Steel Fabrication Quotes

It seemed to him that there was a scarlet thread running through the fabric of life, one that joined events across the years, piercing human hearts and plunging underground, only to reemerge without warning, a thread connecting lives and sometimes dates.

Image the whole, then execute the parts— Fancy the fabric Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz Ere mortar dab brick!

No.” A look of dawning comprehension. “Ah, that. The regret, is that what you’re talking about? This sense of loss? Yes, he always talked about that, too. It’s a mortal thing, as far as I can tell. The aspect storm is a warp in the fabric of every possible outcome the universe will allow. It gathers in the alternatives like a bride gathering in her gown. For a mortal, those alternatives are mostly paths they’ll never take, things they’ll never do. At some level, the organism seems to know that.

The Shadow Spokeswoman for Unbelievable Lies steps out of the circling assassins. She is Casca, she is Cassius, and she is Marcus Brutus. She channels them all. She is carrying a long glinting dagger, as sharp as a razor fabricated from the steel callousness of a woman whose lies have destroyed the life of her former lover. She is a silent cat climbing steps of air to a platform of the purest hate. She is a Death’s Head butterfly emerging from an encircling teardrop of one of her victims. Her eyes are fixed in an impassive stare. She has come from William Blake’s House of Death. She is a stone heart. She is a machine. A rain of blood falls on her, on her alone. She is horror.

Gomi. Thirty-five percent of the landmass of Tokyo was built on gomi, on level tracts reclaimed from the Bay through a century's systematic dumping. Gomi, there, was a resource to be managed, to be collected, carefully plowed under. London's relationship to gomi was more subtle, more oblique. To Kumiko's eyes, the bulk of the city consisted of gomi, of structures the Japanese economy would long ago have devoured in its relentless hunger for space in which to build. Yet these structures revealed, even to Kumiko, the fabric of time, each wall patched by generation of hands in an ongoing task of restoration. The English valued their gomi in its own right, in a way she had only begun to understand; they inhabited it. Gomi in the Sprawl was something else: a rich humus, a decay that sprouted prodigies in steel and polymer. The apparent lack of planning alone was enough to dizzy her, running so entirely opposite the value her own culture placed on efficient land use. Her tax ride from the airport had already shown her decay, whole blocks in ruins, unglazed windows gaping above sidewalks heaped with trash. And faces staring as the armoed hover made its way through the streets.

When it begins it is like a light in a tunnel, a rush of steel and steam across a torn up life. It is a low rumble, an earthquake in the back of the mind. My spine is a track with cold black steel racing on it, a trail of steam and dust following behind, ghost like. It feels like my whole life is holding its breath. By the time she leaves the room I am surprised that she can’t see the train. It has jumped the track of my spine and landed in my mothers’ living room. A cold dark thing, black steel and redwood paneling. It is the old type, from the western movies I loved as a kid. He throws open the doors to the outside world, to the dark ocean. I feel a breeze tugging at me, a slender finger of wind that catches at my shirt. Pulling. Grabbing. I can feel the panic build in me, the need to scream or cry rising in my throat. And then I am out the door, running, tumbling down the steps falling out into the darkened world, falling out into the lifeless ocean. Out into the blackness. Out among the stars and shadows. And underneath my skin, in the back of my head and down the back of my spine I can feel the desperation and I can feel the noise. I can feel the deep and ancient ache of loudness that litters across my bones. It’s like an old lover, comfortable and well known, but unwelcome and inappropriate with her stories of our frolicking. And then she’s gone and the Conductor is closing the door. The darkness swells around us, enveloping us in a cocoon, pressing flat against the train like a storm. I wonder, what is this place? Those had been heady days, full and intense. It’s funny. I remember the problems, the confusions and the fears of life we all dealt with. But, that all seems to fade. It all seems to be replaced by images of the days when it was all just okay. We all had plans back then, patterns in which we expected the world to fit, how it was to be deciphered. Eventually you just can’t carry yourself any longer, can’t keep your eyelids open, and can’t focus on anything but the flickering light of the stars. Hours pass, at first slowly like a river and then all in a rush, a climax and I am home in the dorm, waking up to the ringing of the telephone. When she is gone the apartment is silent, empty, almost like a person sleeping, waiting to wake up. When she is gone, and I am alone, I curl up on the bed, wait for the house to eject me from its dying corpse. Crazy thoughts cross through my head, like slants of light in an attic. The Boston 395 rocks a bit, a creaking noise spilling in from the undercarriage. I have decided that whatever this place is, all these noises, sensations - all the train-ness of this place - is a fabrication. It lulls you into a sense of security, allows you to feel as if it’s a familiar place. But whatever it is, it’s not a train, or at least not just a train. The air, heightened, tense against the glass. I can hear the squeak of shoes on linoleum, I can hear the soft rattle of a dying man’s breathing. Men in white uniforms, sharp pressed lines, run past, rolling gurneys down florescent hallways.

But the crown jewel was the columned Greek Revival mansion, which dated from the mid-1800s, along with the manicured boxwood gardens that would serve as the backdrop for the couple's ceremony. Of course, everything was not only very traditional but also a standard to what one might imagine an over-the-top Southern wedding to be. As I said, "Steel Magnolias on steroids." The ceremony would take place outdoors in the garden, but large custom peach-and-white scalloped umbrellas were placed throughout the rows of bamboo folding chairs to shade the guests. Magnolia blossoms and vintage lace adorned the ends of the aisles. White, trellis-covered bars flanked the entrance to the gardens where guests could select from a cucumber cooler or spiked sweet tea to keep cool during the thirty-minute nuptials. It was still considered spring, but like Dallas, Nashville could heat up early in the year, and we were glad to be prepared. By the time we arrived the tent was well on its way to completion, and rental deliveries were rolling in. The reception structure was located past the gardens near the enormous whitewashed former stable, and inside the ceiling was draped in countless yards of peach fabric with crystal chandeliers hanging above every dining table. Custom napkins with embroidered magnolias on them complemented the centerpieces' peach garden roses, lush greenery, and dried cotton stems. Cedric's carpentry department created floor-to-ceiling lattice walls covered in faux greenery and white wisteria blooms, a dreamy backdrop for the band.

Raphael pulled out a paperback and handed it to me. The cover, done back in the time when computer-aided imagine manipulation had risen to the level of art, featured an impossibly handsome man, leaning forward, one foot in a huge black boot resting on the carcass of some monstrous sea creature. His hair flowed down to his shoulders in a mane of white gold, in stark contrast to his tanned skin and the rakish black patch hiding his left eye. His white, translucent shirt hung open, revealing abs of steel and a massive, perfectly carved chest graced by erect nipples. His muscled thighs strained the fabric of his pants, which were unbuttoned and sat loosely on his narrow hips, a touch of a strategically positioned shadow hinting at the world’s biggest boner. The cover proclaimed in loud golden letters: The Privateer’s Virgin Mistress, by Lorna Sterling. “Novel number four for Andrea’s collection?” I guessed. Raphael nodded and took the book from my hands. “I’ve got the other one Andrea wanted, too. Can you explain something to me?” Oh boy. “I can try.” He tapped the book on his leather-covered knee. “The pirate actually holds this chick’s brother for ransom, so she’ll sleep with him. These men, they aren’t real men. They’re pseudo-bad guys just waiting for the love of a ‘good’ woman.” “You actually read the books?” He gave me a chiding glance. “Of course I read the books. It’s all pirates and the women they steal, apparently so they can enjoy lots of sex and have somebody to run their lives.” Wow. He must’ve had to hide under his blanket with a flashlight so nobody would question his manliness. Either he really was in love with Andrea or he had a terminal case of lust. “These guys, they’re all bad and aggressive as shit, and everybody wets themselves when they walk by, and then they meet some girl and suddenly they’re not uber-alphas; they are just misunderstood little boys who want to talk about their feelings.” “Is there a point to this dissertation?” He faced me. “I can’t be that. If that’s what she wants, then I shouldn’t even bother.” I sighed. “Do you have a costume kink? French maid, nurse . . .” “Catholic school girl.” Bingo. “You wouldn’t mind Andrea wearing a Catholic school uniform, would you?” “No, I wouldn’t.” His eyes glazed over and he slipped off to some faraway place. I snapped my fingers. “Raphael! Focus.” He blinked at me. “I’m guessing—and this is just a wild stab in the dark—that Andrea might not mind if once in a while you dressed up as a pirate. But I wouldn’t advise holding her relatives for ransom nookie. She might shoot you in the head. Several times. With silver bullets.

Take your cloak off,” she said quickly. “Trying to undress me?” Falco asked. He slid out of his cloak and looked questioningly at Cass. “Hold it up,” she ordered. She adjusted his hands so that the cloak shielded her, and fumbled to undo the bindings around her chest. She began to sweat as she unknotted the laces; in the dark, images of Agnese and Luca floated in front of her, their faces cold with disapproval. “You all right in there?” Falco asked. “You’re thrashing about like you’re performing a self-exorcism.” Cass emerged a minute later, red faced but triumphant. She waved her ivory-colored stays above her head. “Now,” she said, “I can breathe.” Falco plucked the fabric from her hand. He fingered it and feigned surprise. “Good Lord. What is this thing made of?” he asked. “Steel?” “Whalebone.” Cass clasped a hand over her mouth to stifle a yelp as Falco tossed her stays over the edge of the Rialto Bridge. “Consider yourself liberated,” he said. “Do you feel better?” Cass couldn’t respond. She couldn’t describe it, the way it felt to be able to inhale and exhale completely, like for once she was using all of her lungs. Her satin chemise curled and folded against her bare chest, giving her the sensation of being both cold and hot at the same time. Falco touched his forehead to hers again. His nose brushed against the side of her cheek. Cass’s heart sped up. But this time, he didn’t try to kiss her. He just held her in the dark, his mouth so close to hers that their breath mingled together like mist off the canals.

We work in a broad assortment of settings like where quality fencing and fencing installation are required. Most ornamental steel fence repairs can be done on site but many ornate entry gate has to be brought to our fabrication facility to be properly repaired. Updating every aspect of your garden to match your new fencing is recommended, as new fence panels frequently draw attention to the older worn out areas of your outdoor area if it is not updated to a similar standard.

A desperate, whimpering moan escaped me when he stroked my clit through my lace panties, and I grabbed onto the edges of the sink for stability. Steele teased me through the thin fabric only a few moments before tugging them aside and driving two fingers deep inside me.

Seolia was surrounded by three kingdoms: Reales, Thoya, and Perosan. Our island was situated in the middle of the three kingdoms. The three kingdoms depended on Seolia for passage through the channel to the other kingdoms and villages to trade crops and grains. At the same time, Seolia relied heavily on the domains for steel, fabrics, and furnishings. Each kingdom played a vital role in the survival of the others, and it had been nearly a century since the last war when Reales had tried to take control of Perosan and fought against Seolia and Thoya for it. A treaty was established after thousands of lives were lost: each kingdom would be treated as equal and rely on Seolia to close passages if whispers of threats crossed any of the borders.

Superior Alloy Steel manufactures and carries in stock steel alloy bars, steel plates, as well as tooling machines for repair and maintenance. We also can fabricate finished products to your specifications and can work with you to design your finished products to your specifications and metal tolerance needs.

A vast canvass had been stretched across the back of [the stage] and painted to look like an idealized vision of Golden Square stretching off into a hazy distance. Before it, model town houses had been erected to perfect the illusion. It tricked the eye very well until a bloody, slashed-up man vaulted over the parapets and rolled to the ground in the deep upstage. He looked like a giant, thirty feet tall, fee-fie-fo-fumming around Golden Square and bleeding on the bowling green, which was most inexplicable, until a moment later, the very fabric of the universe was rent open, for a blade of watered steel had been shoved through the taught canvas upstage and slashed across it in a great arc, tearing the heavens asunder. Through the gap leapt Jack Shaftoe, and then giants dueled in Golden Square.

meaningless networks of trunks and branches and sticks and twigs of iron. But as you glide nearer still you see that the forest is not lifeless, nor its branches deserted. From the bottom to the topmost boughs it is crowded with a life that at first seems like that of mites in the interstices of some rotting fabric, and then like birds crowding the branches of the leafless forest, and finally appears as a multitude of pigmy men swarming and toiling amid the skeleton iron structures that are as vast as cathedrals and seem as frail as gossamer. It is from them that the clamour arises, the clamour that seemed so gentle and musical a mile away, and that now, as you come closer, grows strident and deafening. Of all the sounds produced by man’s labour in the world this sound of a great shipbuilding yard is the most painful. Only the harshest materials and the harshest actions are engaged in producing it: iron struck upon iron, or steel smitten upon steel, or steel upon iron,

The place Quinn calls home is a penthouse in a skyscraper in the middle of the city that looks as if it were designed by Morticia Addams at the height of a depressive episode. Decorated entirely in shades of gray and black, the place is dark, sophisticated, and freezing. It’s somewhere a coven of vampires might feel cozy and welcome. Not a single speck of color enlivens the place. There isn’t a throw pillow, photograph, or plant in sight. There isn’t any carpeting or warm fabrics to soften the space, either. It’s all glass, marble, steel, and cold reflective surfaces. Looking around the echoing living room, I say, “My, how delightful. If I were a cyborg, I’d plug myself right in.

From the perspective of the objective world with its opaque qualities, or from the objective body with its isolated organs, the phenomenon of synesthesia is paradoxical...For the subject does not tell us merely that he has a sound and a color at the same time: it is the sound itself that he sees, at the place where colors form. This formula is literally rendered meaningless if vision is defined by the visual quale, or sound by the sonorous quale. But...the vision of sounds or the hearing of colors exist as phenomena. And they are hardly exceptional phenomena. Synesthetic perception is the rule and, if we do not notice it, this is because scientific knowledge displaces experience and we have unlearned seeing, hearing, and sensing in general in order to deduce what we ought to see, hear, or sense from our bodily organization and from the world as it is conceived by the physicist...In fact...by opening itself up to the structure of the thing, the senses communicate among themselves. We see the rigidity and the fragility of the glass, and, when it breaks with a crystal-clear sound, this sound is borne by the visible glass. We see the elasticity of steel, the ductility of molten steel, the hardness of the blade in a plane, and the softness of its shaving...The form of a fold in a fabric of linen or of cotton shows us the softness or the dryness of the fiber, and the coolness or the warmth of the fabric...In the movement of the branch from which a bird has just left, we read its flexibility and its elasticity, and this is how the branch of an apple tree and the branch of a birch are immediately distinguished. We see the weight of a block of cast iron that sinks into the sand, the fluidity of the water, and the viscosity of the syrup. Likewise, I hear the hardness and the unevenness if the cobblestones in the sound of a car, and we are right to speak of a 'soft,' 'dull' or 'dry' sound.

His fingers cupped my face, cradling my cheek and jaw as if I was made of glass. I found a handful of his soft hair and wound my fingers into it, while curling my other hand into the shoulder of his leather coat. My heart hadn’t even stopped thundering from the Foul Woman’s presence. Now it was thrumming against my ribs again, too fast to count the beats. I did something I’d always secretly wanted to and bit down, very gently, on his beautiful bottom lip. Shinobu’s breath shivered into my mouth, and he pulled me closer.   I was taller now, but not tall enough. Tiptoes didn’t bring me where I wanted to be either. I jumped and hauled myself up the steel pillar of his body, wrapping one leg around his hip. The big, warm hand on my waist slid slowly down the thin fabric of my trousers to cup my thigh, supporting my weight. His other hand was clenched in my hair. A wave of almost painful excitement and yearning crashed through me, and sent me into a full-body shudder that I had no chance of hiding. A tiny moan popped from my lips straight into his.   “Mio. Oh, Mio…” His shaking voice echoed in my ears, mixing with words in Japanese. I recognized some of them. My beloved. My Mio. He pressed his mouth to my eyelid, my cheek, the edge of my jaw, the skin beneath my ear.   There was a loud tearing noise. We both froze.   Abruptly I was aware of the wall against my back, and the tremble in my thigh from hanging onto him like a demented spider monkey. I swallowed and blinked as Shinobu eased back, letting my feet drop to the pavement again. Our eyes met.   “What just…?” I asked.   He cleared his throat. “I think – my shirt.”   I looked down and saw that at some point I’d traded my grip on his hair for a handful of the T-shirt and jumper under his jacket. My fingers had gone straight through the thin wool and made a nice tear in the cotton beneath that too.   “Darn super-strength,” I muttered.   Shinobu’s lip twitched up at the corner again. I snatched my hand away from his ruined clothes and clapped it over his mouth. “No laughing at me,” I said, only half joking. “Not at a moment like this. Romance will die forever and it’ll be your fault.” He peeled my hand off and pressed a kiss to my palm. “Where are we now? What is this place?” “Um … Remnant Street, I think.”   “No. From now on it will be Paradise Street. Heaven Road. Happiness Avenue.”   “You big cheese-ball…” I muttered, putting my arms around his waist and hugging him tightly.   “What?”   “Never mind!” I grumped, then sighed. “I wish we could stay on Happiness Avenue a bit longer…”   “But we can’t,” he finished. “It is all right. I promise we will come back whenever you want.

The Cement KR (5.2) applies to the fabrication of concrete, which emits almost 3 gigatons. The production of steel and cement today is dominated by China

Poetry is the practice of creating artworks with language. Sculptors use marble, steel, cardboard, pâté, whatever material they choose. Musicians use sound. Painters use paint. Furniture-makers use woods and fabrics. And poets use language.

Easyfix Balustrades From fabricated posts to frameless glass balconies, Juliet balconies to banister rails, glass clamps to single part components. We are dedicated to providing the stainless steel balustrade market with a range of products and services that are of the highest quality in regards to design, manufacture and installation. With a target audience of homeowner, architect, DIY enthusiast, fabricator, landscape gardener, decking specialist, glazing specialist all the way through to main contractor we are the one stop shop for all things balustrade.

I get caught in a hell-world of some sort. In the initial phase, I’m aware of and merging with a kind of network of light, with a sense that this network or fabric contains all possibilities of experience. Each point of light represents a human experience, like what the Buddhists call a “seed-thought”. One of these points could be “fear of dying.” Things change so quickly, that this fear-seed usually doesn’t develop into a full-blown panic state. But if I get fixated on it, or resist letting it pass, I get stuck and the movement stops. The shimmering network freezes and congeals: it becomes brittle, harsh and glaring, like steel wires and bands. It closes in on me, like an immense spider’s web, tighter and tighter, as in Stan Grof ’s description of BPM-II. There is dread and terror associated with it and it can develop into a fullblown hallucination of a hell-realm. (These can occur with psilocybe mushrooms and LSD, too). It’s a fully developed hell, with demons torturing me, reminiscent of concentration camp accounts or the torture chambers of the Inquisition. It has a historical feel to it, as if I’m a participant-observer of collective human history, since I know these are not personal memories from my life. Being aware of the possibility of such hellish experiences and centering preparation would definitely reduce the chances of getting stuck in them (RM).

the normal fabric of events would always give rise to thugs and petty tyrants. Influential, charismatic men—and yes, almost always men—of outsized ego and destructive impulse. Who, left to their own devices, would wreak unmitigated havoc. Call it the “Terrible Man theory.

The Reformer was based on plans probably taken from the Reformers made for the new studio back in 1972. They were fabricated by Donald Gratz with aluminum bases. Clara had the plans and gave them to Fletcher.

3J Services Ltd provide new & used 8ft, 10ft, 20ft, 40ft, standard & modified shipping containers, steel storage containers for sale and hire across the UK. Specialising in portable cabins and steel containers fabricated to any size with over 40 years experience and nationwide delivery. Portable Containers can be modified for offices, cabins, canteens, toilets, mess rooms, drying rooms, storage yards, homes, refrigeration and much more. Ask about the wide range of options such as repainting, Graf-Therm anti-condensation, shelving, loading ramps, ply lining, insulation, lighting, electrics, heating, power points, extra cargo doors, high security lockbox, padlocks, anti-vandal doors, windows and shutters.

If geography and time are the warp and weft structuring (art) history, perceptual culture is like the pile of a velvet cloth that, without altering the warp or weft of the fabric, reenchants its texture and depth. It treats Islam as the Simurgh, and objects as its feathers. Like the galleries in China full of representations futilely and obsessively trying to reconstruct the bird from its feathers, the museum is a monument to our inability to feel what we are trying to represent. And yet like the three princes seeking the hand of the Chinese princess in the gallery of creation, we can also discover through objects the spirit we can never expect to pin down in our hands. With these hopes tucked in between the warp of evidence and the weft of interpretation, this book would like to quote a certain textile from a very long time ago: I exist for pleasure; Welcome! For pleasure am I; he who beholds me sees joy and well-being. This book offers complex more than simple pleasures: its many questions diverge and converge, offering iridescence to our certainties. It puts forth the pleasure of using thought as steel wool polishing our mental acumen, enabling perception beyond predetermined realities. It may be that a barzakh exists somewhere between the secular and the sacred, a peninsula of understanding in which we enter the cave of our ghurba and become in the world but not of it. If we tread lightly with a pure heart cleansed in the mirror of curiosity and wonder, it may just open its doors a bit and let us explore the glory it holds inside.

Easyfix Balustrades is a one stop shop for all things Balustrade. From fabricated posts to frameless glass systems, Juliet balconies to banister rails, glass clamps to single part components, Easyfix will have the solution.

Easyfix Balustrades is a one stop shop for all things Balustrade. From fabricated posts to frameless glass systems, Juliet balconies to banister rails, glass clamps to single part components, Easyfix will have the solution.

It is said that back in the day, when a steel company was hired to build a bridge, they’d make the steel, fabricate the steel members, and erect the steel. But later they said, “We don’t want to fabricate it; we just want to make steel. Let someone else cut it up.” So now, just to handle the structural steel alone, you need to have a structural engineer, someone making steel, someone who fabricates the steel into steel members, someone who erects it, someone who does the shop drawings, and a hoisting company. What before required one company now involves five.