leven looked right back at her. Winter's cheeks burned red and her green eyes outshone Leven's. The two of them stared at one another and then, as if they were destined to, thay began to lean into one another, Leven closed his eyes. "What are you doing?" Geth asked concerned. Winter closed his eyes too and leaned close. Both of them looked panicked and out of control, but it didn't stop them from moving closer and kissing each other. Clover's jaw dropped and he pulled something out of his void just so he could let go of it in shock.

People can't anticipate how much they'll miss the natural world until they are deprived of it. I have read about submarine crewmen who haunt the sonar room, listening to whale songs and colonies of snapping shrimp. Submarine captains dispense 'periscope liberty'- a chance to gaze at clouds and birds and coastlines and remind themselves that the natural world still exists. I once met a man who told me that after landing in Christchurch, New Zealand, after a winter at the South Pole research station, he and his companions spent a couple days just wandering around staring in awe at flowers and trees. At one point, one of them spotted a woman pushing a stroller. 'A baby!' he shouted, and they all rushed across the street to see. The woman turned the stroller and ran.

I noticed for the first time that his expression was completely changed - strangely expressionless, eyes out of focus. He seemed to be staring into a void.

You're going to be okay," Winter said reassuringly. You don't understand," Leven snapped. What don't I understand?" Winters voice was stern. "Sorry you feel bad, but its not like you just met a person so beautiful that now you feel completely worthless." What?" Leven said. "What are you talking about?" Isaw the way you fell over yourselves to stare at her." That was Geth." Don't argue, you two," Geth said. Were not arguing." Leven felt light-headed. No," Winter confirmed. "We're just...." Winter looked at Leven. Leven looked right back at her. Winters cheeks burned red and her green eyes outshone Leven's. The two of them stared at one other. Leven closed his eyes. What are you doing?" Geth asked, concerned. Winter closed her eyes too and leaned closer. Both of them looked panicked and out of control, but it didn't stop them from moving closer and kissing each other. Clovers jaw dropped and he pulled something out of his void just so he could let go of it in shock. Even Geth looked caught off guard, as if he'd been given news that he never thought he'd hear in his lifetime. Leven stumbled back and looked at Winter. His face was almost as red as hers. He looked at Geth and Clover and then back to Winter. Well that was interesting," Clover said happily. I don't know what....." Leven tried to say. No, I......" Winter said. "Its not you.... it's just that my... I think I left something down below.

Billie lies awake for a long time, watching the passing lights of cars on the highway and thinking about a strange phenomenon the French call l’appel du vide, the call of the void. It’s when you stand up high, staring into an abyss, and have a strong desire to throw yourself into it. It can take other forms. You might be driving and suddenly think about jerking the wheel, sending your car into oncoming traffic. Or you might be out for a hike and fantasize about hurling yourself off a cliff. It is not a suicidal impulse. In fact, it is the opposite. Psychologists say it’s actually about how much a person wants to live. They perceive a nearby threat to themselves and they think about that threat because they want so much to survive.

Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It’s us. Only us. Streets stank of fire. The void breathed hard on my heart, turning its illusions to ice, shattering them. Was reborn then, free to scrawl own design on this morally blank world.

Suddenly, one day, out of nowhere, an enormous abyss opened up beneath our feet and I was staring into a face I didn't recognize.

When he’s staring into a screen, he’s staring into the abyss. That void of his own making. Of course the abyss would stare back at you.

The void in his heart was gone. But he didn't notice. He was too busy staring at the girl in front him.

when you stare into the void, the void stares also; but if you cast into the void, you get a type conversion error.

Outside I hopped into our vehicle, the taint of vampiric magic clinging to me like greasy smoke. “I feel soiled.” “Like walking into a room after a day of work, falling into bed, and realizing the sheets are covered in cold K-Y jelly,” Raphael said. I just stared at him. “With a funky smell,” he added. My Order conditioning failed me. “Ew.” Raphael grinned. “I‟m not even going to ask if that‟s happened to you.” I started the vehicle. “Has that happened to you?” “Yes.” Ew. “Where?” “In the bouda house. I was really tired and you‟ve seen that place: everything smells like sex . . .” “I don‟t want to know.” I peeled out of the parking lot. "So where are we going?” “To Spider Lynn‟s house. We‟re going to dig through her trash, and if that doesn‟t work, we‟ll do some breaking and entering.” Raphael frowned. “Do you know where she lives?” “Yes. I memorized the addresses of all the Masters of the Dead in the city. I have a lot of time on my hands.” He squinted at me, looking remarkably like a gentleman pirate from my favorite romance novels. “What else do you store in your head?” “This and that. I remember the first thing you ever said to me. You know, when you carried me from the cart into the tub so your mother could fix me.” “I imagine it was something very romantic,” he said. “Something along the lines of „I‟ve got you‟ or „I won‟t let you die.‟ “I was bleeding in the bathtub, trying to realign my bones, and my hyena glands voided from the pain. You said, „Don‟t worry, we have an excellent filtration system.‟” The look on his face was priceless. “That can‟t be the first thing.” “It was.” We drove in silence. “About the K-Y,” Raphael said. “I don‟t want to know!‟ “Once I washed it out of my hair—” “Raphael, why are you doing this?” “I want to make you go "Ew‟ again.” “Why in the world would you want to do that?” “It‟s an irrepressible male impulse. It just has to be done. As I was saying, once I washed it out—” “Raphael!” “No, wait, you‟ll like the next part.

Congratulations,” he says. Uh? “On your Ph.D.” “W-what?” “A noteworthy accomplishment,” he continues, serious, calm, “given that less than twenty-four hours ago you weren’t even working on one.” I exhale deeply. “Listen, it’s not what you—” “Will you be leaving your post at the library, or are you planning on a dual career? I’d be worried for your schedule, but I hear that theoretical physics often consists of staring into the void and jotting down the occasional mathematical symbol—

In my dream, we were tiny specks in a vast, uncaring universe. I tried to count all the atoms, but I felt infinity staring back at me. And it was terrifying. I realized something. I'm just the vibration of a few atoms that happened to clump together, an impossibly unique combination that will eventually dismantle, and drift apart forever. And then I'll be gone too, into an unimaginable void, where even sadness can't exist.

The industrialist (your boss, perhaps) demands that everything be proven, efficient, and risk free. The artist seeks none of these. The value of art is in your willingness to stare down the risk and to embrace the void of possible failure.

After the small woman had left, Ushikawa stared at the door for the longest time. She had shut the door behind her, but there was still a strong sense of her in the room. Maybe in exchange for leaving a trace of herself behind, she had taken away a part of Ushikawa's soul. He could feel that new void within his chest. Why did this happen? he wondered, finding it odd. And what could it possibly mean?

What have I done? Sweet Jesus, what have I done? Become a thief in the night, Become a dog on the run And have I fallen so far, And is the hour so late That nothing remains but the cry of my hate, The cries in the dark that nobody hears, Here where I stand at the turning of the years? If there's another way to go I missed it twenty long years ago My life was a war that could never be won They gave me a number and murdered Valjean When they chained me and left me for dead Just for stealing a mouthful of bread Yet why did I allow that man To touch my soul and teach me love? He treated me like any other He gave me his trust He called me brother My life he claims for God above Can such things be? For I had come to hate the world This world that always hated me Take an eye for an eye! Turn your heart into stone! This is all I have lived for! This is all I have known! One word from him and I'd be back Beneath the lash, upon the rack Instead he offers me my freedom I feel my shame inside me like a knife He told me that I have a soul, How does he know? What spirit comes to move my life? Is there another way to go? I am reaching, but I fall And the night is closing in And I stare into the void To the whirlpool of my sin I'll escape now from the world From the world of Jean Valjean Jean Valjean is nothing now Another story must begin!

Humanity was a precipice and she was standing on the edge of it, staring into the wild and yawning void that encompassed all things bestial and frightening. It would be so easy to jump, to let go and fall in—but once she started falling, her fear was that she would never stop.

In French, there’s a phrase for the random urge to jump from high places, the irrational desire to swerve into traffic despite imminent destruction: l'appel du vide, the call of the void. Those sudden feral impulses tend to be shoved away immediately, but humans still experience them. What if you jumped? What if you touched the fire? What if? What if? When I looked at him, staring at me, the void called. What if?

am a high-functioning depressed and anxious person. I know it can manifest in myriad ways, but mine are these: (1) extreme inertia, but never at the expense of my employment, so mostly bailing on friends who want to hang out and feeling extremely apathetic toward doing “fun” things that aren’t lying very still; (2) self-soothing with food, though never in shocking amounts, mostly just staring into the void while eating ice cream over the sink, then realizing, “oops, the pint is finished”; (3) fear of trying new things or venturing out of a comfort zone, clinging to childhood demons as a means of never actually having to move forward; (4) blistering resentment for the outwardly happy and seemingly well-adjusted.

She closed her eyes briefly, feeling sick. Olivia had experienced strangulation before. Having to look directly into the face of the person who was killing you made the experience beyond awful. But there were worse things than that. Staring into the void of unresolved memory, living an eternal mystery, waking up night after night seeing the face of someone you desperately wanted to save but having not the slightest clue how to do it—all that was worse. If going through with this experience gave her the answers she needed, if it gave her peace, it would be well worth one-hundred-and-thirty seconds of fear and pain.

Brystal shook her head and stared at her teacher in disbelief. "I don't get it," she said. "After everything you've been through, how do you manage to stay so optimistic? Why aren't you angry all the time?" Madame Weatherberry went quiet as she thought about Brystal's question, and then a confident smile grew on her face. "Because we're the lucky ones," she said. "To fight for love and acceptance is to know love and acceptance. And anyone who actively tries to steal these qualities from others is admitting they've never known love at all. The people who want to hate and hurt us are so deprived of compassion they believe the only way to fill the voids in their hearts is to create voids in the hearts of others. So I render them powerless by refusing to accept their voids." Brystal let out a deep sigh and looked hopelessly to the floor. "It's a nice philosophy," she said. "It just seems easier said than done." Madame Weatherberry reached across her desk and squeezed Brystals hand. "We must pity the people who choose to hate, Brystal," she said. "Their lives will never be as meaningful as the lives filled with love.

I've always thought of myself as a big music fan. When I walk to the station, or when I'm waiting for a friend or a train, I listen to music on my phone. I go to festivals and shows every summer. But listening to music alone in my room, with all the tome in the world... I wouldn't know what to do with myself. An artist, someone I couldn't see, singing, putting their heart and soul into it. Where should I look, What kind of face should I make? The more members in the band, the more awkward I feld. What did other people do - people who thought of themselves as music lovers? Did they just sit there with their eyes closed as they took it in? Did they stare off, bobbing their heads and moving along to the music?

Christina faced the darkened window, stared out into the void. Her arms burned. She scratched and scratched at them, felt the skin collect under her nails. She scratched harder...

What does the anticipation feel like? The sensation of staring into the void, the awareness of an end’s impending arrival? Burning and being extinguished simultaneously?

Ne wonders what it is like to burn, staring at one’s ending right around the corner, and yet not knowing how the end will come, when one will be fully consumed by the void.

Staring up at the night sky each star is another world, another point of consciousness we can never know. Each raindrop beading down the window, throbbing with cell-life. And within each cell a single thought, a solitary impulse, the desire to evolve. The desire to live and stare into the void and say: I am more than just a speck of light in the eye of death

The darkness turns on Addie, then, and there is no vestige of Luc in the roiling smoke. There are no green eyes. No playful smirk. Nothing but a menacing void, a shadow filled with teeth. It has been a long time since Addie felt true fear. Sadness, she knows; loneliness and grief. But fear belongs to those with more to lose. And yet. Staring into that dark, Addie is afraid.

Ben, everything is going to get better," he heard her say in the void. "Really. It has to get better, because it can't get worse." Ben opened his eyes with a jolt, staring at himself in the mirror. That's not true, he suddenly thought. It can definitely get worse. As he nodded at Sara and pretended to smile, he understood that it was the first intelligent thought he had ever had.

You... didn't use the knockout pills, I take it?" he finally asked, staring out into the void. I shook my head. He sat down and we spilt the last Twinkie. "You realise we just sent a herd of flying pigs soaring out over medieval Wales," I said, sometime later, when the last little oinking cloud had disappeared over the horizon. "Hm." "You don't look too concerned." Rosier got to his feet and then actually extended a hand to help me up. "Maybe it will give the Pythias something else to do. And in any case......" "In any case?" " Well. The expression had to start somewhere, didn't it?

So unprivileged, indeed, is my head in the mirror, that I don’t necessarily take it to be mine: as a very young child I didn’t recognize myself in the glass, and neither do I now, when for a moment I regain my lost innocence. In my saner moments I see the man over there, the too-familiar fellow who lives in that other bathroom behind the looking-glass and seemingly spends all his time staring into this bathroom - that small, dull, circumscribed, particularized, aging, and oh-so-vulnerable gazer - as the opposite in every way of my real Self here. I have never been anything but this ageless, measureless, lucid and altogether immaculate Void: it is unthinkable that I could ever have confused that staring wraith over there with what I plainly perceive myself to be here and now and always!

Her blank eyes burrowed through the fetid air between herself and her visitor. They were without content; hollow pools of meaninglessness. They were not eyes, but voids sunk between two jutting pent-houses of bone and two bloodless hummocks of cheek. They suspended two raw rods of grief before their own immobility, like frozen fountains in a bright wintry air; and on these rods the fluttering rags of a futile grief were hung.

I am, he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. I’m in love with you, and I’m not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I’m in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we’re all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we’ll ever have, and I am in love with you.

I’m in love with you,” he said quietly. “Augustus,” I said. “I am,” he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I’m in love with you, and I’m not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I’m in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we’re all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we’ll ever have, and I am in love with you.

I'm in love with you," he said quietly. "Augustus," I said. "I am," he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'm in love with you, and I'm not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I'm in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we're all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we'll ever have, and I am in love with you.

She clicked open the door and glided into the back seat like a summer breeze through an open window on the highway. "Where are you heading?", His Southern twang reminded her of home, but her eyes showed him no familiarity. She stared at him, void of expression, her thoughts racing. "Miss?", he persisted. "Anywhere. Please. Just drive.", she replied tersely, not sure if she even wanted her mind to join her in the back seat. The driver stared into her eyes and somehow understood, he started the engine and on they went. Two strangers, a blur of yellow, in pursuit of nowhere.

You... didn't use the knockout pills, I take it?" he finally asked, staring out into the void. I shook my head. He sat down and we spilt the last Twinkie. "You realise we just sent a herd of flying pigs soaring out over medieval Wales," I said, sometime later, when the last little oinking cloud had disappeared over the horizon. "Hm." "You don't look too concerned." Rosier got to his feet and then actually extended a hand to help me up. "Maybe it will give the Pythias something else to do. And in any case......" "I any case?" " Well. The expression had to start somewhere, didn't it?

Time, like a skilful tailor, had seamlessly stitched together the two fabrics that sheathed Peri’s life: what people thought of her and what she thought of herself. The impression she left on others and her self-perception had been sewn into a whole so consummate that she could no longer tell how much of each day was defined by what was wished upon her and how much of it was what she really wanted. She often felt the urge to grab a bucketful of soapy water and scrub the streets, the public squares, the government, the parliament, the bureaucracy, and, while she was at it, wash out a few mouths too. There was so much filth to clean up; so many broken pieces to fix; so many errors to correct. Every morning when she left her house she let out a quiet sigh, as if in one breath she could will away the detritus of the previous day. While Peri questioned the world without fail, and was not one to keep silent in the face of injustice, she had resolved some years ago to be content with what she had. It would therefore come as a surprise when, on a middling kind of day, at the age of thirty-five, established and respected, she found herself staring at the void in her soul.

Thomas had no concept of time as he went through the Changing. It started much like his first memory of the Box—dark and cold. But this time he had no sensation of anything touching his feet or body. He floated in emptiness, stared into a void of black. He saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing. It was as if someone had stolen his five senses, leaving him in a vacuum. Time stretched on. And on. Fear turned into curiosity, which turned into boredom. Finally, after an interminable wait, things began to change. A distant wind picked up, unfelt but heard. Then a swirling mist of whiteness appeared far in the distance—a spinning tornado of smoke that formed into a long funnel, stretching out until he could see neither the top nor the bottom of the white whirlwind. He felt the gales then, sucking into the cyclone so that it blew past him from behind, ripping at his clothes and hair like they were shredded flags caught in a storm. The tower of thick mist began to move toward him—or he was moving toward it, he couldn’t tell—increasing its speed at an alarming rate. Where seconds before he’d been able to see the distinct form of the funnel, he now could see only a flat expanse of white. And then it consumed him; he felt his mind taken by the mist, felt memories flood into his thoughts. Everything else turned into pain.

I felt bashful, like I had when I'd first told him of An Imperial Affliction. "Um, okay. Okay. 'Let us go, trough certain half-deserted streets,/ The muttering retreats/ Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels/ and sawdust restaurants with oyster shells:/ Streets that follow like a tedious argument/ Of insidious intent/ To lead you to an overwhelming question../Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"/ Let us go and make our visit" "I'm in love with you," he said quietly. "Augustus," I said. "I am, " he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'm in love with you, and I'm not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I'm in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we're all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we'll ever have, and I am in love with you." "Augustus," I said again, not knowing what else to say. It felt like everything was rising up in me, like I was drowning in this wierdly painful joy, but I couldn't say it back. I couldn't say it back. I just looked at him and let him look at me until he nodded, lips pursed, and turned away, placing the side of his head against the window.

For many of our Greek friends a book is a final desperate attempt to fill the existential void when there is no one to talk to, nothing to do, no television to view, nothing in the street to watch and even the middle distance holds nothing to stare at. To be seen carrying a book in public, let alone reading one, is a mark of eccentricity or foreignness.

Without really wanting to at all, they pay calls and carry on conversations, sit out their hours at desks and on office chairs; and it is all compulsory, mechanical and against the grain, and it could all be done or left undone just as well by machines; and indeed it is this never-ceasing machinery that prevents their being, like me, the critics of their own lives and recognizing the stupidity and shallowness, the hopeless tragedy and waste of the lives they lead, and the awful ambiguity grinning over it all. And they are right, right a thousand times to live as they do, playing their games and pursuing their business, instead of resisting the dreary machine and staring into the void as I do, who have left the track.

“Yuan, what if death is the key? Will we know everything, all secrets, all answers after we die?” “Maybe,” Yuan replied then, wanting to avoid the topic, not admitting he’d been thinking the same thing for a while. At that time, everyone thought of death, at least several times a day, just as people pray at every dawn and dusk. “Give me your word, Yuan,” Ruem then said, suddenly. “What word?” “That if you die before me, you’ll try your best to send me signs or a message. You’ll tell me what’s beyond.” Yuan only stared after what Ruem had said. He couldn’t say what if there was no beyond, what if it’s all empty, what if it’s just a dark void after death. He couldn’t answer, seeing Ruem’s blue eyes. Now that he remembers, the Mesmerizer had blue eyes then, before they turned red. “I give my word, Yagmur. If I die first, I will tell you everything I find, even if it requires me to come back after death,” Ruem promised. “If the beyond exists, that is,” he added. That day, Yuan gave his word too, and the word still remains. Someone truly evolved never breaks his word. Not even in death.

I stared at my illustrious leader for a moment, puzzled. “Isn’t that obvious? Who would be crazy enough to try close-range combat with that thing?” Chi sidled up and explained slowly, “MISD agents are not well known for their survival instincts.” I met him look for look. “I thought that was just you.” “No, I’m sadly par for the course.” “That’s disturbing.” It also explained a lot.

I’m in love with you, he said quietly. Augustus, I said. I am, he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. I’m in love with you, and I’m not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I’m in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we’re all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we’ll ever have, and I am in love with you. Augustus, I said again, not knowing what else to say. It felt like everything was rising up in me, like I was drowning in this weirdly painful joy, but I couldn’t say it back. I couldn’t say anything back. I just looked at him and let him look at me until he nodded, lips pursed, and turned away, placing the side of his head against the window.

The Fool in the Tarot deck frequently depicted a boy with a dog at his heels, staring at the sky while he walked blithely off a cliff, burdened only by a bundle on a stick. The diabolist had admitted a relationship to the card. No single detail was quite right, but much as something might appear similar if one were to unfocus their vision… The young diabolist walked with the sparrow at his shoulder, eyes on the windows without looking through the windows, walking forward as if he were afraid to stop. His burden here was the gas containers. No, he was burdened not just by the gas containers, but by some notion of responsibility. A man, when facing death, aspires to finish what he started. What had the custodian of the Thorburn estate started? What drove him? She knew he sought to do good and to vanquish evil, and she could surmise that both good acts and the existence of evil had touched him deeply. The Fool card was akin to the ace. Depending on the game being played, it was often the lowest card or the highest. Valueless or highly valued. Powerless or powerful. It all depended on context. He sought to kill the demon, and he would either catastrophically fail or succeed. This Fool sought to slay the metaphorical dragon. He felt his own mortality, which was quite possibly her fault, in part, and now he rushed to finish the task he’d set for himself. To better the world. The Fool was wrought with air – the clouds he gazed at, the void beyond the cliff, the feather in his cap, even the dog could often be found mid-step, bounding, just above the ground. He was a Fool wrought with a different element. The familiar didn’t quite fit for the departure from the air, but the traditional dog didn’t conjure ideas of air right off the bat either. What was he wrought with? That was another question that begged an answer.

It all came true, didn't it? ' said Woland, staring at the eyes of the head. ' Your head was cut off by a woman, the meeting didn't take place and I am living in your flat. That is a fact. And a fact is the most obdurate thing in the world. But what interests us now is the future, not the facts of the past. You have always been a fervent proponent of the theory that when a man's head is cut off his life stops, he turns to dust and he ceases to exist. I am glad to be able to tell you in front of all my guests-- despite the fact that their presence here is proof to the contrary --that your theory is intelligent and sound. Now--one theory deserves another. Among them there is one which maintains that a man will receive his deserts in accordance with his beliefs. So be it! You shall depart into the void and from the goblet into which your skull is about to be transformed I shall have the pleasure of drinking to life eternal!

Just as I dress and go out to visit the professor and exchange a few more or less insincere compliments with him, without really wanting to at all, so it is with the majority of men day by day and hour by hour in their daily lives and affairs. Without really wanting to at all, they pay calls and carry on conversations, sit out their hours at desks and on office chairs; and it is all compulsory, mechanical and against the grain, and it could all be done or left undone just as well by machines; and indeed it is this never-ceasing machinery that prevents their being, like me, the critics of their own lives and recognizing the stupidity and shallowness, the hopeless tragedy and waste of the lives they lead, and the awful ambiguity grinning over it all. And they are right, right a thousand times to live as they do, playing their games and pursuing their business, instead of resisting the dreary machine and staring into the void as I do, who have left the track. Let no one think that I blame other men, though now and then in these pages I scorn and even deride them, or that I accuse them of the responsibility of my personal misery. But now that I have come so far, and standing as I do on the extreme verge of life where the ground falls away before me into bottomless darkness, I should do wrong and I should lie if I pretended to myself or to others that that machine still revolved for me and that I was still obedient to the eternal child's play of that charming world.

There was a scream from inside. Drawing his sword, Haung crept up to the door and slid inside, merging with the shadows. The source of the scream was illuminated by the conjured light-ball in the centre of the room. Haung took in the scene and felt all strength flee from muscles. His arms fell limp by his side and the tip of his sword struck the tiled floor with a bright clink. From the rafters, two small bodies hung, rope tight round their necks, blackened tongues swelling from their mouths and sightless eyes staring into the void. Below the bodies of the two children, a naked woman, bruised body and bloody face sat staring at him. Blood pooled from between her knees and it was clear to Haung what had happened to her, and to her young children. She screamed again and again. Her eyes were desperate and disbelieving. Her claw fingered hands tore at her cheeks again and again. Ragged lines of blood dripped down her face, tears of madness and grief. Haung stared at her, unable to move.

Paper Bag" I was staring at the sky, just looking for a star To pray on, or wish on, or something like that I was having a sweet fix of a daydream of a boy Whose reality I knew, was a hopeless to be had But then the dove of hope began its downward slope And I believed for a moment that my chances Were approaching to be grabbed But as it came down near, so did a weary tear I thought it was a bird, but it was just a paper bag Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills 'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love And I went crazy again today, looking for a strand to climb Looking for a little hope Baby said he couldn't stay, wouldn't put his lips to mine, And a fail to kiss is a fail to cope I said, 'Honey, I don't feel so good, don't feel justified Come on put a little love here in my void,' he said 'It's all in your head,' and I said, 'So's everything' But he didn't get it I thought he was a man But he was just a little boy Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills 'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love Hunger hurts, but I want him so bad, oh it kills 'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love Hunger hurts, but I want him so bad, oh it kills Because I know that I'm a mess that he don't wanna clean up I got to fold because these hands are just too shaky to hold Hunger hurts, but starving, it works, when it costs too much to love

Sorry to inform you...but as a fellow failed miner, the problem is there's nowhere left to dig. We're real poets man. And whatever. But it's the digging, it's the holes! Its these burrows to half nestle in just to pass the time, to chafe the inner thigh of boredom and that level of power-demanding pain is only in existence because you really, really know that there isn't anything else. The holes. And me missing a shovel, that has created the voids, the tears, the fucks, the sucks, the shame, the stares, the songs, the words, and in admittedly, even more holes. Not having one of my shovels has somehow overcompensated the digs in which I've dug. The holes. The holes are why you smoke aware of cancer, a disease to take over years of boring lives, and give us a bone to gnaw on, overcome, defeat, lick-dry, or die. The holes are why you drink with your last dollars, when you know you're going to throw it up tonight anyway. The holes are why you think you're in love, and that's a hole that you might not climb back from. The holes, the holes the holes, making you question everything standing at a bus stop...smelling like cigarettes and perfume...signing up for classes you wont go to... hand covered in club stamps... face covered in guilt... Maybe go to a protest and just stand there...Or lay in bed when there's no way you can sleep...

It all came true, didn't it?' said Woland, staring at the eyes of the head. 'Your head was cut off by a woman, the meeting didn't take place and I am living in your flat. That is a fact. And a fact is the most obdurate thing in the world. But what interests us now is the future, not the facts of the past. You have always been a fervent proponent of the theory that when a man's head is cut off his life stops, he turns to dust and he ceases to exist. I am glad to be able to tell you in front of all my guests - despite the fact that their presence here is proof to the contrary - that your theory is intelligent and sound. Now - one theory deserves another. Among them there is one which maintains that a man will receive his deserts in accordance with his beliefs. So be it! You shall depart into the void and from the goblet into which your skull is about to be transformed I shall have the pleasure of drinking to life eternal!

He stared at her, his dark eyes unfathomable. "You could meet a better, worthier man." She laughed, a strained, harsh sound. "I've already met one--he's marrying my sister!" The words blazed forth, hanging in the air as though etched in fire, impossible to recall or deny. They stared at each other, scarcely breathing--then, in an instant, Trevenan closed the distance between them in one stride and pulled her to him, arms banding around her like iron. Their mouths met in a fierce mutual claiming, and the world went white around them--white as lightning, white as the heart of a flame. Closing her eyes, Aurelia let herself fall, deep into a void where all that existed was his touch, his taste, and the hot, urgent press of his lips against hers. This, she thought hazily. Yes, this. And knew by his response, the guttural moan in his throat, that it was the same for him. Love, that is first and last of all things made... "Damn you, James! Why couldn't you wait for me?

Sad understanding is what compassion means - I resign from the attempt to be happy. It’s all discrimination anyway, you value this and devalue that and go up and down but if you were like the void you’d only stare into space and in that space though you’d see stiffnecked people in their favorite various displaytory and armors sniffing and miffed on benches of this one-same-ferry-boat to the other shore you’d still be staring into space for form is emptiness, and emptiness is form - O golden eternity, these simperers in your show of things, take them and slave them to your truth that is forever true forever - forgive me my human floppings - I think therefore I die - I think therefore I am born - Let me be void still - Like a happy child lost in a sudden dream and when his buddy addresses him he doesnt hear, his buddy nudges him he doesnt move; finally seeing the purity and truth of his trance the buddy watches in wonder - you can never be that pure again, and jump out of such trances with a happy gleam of love, being an angel in the dream.

Sad understanding is what compassion means - I resign from the attempt to be happy. It’s all discrimination anyway, you value this and devalue that and go up and down but if you were like the void you’d only stare into space and in that space though you’d see stiffnecked people in their favorite various displaytory furs and armors sniffing and miffed on benches of this one-same-ferry-boat to the other shore you’d still be staring into space for form is emptiness, and emptiness is form - O golden eternity, these simperers in your show of things, take them and slave them to your truth that is forever true forever - forgive me my human floppings - I think therefore I die - I think therefore I am born - Let me be void still - Like a happy child lost in a sudden dream and when his buddy addresses him he doesnt hear, his buddy nudges him he doesnt move; finally seeing the purity and truth of his trance the buddy watches in wonder - you can never be that pure again, and jump out of such trances with a happy gleam of love, being an angel in the dream

Two men enter the room, one old and mustached and the other young and tawny-headed, wearing sweats and a worn T-shirt. He looks like Silas, actually—god, what am I, obsessed? But there really is something of the woodsman in the younger man’s face, with his full lips, his slightly curled hair that turns like tendrils around his ears . . . I look away before studying him too closely. “All right, ladies, are we ready?” the older man says enthusiastically. There’s a loud rustling of paper as well flip the enormous sketchbooks on our easels until we find blank sheets. I draw a few soft lines on my page, unsure what— Non-Silas rips off his T-shirt, revealing lightly defined muscles on his pale chest. I raise an eyebrow just as he tugs at the waist of the sweatpants. They drop to the floor in a fluid, sweeping motion. There’s nothing underneath them. At all. My charcoal slips through my suddenly sweaty fingers. Non-Silas steps out of the puddle of his clothes and moves to the center of the room, fluorescent lights reflecting off his slick abdomen. He’s smiling as though he isn’t naked, smiling as though I didn’t somehow manage to get the seat closest to him. As if I can’t see . . . um . . . everything only a few feet from my face, making my mind clumsily spiral. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment; he looks like Silas in the face, and because of that I keep wondering if he looks akin to Silas everywhere else. “All right, ladies, this will be a seven-minute pose. Ready?” the older man says, positioning himself behind the other empty easel. The roomful of housewives nod in one hungry motion. I quiver. “Go!” the older man says, starting the stopwatch. Non-Silas poses, something reminiscent of Michelangelo’s David, only instead of marble eyes looking into nothingness, non-Silas is staring almost straight at me. Draw. I’m supposed to be drawing. I grab a new piece of charcoal from the bottom of the easel and begin hastily making lines in my sketchbook. I can’t not look at him, or he’ll think I’m not drawing him. I glance hurriedly, trying to avoid the region my eyes continuously return to. I start to feel fluttery. How long has it been? Surely it’s been seven minutes. I try to add some tone to my drawing’s chest. I wonder what Silas’s chest looks like . . . Stop! Stop stop stop stop stop—” “Right, then!” the older man says as his stopwatch beeps loudly and the scratchy sound of charcoal on paper ends. Thank you, sir, thank you—” “Annnnd next pose!” Non-Silas turns his head away, till all I can see is his wren-colored hair and his side, including a side view of . . . how many times am I going to have to draw this man’s area? What’s worse is that he looks even more like Silas now that I can’t see his eyes. Just like Silas, I bet. My eyes linger longer than necessary now that non-Silas isn’t staring straight at me. By the end of class, I’ve drawn eight mediocre pictures of him, each one with a large white void in the crotch area. The housewives compare drawings with ravenous looks in their eyes as non-Silas tugs his pants back on and leaves the room, nodding politely. I picture him naked again. I sprint from the class, abandoning my sketches—how could I explain them to Scarlett or Silas? Stop thinking of Silas, stop thinking of Silas.

Is the Word the same as God, do you think?" Pick looked at her some more. "Well, you don't think there's more than one God, do you?" Nest began to rush her words. "I mean, you don't think that the Word and God and Mother Nature are all different beings? You don't think they're all running around making different things--like God makes humans and the Word makes forest creatures and Mother Nature makes trees? Or that Allah is responsible for one race and one part of the world and Buddha is responsible for some others? You don't think that, do you?" Pick stared. "Because all these different countries and all these different races have their own version of God. Their religions teach them who their God is and what He believes. Sometimes the different versions even hold similar beliefs. But no one can agree on whose God is the real God. Everyone insists that everyone else is wrong. But unless there is more than one God, what difference does it make? If there's only one God and He made everything, then what is the point of arguing over whether to call him God or the Word or whatever? It's like arguing over who owns the park. The park is for everyone.

I always refrained from speaking words of affection. Ever since, I was a child, I used to call my parents by their first names and never quite knew what to respond when they used to bathe me with their I love yous. I used to avoid words of love at any cost. Out of tremendous fear and out of the obligation of reciprocity, I chose my words very carefully. But these words sometimes betrayed me. They bathed in my eyes and in my gaze that caressed the wind, even in those fleeting moments when I used to look away into the horizon and especially in those moments where I did. I refrained from engaging. I refrained from reciprocating. I refrained from running towards. I refrained from opening my arms wide open. I refrained from screaming "Stay here." Instead, I fled. I dwelled in silence. I escaped. I stared into the void. I stared within. And I ran inwards. But when my alphabet stumbled upon your name, the lump in my throat dissipated. The weight that lays heavily on my chest vanished. You see, there are millions of children in my heart that scream: I love you. There is a marching band in my heart that chants your name. You'll never hear them but they do. And I laugh at the madness I have become.

The alien ship was already thundering towards the upper reaches of the atmosphere, on its way out into the appalling void which separates the very few things there are in the Universe from each other. Its occupant, the alien with the expensive complexion, leaned back in its single seat. His name was Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged. He was a man with a purpose. Not a very good purpose, as he would have been the first to admit, but it was at least a purpose and it did at least keep him on the move. Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged was --- indeed, is --- one of the Universe's very small number of immortal beings. Those who are born immortal instinctively know how to cope with it, but Wowbagger was not one of them. Indeed he had come to hate them, the load of serene bastards. He had had his immortality thrust upon him by an unfortunate accident with an irrational particle accelerator, a liquid lunch and a pair of rubber bands. The precise details of the accident are not important because no one has ever managed to duplicate the exact circumstances under which it happened, and many people have ended up looking very silly, or dead, or both, trying. Wowbagger closed his eyes in a grim and weary expression, put some light jazz on the ship's stereo, and reflected that he could have made it if it hadn't been for Sunday afternoons, he really could have done. To begin with it was fun, he had a ball, living dangerously, taking risks, cleaning up on high-yield long-term investments, and just generally outliving the hell out of everybody. In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn't cope with, and that terrible listlessness which starts to set in at about 2:55, when you know that you've had all the baths you can usefully have that day, that however hard you stare at any given paragraph in the papers you will never actually read it, or use the revolutionary new pruning technique it describes, and that as you stare at the clock the hands will move relentlessly on to four o'clock, and you will enter the long dark teatime of the soul. So things began to pall for him. The merry smiles he used to wear at other people's funerals began to fade. He began to despise the Universe in general, and everyone in it in particular. This was the point at which he conceived his purpose, the thing which would drive him on, and which, as far as he could see, would drive him on forever. It was this. He would insult the Universe.

Just as I dress and go out to visit the professor and exchange a few more or less insincere compliments with him, without really wanting to at all, so it is with the majority of men day by day and hour by hour in their daily lives and affairs. Without really wanting to at all, they pay calls and carry on conversations, sit out their hours at desks and on office chairs; and it is all compulsory, mechanical and against the grain, and it could all be done or left undone just as well by machines; and indeed it is this never-ceasing machinery that prevents their being, like me, the critics of their own lives and recognizing the stupidity and shallowness, the hopeless tragedy and waste of the lives they lead, and the awful ambiguity grinning over it all. And they are right, right a thousand times to live as they do, playing their games and pursuing their business, instead of resisting the dreary machine and staring into the void as I do, who have left the track. Let no one think that I blame other men, though now and then in these pages I scorn and even deride them, or that I accuse them of the responsibility of my personal misery. But now that I have come so far, and standing as I do on the extreme verge of life where the ground falls away before me into bottomless darkness, I should do wrong and I should lie if I pretended to myself or to others that that machine still revolved for me and that I was still obedient to the eternal child's play of that charming world.

The Fatals,” I breathe. “Yes.” He seems to stiffen at the title. “And it seems you have already encountered one.” The Silencer I fought in the alley comes to mind as I say slowly, “Was he…?” “Yes, he was a Resistance member.” Calum holds up a hand, silencing the apology I was about to utter for taking one of their members down. “There is no need to apologize, Paedyn. It was Micah’s own foolishness that got him caught.” “He always was a hothead,” Lenny mutters. “And a dumbass. A reckless dumbass. To think he could take down a prince, the future Enforcer, without consequences…” My eyes dance between the five of them. “Do I get to know exactly why this Micah is a reckless dumbass?” “Because he saw the prince already weakened and his anger got the best of him,” Mira says, her expression void of sympathy. “Long story short, Prince Kai killed someone very close to Micah, consuming the Silencer with rage and a need for revenge. When he saw the prince in that alley, worn out and preoccupied, he took the opportunity to try and take him down.” She pins me with a stare. “But you took him down instead.” “At the time, we didn’t know who you were,” Lenny adds. “We put the pieces together when we saw your name on the banner on Loot and saw you at the interviews.” “I thought you were dead, Paedyn,” Calum says gravely. “And then you suddenly showed up in the Trials, and we had found Adam’s daughter. Well, you found us.” “Who would have thought that Adam Gray’s daughter, the kid of a Resistance leader, would be the one to rob me blind and find that note,” Finn says with a sigh. “The note that led you right to us and right back to your own home.” He looks up at the ceiling and smiles to himself. “When I saw you at the ball, saw you recognize who I was, I knew it wouldn’t be long before you came and found us.

You smell good. Who’s this ‘guy’ you’re meeting? Are you back on the market?” He wiggled both blond eyebrows at me. “Does that mean Doc Nyce is no longer petting your cat?” I frowned. “Petting my cat?” What did Bogart, our vegetarian cat, have to do with Doc? Jeff leaned in for another sniff. “I’m really good at petting cats, too.” Oh, dear Lord! My brain had finally dipped low enough into the gutter to catch Jeff’s meaning. I shoved him back a step. “Doc is still petting my …” No! Just walk away, doofus. I started to do just that, but then stopped and turned back. In case Tiffany was going to be hearing the play-by-play of my run-in with Jeff, I wanted to clarify things so the red-headed siren wouldn’t get any ideas about trying to steal Doc away from me. We’d done that song and dance before, and there would be no encores on that score. “Doc Nyce is still my boyfriend,” I announced. Sheesh, “boyfriend” was such a silly word for a woman my age. “I mean, we’re a definite couple in all the ways.” Jeff grinned. “Which ways are those?” “You know, the ‘couple’ ways.” When he just stared at me with a dumb grin, I added, “Boom, boom, out goes the lights.” His laughter rang out loud and clear, catching the attention of people on the opposite side of the street. “I’m not sure if you know this, Violet Parker, but that old song actually refers to landing a knock-out punch.” Thinking back on all the times I’d pinched, elbowed, and tackled Doc, including the black eye I’d accidentally given him, I shrugged. “Sex with Doc is amazingly physical. He’s a real heavy hitter under the sheets, delivering a solid one-two sock-’em every time.” I wasn’t sure what I was alluding to by this point, but I kept throwing out boxing slang to fill the void. “I’d give you the real dirty blow-by-blow, but we don’t sell ringside tickets for our wild sex matches.” His jaw gaped. “No kidding?” Before my big mouth unleashed another round of idiotic sex-boxing ambiguities, I said, “See you around, Jeff.

By this unhinged craziness - I sing praises to dead rabbits. Embodied by the craven of sin, their whispers exist in me. No dawn can avert me, just leave me here in this forbidding place. All I want is this noesis to leave me on this crest of soaring Alps. The bliss of this nameless nightmare will make me dwell on its snow-covered form. All I can discern are gateways leading into the deepest frozen infernos. None of them are willing to torment me - as I am already disturbed. Is this the stead where God has died? It seems to be fervently so. No Moon has ascended here - only a pallid eye-like sun was staring down at me. Only this bitter cold shows me a real horror - a dreadful worry that no monster has to reside in it. Vacancy has made the surrounding atmosphere eerily still. All there was, was a weak hum of a chirping bird whistling in the obscurity. Every Tree was massless - nameless - shapeless confined to hostile spaces that grew ahead. This aeonian, a limitless eternity of interminable suffering, has a beckon to endure fourth. Indignant cries erupt from my flaccid throat - sounding for a sob that someone can hear. All there was a deafening hush, with that ominous bird tweeting in the distance; so I believed. Within a moment, a rumbling of a devastating howl was booming and crashing directly in front of me. It was indeed not a wolf, for this was something far more malicious than any canine species. I could not perceive it with my naked eyes, for it was just another aspect of the void that can not be witnessed. Its presence did not want to be detected, it just desired for me to know its existence is here. Inconceivably, I was not able to go face-to-face with this utterly horrific thing that was invisible before me. O’ the great madness and fright was ravaging me, rendering me psychotic and deranged. Discordantly, this nemesis splendor was starting to manifest its fondness for my presence. Barren and bleak when it invoked its cryptic witchcraft, withering away my insecurities to be frightened. The bottomless pit was eager for me to be eternal, wanting to enthrone my image as the coming Lucifer. I was conceived to become the supreme embodiment of blasphemy for the emergence of hell itself. My inner consciousness was being Plunged by the menacing screaming, as my hearing was being bombarded by piercing sounds of a violin shrieking. The God-awful screech of these horribly shrill screams where just the roar of hysterical laughter. Chaos - O’ that glorious disarray - I was condemned to be impelled with an absurd compulsion for madness.

She stood staring out into the void. 'One woman's mishap - what is that? A thing as trivial to the great world as it's sordid in most eyes. But the time has come when a woman may look about her and say, What general significance has my secret pain? Does it "join on" to anything? And I find it *does*. I'm no longer simply a woman who has stumbled on the way.' With difficulty she controlled the shake in her voice. 'I'm one who has got up bruised and bleeding, wiped the dust from her hands and the tears from her face - and said to herself not merely: Here's one luckless woman! but - here is a stone of stumbling to many. Let's see if it can't be moved out of other women's way. And she calls people to come and help.

PROLOGUE Deep within the bowels of darkness, within the neon room, the killer gazes down at her eternal sleeping face. Lying motionless, she glows with an unnatural luminescence, and the killer slowly strokes the back of its hand down her waxen face, her dead eyes staring into an endless void. It tenderly runs a thumb across her cold, hard lips, recalling that she hadn’t screamed or fought. Had passed peacefully from life into death, as though life had only ever been the dream of death. She would suffer no more. A metamorphosis was taking place, and she was becoming something

I argued for a Kindle but they pointed out that if it could be associated with me, then the information bleed—Amazon logging every page turn and annotation—was a potential security hazard. Not to mention the darker esoteric potential of spending too much time staring at a device controlled by a secretive billionaire in Seattle. The void stares also, and so on. The

In the lightless void he was staring at, an image of Kiara dancing in her last ballet floated before his eyes, which didn’t help him calm his arousal at all. Damn it, why did he feel like this? But then she’d always been able to stir his senses. Every time he’d seen her dance, she’d touched a part of his soul—a part of him he preferred to think was long dead and damned. She, alone, had made him see beauty in a universe he normally despised. Had made him feel something other than cold, corrupt emptiness. She was beauty and gentleness personified. Nykyrian scoffed at his own stupidity. He knew better. No one was good and no one over the age of ten was unscarred. Life was brutal and it made victims of everyone.

When things were bad, they were really bad. But when they were good, they were amazing. Over time, I’d gotten so used to the bad times, that the good ones seemed almost euphoric.” I stared off into space, contemplating my next words. “Being with a manipulative partner is like an addiction. But instead of a drug, you’re addicted to them, to making them happy because it’s the only time you can be happy. You acclimate to their behavior a little at a time, until you grow numb to it. Until it’s no longer the worst day you’ve ever had, it’s just Monday. “Then one day they stop giving you your fix. They leave you writhing on the floor, screaming out into the void, all the while knowing, even through the pain, you’re going to wake up and do it all over again. Forever chasing the high of making them happy.

Liam eventually added, "I don't want a war, but if it comes, yes; I want to see it." My first impulse was to tell him, "no, he didn't want to see it," It was wrong of me to say though. He did want to see it. I think many people who haven't seen a war want to. It's not right to tell them they don't. What they don't want and don't know is that they don't want to have seen it. I know because I've seen bits and pieces of several. I watched from a hilltop as a Roman legion met Picts. I tended some of the wounded out of Gettysburg. I even managed to screw up and go down the hill to drag French knights out of the mud at Agincor and I know I don't want to see another war. But I don't even want to have seen the ones I have been to. Here in Karvalen, I have seen a small war. More like a few major engagements in a larger campaign I suppose. Even so, the dead littered the battlefield like corn after a hailstorm. Wounded screamed their agony or cried in despair, those with the strength left. Some lay in pools of their own juices and gasped in short quick breaths. Fearing the last one would come all too soon. The mud was dirt and blood. The smell of guts and feces was thick in the sunshine and birds pecked at sightless eyes. That was victory. I stared at my son and wondered how I could explain it. How could I make his sixteen year old mind comprehend.

Those sudden feral impulses tend to be shoved away immediately, but humans still experience them. What if you jumped? What if you touched the fire? What if? What if? When I looked at him, staring at me, the void called. What if?

have to create, or it was all for nothing. I have to create, or I will crumple up with despair and never leave my bed. I have to create because I have no other way of voicing this.” Her hand rested on her heart, and my eyes burned. “It is hard,” the weaver said, her stare never leaving mine, “and it hurts, but if I were to stop, if I were to let this loom or the spindle go silent …” She broke my gaze at last to look to her tapestry. “Then there would be no Hope shining in the Void.” My

How do you keep creating, despite what you lost?” Whether she noted the crack in my voice, she didn’t let on. The weaver only said, her sad, sorrowful gaze meeting mine, “I have to.” The simple words hit me like a blow. The weaver went on, “I have to create, or it was all for nothing. I have to create, or I will crumple up with despair and never leave my bed. I have to create because I have no other way of voicing this.” Her hand rested on her heart, and my eyes burned. “It is hard,” the weaver said, her stare never leaving mine, “and it hurts, but if I were to stop, if I were to let this loom or the spindle go silent …” She broke my gaze at last to look to her tapestry. “Then there would be no Hope shining in the Void.

We hang upside down from the railing bats looking to the void in our down time. missus technology teacher stared at one of the hours too much. the hour stared back. she throws a reason at us every time. we get bloated from some of the curses. we’re coming apart nuts bolts and all. a new heart waiting. one liver at a time. powder kegs we sometimes crane our necks flashing on low heat dry beans. we remember the herbarium book of nerves. forget that we’re alive. we don’t even hope for death. how can you keep fireflies from roaming in the hallways you disappoint me I tell them. they don’t want to go to class to put good behaviors on their desks mister German teacher has two watches one for each building. he’s not even a minute late in building A or building B. when he misses a minute he crouches down covers his eyes with his hands to cry on the inside. a child who doesn’t arrive on time. we coddle him we’re kind. (translated by Diana Manole)

He ran his hand over mine, searching for any sign of the snake or the blight I’d touched.  “Where’s the snake, min asteren?” he asked, studying my hand. He shoved the sleeves of my tunic up, searching along my arms.  “It wasn’t time for it to be born yet,” I said, knowing instinctively. The image I’d had, the snake curling around me, had been a flash of its future life. A moment of what would come after the soul rested in the Void.  A reincarnation revealed. Holt turned his stare to me, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, because that’s not fucking creepy or anything.

There is a moment for women – no more cacophonous than a petal falling from a dying flower – when politeness has cost them their life, and they know it. That moment, so brief it would barely register on any clock, stretches long into the coming void. Chloe Martin, stuck in her moment of eternal regret, stared at the foot separating her door from its frame as time stood still. You never knew when it was your turn, she thought. How could her day, her boring, run-of-the-mill day, have come to this? Where were the signs from the universe? Where was the sense of impending doom? It didn’t matter, now, that she always carried a rape alarm in her handbag, and it didn’t matter that she never walked home alone in the dark. It didn’t matter that she always put a lid over her drinks to prevent spiking, or that she never engaged in online dating. Because now she was in the thick of it, facing a shadowy figure at her door who had knocked and cried out for help, and she had rushed there so fast, so worried for the safety of a stranger, that she had failed to engage the chain.

It is hard,” the weaver said, her stare never leaving mine, “and it hurts, but if I were to stop, if I were to let this loom or the spindle go silent …” She broke my gaze at last to look to her tapestry. “Then there would be no Hope shining in the Void.

Who are you? Go back with the others until you are judged.” He met Hest’s stare eye to eye. Hest responded with wide-eyed shock. “But… but I’m Hest Finbok! I’ve come all this way to find my wife, Alise! I hired passage on the newest and swiftest ships I could find to come in search of her. When treachery by the captain let it fall to Chalcedean pirates, I thought all was lost. But here I am! Sweet Sa, your miracles never cease! I am here, and alive, and so is my darling wife! Alise, don’t you know me? Has your mind been turned by this harsh place? I am here now, and you need no other protector than your loving husband.” His words, she thought, danced all through the truth, never touching it. Reyn, startled, stayed as he was as Hest stepped around him. “No.” It was the only word she could manage. Her throat was dry, her heart pounding. She could not find breath to say more than that, but she clung to Leftrin’s arm as if it were her only lifeline in a wild sea storm. And he did not let go of her. He stood firm at her side. Leftrin spoke in a low growl. “The lady says no.” “Take your hands off my wife!” Hest ignored Reyn’s challenge of him as he stepped around the Elderling to glare menacingly at Leftrin. “She is obviously not right in her mind! Look how she stares! She does not recognize me, poor thing! And you, you scoundrel, have taken advantage of her! Oh, my Alise, my darling, what has he done to you? How can you not recognize your own loving husband?” She felt a low rumbling from Leftrin as if he snarled like a beast. His arm in her clutch had become hard as iron. He would protect her, he would save her. All she had to do was let him. “No,” she said again, this time to Leftrin. She squeezed his arm reassuringly and then stepped out of his shelter. She stood free of him, and the wind off the river blew past her. Her unbound hair lifted in wild red snakes, and she knew a moment of dismay as she wondered how ridiculous she looked, her skin weathered, her woman’s body garbed in the bright colors of an Elderling as if she did not know her age or place in the world. Her place in the world. She squared her shoulders. As she walked forward, Reyn stepped toward her as if to offer his arm and support. She waved him off without meeting his eyes. She advanced on Hest, hoping to see some flicker of doubt in his eyes. Instead his smile only widened as if he were truly welcoming her. He actually believed that she would resume that role, would pretend to be his loving, dutiful wife. That thought touched fire in her soul. She halted before him and looked up at him. “Oh, my dear! How harshly the world has treated you!” he exclaimed. He tried to put his arms around her. She set both hands to his chest and pushed him firmly away. As he staggered backward, it pleased her that he had not expected her to be so strong. “You are not my husband,” she said in a low voice. He teetered a moment, then caught his balance. He tried to recover his aplomb. But she had seen the sparks of anger flare in his dark eyes. He tipped his head, solicitous, his voice striken. “My dear, you are so confused!” he began. She lifted her voice, pitched it for all to hear. “I am NOT confused. You are NOT my husband. You broke the terms of our marriage contract, rendering it void. From the earliest days of our marriage, you were unfaithful to me. You entered into the contract with no intent of keeping yourself to me. You have deceived me and made me an object of mockery. You are not my husband, and by the terms of our marriage contract, all that is mine comes back to me. You are not my husband, and I am not your wife. You are nothing to me.

But I'm not a writer..." How many times have you thought that? How many times have you said it out loud? How many times have you read a beautifully worded book or a poem or an essay or a social media post and felt it take your breath away? Felt that yearning inside of you, that longing to do that or learn that or become that thing...the one that would let you find the words to share your story like that. If only you were brave enough. If only you were wise enough. If only you had all the right words. If only you were talented. If only you could speak the truth without being judged. If only you could write like her or him or them. If only you were a writer... Guess what. You are. You are a writer - and I promise you this. If you were not a writer you wouldn't be here. You are a writer because words dance in your brain and itch the tips of your fingers - begging you to pick up the pen or click the keyboard. Because a phrase on a page or the lyric of a song can steal your breath and remind you of all lines that live in your soul that long for release. Because you are pulled, again and again, and again to story. To the real and raw and the fantastically make-believe. You are a writer because of your willingness to stare into the void and face the demons and weave the beauty of the world around you into words. And even if those words don't ever make it to a page, they live inside of you. Because you couldn't stop, even if you wanted to. And you don't want to. Because the words are like your breath and the story - your story - that is the air. And the magic that happens when we come together to make stories - well, that's the universe. So the next time you're tempted to let that phrase or any other like it - slip into your brain or from your lips - shut that shit down. Immediately. You are a writer. Do you hear me? You said yes. You are here. You are showing up at the page and sitting in front of the screen. You are welcoming the muse. You are facing the fear. And you are writing. You are a writer. And that's the beginning and end of everything. Now, stop arguing with me, and go write already.

Billions of stars… infinite possibilities.  It is a statistical impossibility that we are alone in the universe.  And yet, after hundreds of years of searching, man is still uncontested in the known cosmos.  As I stare into the void, I wonder how many eyes are staring back at me, asking the same questions.  I wonder what happened to them, and could the same thing happen to us.”     Lancaster James     To

Alone, staring into the void, I became a dot of existence floating alone in the universe. At first the feeling was terrifying, my mind reeling, but it quickly became comforting. Maybe this is what death is like. Alone, peaceful, floating, floating, no fear . . . Clipping

We often feel the most stress, or the most emotionally hijacked, when we stare into the void of our jam-packed to-do list, in-box, or desk top. One look at the towering pile of papers looming on our desk, or the 300 unread e-mails, and our feelings of control fly right out the window.

The forlorn notes of Cristofori’s Dream replaced the eerie silence, sending a chill up my neck. The piano sang in desperation. Lamenting strings pierced the air as if grieving on my behalf. The notes edged through my mind, and I stared across the room, right through the beige wall to the void beyond. My eyes labored through nothingness, searching for the tiniest fragment of hope to no avail.

The prophet Jeremiah.” It had only been a couple days earlier. Simon quoted what he could remember, “‘Behold, days are coming, declares Yahweh, when this place shall no more be called Tophet, or the Valley of the Son of Hinnom, but the Valley of Slaughter. And in this place I will make void the plans of Judah and Jerusalem, and will cause their people to fall by the sword before their enemies.’” She asked him, “That was about the destruction of Jerusalem by the Babylonians when they took them into exile, right?” Simon stared out into the void. “The prophet said their bodies would be food for the scavengers of heaven and earth. That the inhabitants of the city would turn to cannibalism. And then he said that Yahweh would make Jerusalem like a Tophet.” She said, “It must have been a horrible time to be alive.” He said, “Have you noticed that Jesus’s parables and stories are increasingly sounding very similar to that previous destruction of Jerusalem?

Boricio said, “I’m thinking that I’ve not seen more than a half dozen dogs that I can think of in one half of a beer-battered bullshit of a year, and that right now I’m staring at one that’s bigger than three of King Kong’s big, swinging cock sacks put together.” Still speaking softly, Boricio added, “And my agreement to keep shit PG is null and fucking void when Paul Bunyan’s Cujo is in our yard.

Alone, staring into the void, I became a dot of existence floating alone in the universe. At first the feeling was terrifying, my mind reeling, but it quickly became comforting. Maybe this is what death is like. Alone, peaceful, floating, floating, no fear .