Strain Series Quotes

My life is not an apology, but a life. It is for itself and not for a spectacle. I much prefer that it should be of a lower strain, so it be genuine and equal, than that it should be glittering and unsteady.

What is life, in the end, but a series of small victories and larger failures?

My life is for itself and not for a spectacle. I much prefer that it should be of a lower strain, so it be genuine and equal, than that it should be glittering and unsteady. I wish it to be sound and sweet, and not to need diet and bleeding

The basic reason why erotic experiences outside of marriage create psychological strain is because the void between spirit and flesh is more closely felt.

Against defenseless people there is not much that nuclear weapons can do that cannot be done with an ice pick. And it would not have strained our Gross National Product to do it with ice picks.

Does your knee still hurt, Sassenach?” he asked, seeing me rub it. It hadn’t ever quite recovered from being strained during our adventures on the Pitt, and climbing stairs provoked it. “Oh, just part of the general decline,” I said, trying to make a joke of it. I flexed my right arm, gingerly, feeling a twinge in the elbow. “Things don’t bend quite so easily as they used to. And other things hurt. Sometimes I think I’m falling apart.” Jamie closed one eye and regarded me. “I’ve felt like that since I was about twenty,” he observed. “Ye get used to it.” He stretched, making his spine give off a series of muffled pops, and held out a hand. “Come to bed, a nighean. Nothing hurts when ye love me.” He was right; nothing did.

Yanking at my leg, straining every muscle, my customized Gray Ghost rebuilt as a chopper sparks and squeals. My boot catches and I'm flipped. Sliding down E-70 Highway on leather, my gloves scrubbed by the tarmac.

As if it were important, he strained his memory; beside the sofa there had been a large lamp with a round milk-white base encircled by a chain of painted roses, and beyond that, on the wall, neatly framed, was a series of water colors done by a forgotten aunt during her Grand Tour.

But no life was without it's strain & strife, not if it was fully lived. Opening up to experience, even the good ones like trust & love, was to open yourself up to the pain. I suppose the key was to not compound matters by making the rest of it unnecessarily hard. My need for control had certainly done that in the past. So I made a promise to myself in that moment. I would make a concerted effort to reach for what was soft & good in this world. I'd find a place to settle into, and hold still so that this world's good and soft could reach back & touch me as well.

Every time we linger in bad company whose insidious influence we know we cannot resist, every time we lie in bed when we ought to be up and praying, every time we read pornographic literature, every time we take a risk which strains our self-control, we are sowing, sowing, sowing to the flesh.

There is in the chemist a form of thought by which all ideas become visible in the mind as strains of an imagined piece of music. This form of thought is developed in Faraday in the highest degree, whence it arises that to one who is not acquainted with this method of thinking, his scientific works seem barren and dry, and merely a series of researches strung together, while his oral discourse when he teaches or explains is intellectual, elegant, and of wonderful clearness.

When we surrender in a spiritual sense, we let go of all effort and strain and instead are open to receive.

The illusion of free will is straining under the weight of determinism.

There's a series of sculptures there by Michelangelo that you should see. They are called The Captives. Out of a great formless mass of stone, the figures of slaves emerge: heads, shoulders, torsos, straining toward freedom but still held fast in the stone. There are souls like that, Reyes. There are souls that try to carve themselves from their own formlessness.

Presently, I sense within me the slightest touch. The harmony of one chord lingers in my mind. It fuses, divides, searches--but for what? I open my eyes, position the fingers of my right hand on the buttons, and play out a series of permutations. After a time, I am able, as if by will, to locate the first four notes. They drift down from inward skies, softly, as early morning sunlight. They find me; these are the notes I have been seeking. I hold down the chord key and press the individual notes over and over again. The four notes seem to desire further notes, another chord. I strain to hear the chord that follows. The first four notes lead me to the next five, then to another chord and three more notes. It is a melody. Not a complete song, but the first phrase of one. I play the three chords and twelve notes, also, over and over again. It is a song, I realize, I know.

Love is a feeling, a real, raw, and unscripted emotion so sensationally pure, unable to dull even under the strain of a world against it, strong enough to heal the broken and warm even the coldest of hearts. – Madeline Sheehan, UnBeautifully

Cole envisioned the next few weeks passing as a sort of painless montage: there'd be music, and different moments of the townspeople hard at work building a defensive wall around the perimeter of the town, and digging holes to serve as traps, and training with the few weapons they had. There'd be a wiping of perspiration and drinks raised to one another and the exchange of friendly smiles between comrades, and perhaps deeper, more meaningful glances between him and MaryAnn. But by midmorning of the first day, Cole had come to the unavoidable conclusion that the remainder of the experience would in fact drag on in exceedingly real time, with lots of heaving and hoing and digging and hauling under the hot sun, full of the kind of intense straining that raised the danger of a really spectacular hernia. And, judging from the few tense conversations he'd had so far, he foresaw a series of increasingly strident arguments with Nora regarding matters strategic. Plus, of course, at the end of all this effort they'd all probably be dead.

He strained his ears, and the darkness felt heavier than before. Oppressive. “We’re hungry.” That came from behind him. “They smell tasty,” a voice to his left hissed. “I don’t like this,” Andrew said, feeling like the world around them was spinning with voices, taunting, echoing them. “I don’t like this,” a voice parroted. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this. I don’t like this.

He peeled the towel that imprisoned us away and let it fall. I felt it slide softly off my backside, and I felt, too, his rising excite¬ment, hard, erect, pressing against me. My nipples were erect, straining, aching, pressed against his strong warm damp chest, the tangle and pattern of his hair. He was a beast, an animal. My excitement was rising again, to match his. It was as if my heart were about to burst or to flip flop, breathless, into a dark abyss. “Of course, you are crazy, my darling, but, then, so am I.” He kissed me and his oh-so-clever hands seized my waist, tighten¬ing, and then sneaking up my backside, pulling me, pressing me closer, into him. He kissed me again, and his lips moved down my neck to my shoulder and then to my breasts. “Oh,” I said, “Oh.” He bent over me, kissing my collarbone and then my breasts, carefully, slowly, his hands traveling down my back, and over my backside; suddenly, he was on his knees, kissing the whorl of 101 my belly button; then he was forcing me open, gently, gently, his tongue exploring caressing, devouring … “Oh …” I exhaled a deep, shuddering breath. I tipped on the very edge. He bit me, gently. Oooooh! He pulled in the reins, the bit and bridle, of the frisky frothing filly that I had become; this sudden halt made me wilder, crazier; then, once again, he brought me, trembling, up to the very, very edge of the cliff – of orgasm, of loss of self. Then he pulled me back. I blinked and trembled. Around the two of us, there was a whole world, a whole universe. It seemed too vivid to be real, like the backdrop in an opera. Venus was brighter and lower now. The sky had turned deep indigo. One by one, stars appeared.

Bree rubbed her belly. Figured; Alessandro wasn’t one to live in quiet but strained tension. She stared up at the fabric of the canopy and then squeezed her eyes shut. “Alessandro, considering that the outside world has the sterile hospital rooms, not to mention the epidurals, yeah. For goodness sake, Alessandro. You know we can’t stay here forever. I’m entering my eighth month here.” “I must say, I’m surprised you’re so anxious to leave.” “Why?” Bree asked, turning to look at his strong profile. “You know why, Brianna. As soon as we walk out that door, you and I are over.” Bree felt a guilty tightening in her chest. “Perhaps that’s what you want, though.” “That’s not fair,” Bree whispered even as she feared he was right. No. He’s wrong. I love him. She wasn’t going to let anyone shake what she and Alessandro had built here. She’d let her family know that she wanted Alessandro in her life and that she wanted to be a family with him. “Thanks for your confidence in me, though. Really.

Men do what is called a good action, as some piece of courage or charity, much as they would pay a fine in expiation of daily non-appearance on parade. Their works are done as an apology or extenuation of their living in the world, — as invalids and the insane pay a high board. Their virtues are penances. I do not wish to expiate, but to live. My life is for itself and not for a spectacle. I much prefer that it should be of a lower strain, so it be genuine and equal, than that it should be glittering and unsteady. I wish it to be sound and sweet, and not to need diet and bleeding. I ask primary evidence that you are a man, and refuse this appeal from the man to his actions. I know that for myself it makes no difference whether I do or forbear those actions which are reckoned excellent. I cannot consent to pay for a privilege where I have intrinsic right. Few and mean as my gifts may be, I actually am, and do not need for my own assurance or the assurance of my fellows any secondary testimony.

The sun and moon keep their appointed seasons; the animals get up when God tells them to get up and they lie down when God directs them to do so. What is the result? “The earth is satisfied” (verse 13); “they are filled with good” (verse 28). Did you catch that? To surrender to the Creator’s control is not onerous or burdensome; it is, in fact, the place of blessing, fullness, and peace. There is no evidence in this passage of any stress, struggle, or strain. Why? Because the creation is not vying with the Creator for control.

Hold on tight then. I hope you're not afraid of the dark.” He thrust forward, slamming himself inside me, and I screamed. Not from the pain. There wasn't any. Only a stretching, and a fullness, and an awesome wave of energy that fired up my spine in a series of bursts that felt like small explosions. It was so much, all at once, that I had to scream. As if he were experiencing something very similar, Fisher threw his head back, the muscles in his neck straining, his jaw clenched tight, roaring through his teeth. 'Fuuuuck!” Just one stroke. He'd entered me once, and I was done for. I was a ball of sensation, humming with energy. In the darkness, Fisher slowly lowered his head, his lips parted, hair mussed, and the dazed look of surprise on his face sent a rush of adrenalin powering through me. Gods and Martyrs. I would never forget seeing him like this. If I did manage to make my way back home, the image of him like this, seated inside me, skin slick with sweat, chest hitching, would sustain me until the day I died. Fisher. Kingfisher. Lord of Cahlish. I hated him, I did. But you couldn't hate something without caring about it just a little, too. “Witch,” he accused. “You do have magic.” He was so fucking big; his hard length twitched inside me, and my body answered in kind, tightening around him. His fingers gouged into my skin, digging deeper into my hips. With a mantle of black smoke swirling around him like a dark wind, he moved. Slowly, at first. The tendons in his neck stood proud as he pulled back and eased out of me just an inch. The smallest of movements drew him home. Again, he shifted, rolling his hips, working his cock a little deeper each time he thrust back into me. The pace he set was torturous.

Luke, meet Willy,” Micah says from behind him, his voice sounding strained. “Randy’s elf and all around pain in the ass.” “Speak for yourself, nurse boy,” Willy comes back at him with a loud laugh. “And Randy says the pain’s not so bad anymore, so ha! You know that stuff takes a lot of practice for it not to hurt every time.” Surely he’s not saying what it sounds like he’s saying? “And a lot of lube,” the elf continues. “I mean, when you’re as big as I am and all, even if Randy is a big man, he still has a tight-” Oh, he’s definitely saying it. Micah slaps his hands over his ears. “Stop it!” Willy smirks at him. “I bet you won’t call me a pain in the ass in front of somebody again.

Oscar Wilde summed it up well: “When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.” This is the wrath of God: to give us what we want too much, to give us over to the pursuit of the things we have put in place of him. The worst thing God can do to human beings in the present is to let them reach their idolatrous goals. His judgment is to give us over to the destructive power of idolatry, and of evil. When we sin, it sets up stresses and strains in the fabric of the order that God created. Instead of us finding blessing, our sin causes breakdowns spiritually, psychologically, socially and physically. The great tragedy is that we choose this for ourselves. God allows us to walk through the door we have chosen.

The sun goes down and it's night-time in New Orleans. The moon rises, midnight chimes from St. Louis cathedral, and hardly has the last note died away than a gruesome swampland whistle sounds outside the deathly still house. A fat Negress, basket on arm, comes trudging up the stairs a moment later, opens the door, goes in to the papaloi, closes it again, traces an invisible mark on it with her forefinger and kisses it. Then she turns and her eyes widen with surprise. Papa Benjamin is in bed, covered up to the neck with filthy rags. The familiar candles are all lit, the bowl for the blood, the sacrificial knife, the magic powders, all the paraphernalia of the ritual are laid out in readiness, but they are ranged about the bed instead of at the opposite end of the room as usual. The old man's head, however, is held high above the encumbering rags, his beady eyes gaze back at her unflinchingly, the familiar semicircle of white wool rings his crown, his ceremonial mask is at his side. 'I am a little tired, my daughter,' he tells her. His eyes stray to the tiny wax image of Eddie Bloch under the candles, hairy with pins, and hers follow them. 'A doomed one, nearing his end, came here last night thinking I could be killed like other men. He shot a bullet from a gun at me. I blew my breath at it, it stopped in the air, turned around, and went back in the gun again. But it tired me to blow so hard, strained my voice a little.' A revengeful gleam lights up the woman's broad face. 'And he'll die soon, papaloi?' 'Soon,' cackles the weazened figure in the bed. The woman gnashes her teeth and hugs herself delightedly. ("Papa Benjamin" aka "Dark Melody Of Madness")

The silence lengthened, becoming strained and awkward until it was broken by the goose’s imperious honk. Swift glanced at the massive bird. “You have a companion, I see.” When Daisy explained what the two boys had been doing with the goose, Swift grinned. “Clever lads.” The remark did not strike Daisy as being especially compassionate. “I want to help him,” she said. “But when I tried to get near, he pecked me. I expected a domestic breed would have been a bit more receptive to my approach.” “Greylags are not known for their mild temperaments,” Swift informed her. “Particularly males. He was probably trying to show you who was boss.” “He proved his point,” Daisy said, rubbing her arm. Swift frowned as he saw the growing bruise on her arm. “Is that where he pecked you? Let me see.” “No, it’s all right—” she began, but he had already come forward. His long fingers encircled her wrist, the thumb of his other hand passing gently near the dark purple mark. “You bruise easily,” he murmured, his dark head bent over her arm. Daisy’s heart dispensed a series of hard thumps before settling into a fast rhythm. He smelled like the outdoors—sun, water, grassy-sweet. And deeper in the fragrance lingered the tantalizing incense of warm, sweaty male. She fought the instinct to move into his arms, against his body…to pull his hand to her breast. The mute craving shocked her. Glancing up at his downturned face, Daisy found his blue eyes staring right into hers. “I…” Nervously she pulled away from him. “What are we to do?” “About the goose?” His broad shoulders hitched in a shrug. “We could wring his neck and take him home for dinner.” The suggestion caused Daisy and the Greylag to stare at him in shared outrage. “That was a very poor joke, Mr. Swift.” “I wasn’t joking.” Daisy placed herself squarely between Swift and the goose. “I will deal with the situation on my own. You may leave now.” “I wouldn’t advise making a pet of him. You’ll eventually find him on your plate if you stay at Stony Cross Park long enough.” “I don’t care if it makes me a hypocrite,” she said. “I would rather not eat a goose I’m acquainted with.

James and Colleen Simmons, authors of Daniel's Challenge and Original Fast Foods, and owners of LDShealth.ning.com, have this to say on the subject: “The commercial bread-making industry figured out how to isolate strains of yeast that made bread raise very quickly compared to the old-fashion bread-making method; soon sourdough starts became a thing of the past for most of us. What we didn't know when we traded Old-World leavening techniques for quick-rise yeasts, is that not everything in wheat is good for you. In fact, there are several elements in wheat that are down-right problematic and that have led to grain intolerances in about 20 percent of today's population. When you compare what happens to the bread when it is leavened with commercial yeasts versus a good sourdough starter, another story unfolds…. The sourdough starter contains several natural strains of friendly bacteria and yeasts that also cause bread to rise; however, these friendly bacteria also neutralize the harmful effects of the grain. They neutralize phytic acids that otherwise prevent minerals found in the grain from being absorbed properly; they predigest the gluten, and they also neutralize lignans and tanins found in wheat.”1

Eat, woman,” he bellowed, leaning over her, prepared to force the remainder of her meal into her opened mouth. “I would,” she said in a strained voice, “But there is a giant attached to my chin. Perhaps if he would be so gracious as to remove the cured pork from my pack, I would share it with him.” Rautu’s eyes blazed in senseless joy. He released his companion and hastened toward her effects, rummaging through them with great anticipation. He found a small brown parchment parcel and assumed that this was the source of his happiness. He sniffed the outside of the paper and hummed in delight for the exquisite scent. He tore open the barrier between him and his prize and he was compelled to smile when remarking the numerous slices of meat in his hands. He began eating them immediately, leaving no time between one slice and the next to savour that which he had longed to again taste. The superior fare of Frewyn had been the chief of his consolation during the war, and if he was to remain on the islands with all its splendor, all its comforting familiarity, all its temperate climate, and all its horrendous food, he would relish this last ember of bliss before being made to suffer a diet of steamed grains again. “I did say share,” the commander called out. “I am responsible for securing your life,” he replied with a full mouth and without turning around. “And I thanked you accordingly.” The commander’s remonstrations were unanswered, and she scoffed in aversion as she watched the voracious beast consume nearly all the provisions she had been saving for the return journey. “I know you shall not be satisfied until you have all the tribute in the world, but that pork does belong to me, Rau.” “You are not permitted to have meat while taking our medicines,” he said, dismissively. She peered at him in circumspection. “I don’t recall you mentioning that stipulation before. I find it convenient that you should care to do so now.” The giant paused, his cheeks filled with pork. “And?” he said, shoving another slice into his mouth. “And,” she laughed, “You’re going to allow me to starve on your inedible bread while you skulk off with something that was meant for both of us?” “Perhaps.” “Savior, indeed,” the commander fleered. “You have saved me from one means of death only to plunge me into another.

But for man's primal sin and fall from the condition of grace there would have been no need for God's saving work. Both sacred history in particular and history itself as experienced by men arise from this primal tragedy. This is the source of the 'river of human history,' the _series calamitatis_, the _res humana_ which flows like a river...History in the full sense, as the troubled past of the human race, is the consequence of a world plunged into the ambivalence of time; time as the vehicle of sin and tragedy as well as the medium of redemption. History in general, the troubled careers of men, societies and their institutions, as well as sacred history, the unfolding of God's plan for healing man's fallen condition, both arise from this primordial strain in the human situation. Temporality itself is involved in being crated; but temporality falls short of historicity. Historicity is the mark of a world in which there is _nihil solidum, nihil stabile_. Man therefore creates a historical situation for himself in the very same act in which he provides God with an opportunity to exercise within human history his saving work.

But for man's primal sin and fall from the condition of grace there would have been no need for God's saving work. Both sacred history in particular and history itself as experienced by men arise from this primal tragedy. This is the source of the 'river of human history,' the series calamitatis, the res humana which flows like a river...History in the full sense, as the troubled past of the human race, is the consequence of a world plunged into the ambivalence of time; time as the vehicle of sin and tragedy as well as the medium of redemption. History in general, the troubled careers of men, societies and their institutions, as well as sacred history, the unfolding of God's plan for healing man's fallen condition, both arise from this primordial strain in the human situation. Temporality itself is involved in being crated; but temporality falls short of historicity. Historicity is the mark of a world in which there is nihil solidum, nihil stabile. Man therefore creates a historical situation for himself in the very same act in which he provides God with an opportunity to exercise within human history his saving work.

But for man's primal sin and fall from the condition of grace there would have been no need for God's saving work. Both sacred history in particular and history itself as experienced by men arise from this primal tragedy. This is the source of the 'river of human history,' the series calamitatis, the res humana which flows like a river...History in the full sense, as the troubled past of the human race, is the consequence of a world plunged into the ambivalence of time; time as the vehicle of sin and tragedy as well as the medium of redemption. History in general, the troubled careers of men, societies and their institutions, as well as sacred history, the unfolding of God's plan for healing man's fallen condition, both arise from this primordial strain in the human situation. Temporality itself is involved in being created; but temporality falls short of historicity. Historicity is the mark of a world in which there is nihil solidum, nihil stabile. Man therefore creates a historical situation for himself in the very same act in which he provides God with an opportunity to exercise within human history his saving work.

Jack nodded, his mind drifting back to a night in Coventry when he and his wife had been caught in an air raid. He closed his eyes briefly as he thought about her, his throat catching as he recalled the letter she had sent him a week earlier. It had been the first he had received from his wife since arriving in France and he knew that it would be the last. In it she had confirmed all of the wild fantasies that had plagued him for countless nights. In it was the end of the hope he had clung to for so long. The letter had barely been a paragraph long, yet it had destroyed the world that Jack had once known. She had told him that there was another man, an American who was stationed on an airbase near their home. He was, she had told him, an officer. They had been together for two years and she planned to marry him. She had asked for a divorce and had informed him briskly that she intended, when the war was over, to take the children and return with her lover to New York. The letter had been blunt and to the point, there had been no warmth, no consideration in the words, just a cold animosity that Jack could not understand. The wording had suggested that it was his fault that their marriage had fallen apart, that somehow, in some imperceptible way, he had forced her into the arms of another. He felt his blood rising and he forced himself to breathe, his hands white against the stock of his Sten gun as he mulled over the contents of the letter. He had, deep inside, harboured a hope, a small dream that when the war finished they could rebuild their strained marriage. The letter had shattered that illusion and left in its wake a cold reality that had struck Jack like a thunderbolt. He spat onto the ground and wished that he could get five minutes alone with the bastard. All those years of writing to her, of missing her. All those years of struggling in the desert, longing to come home, of pouring his heart into the precious letters he had sent to her. All that time she had been with another man.

Be reasonable, Miss Caine,” Cade coerced, his jaw tense with the strain of having to reason with what had to be the most unreasonable woman in the whole of Chicago.

He had to admit, seeing her worry that full bottom lip with her teeth had his cock straining in his pants. Fuck. He needed to get out of the bloody house.

His cock and balls flapped around like two rotund people straining to stick a pole on top of an ass crack.

You’re a pirate?” Obviously. Still, hard to believe. He pressed forward, forcing on her a series of blows meant to test her strength and will. She parried and blocked his every move with an aptitude that amazed. “Aye. A pirate, and captain of the Sea Sprite,” she boasted, a wry smile upon her full lips. Indeed, she appeared very much a pirate in her men’s garb—a threadbare, brown suit with overly long sleeves she’d had to roll up. Her ebony hair had been pulled back in a queue and was half hidden beneath a rumpled tricorn. Also, like her men, was her look of desperation and the grim cast to her countenance that bespoke of a hard existence. “We offered you quarter,” she said as she evaded his thrust with ease. “Why didn’t you surrender? You had to know we outnumbered you.” He didn’t answer. In all honesty, he’d thought they could defeat the pirates, if not with cannon fire, then with skill. After hearing of all the pirate attacks of late, they’d hired on additional hands, men who could fight. If it hadn’t been for the damn illness… “It’s not too late. You can save what’s left of your crew. Surrender now, Captain Glanville, and we’ll see that your men are ransomed back.” A wicked gleam brightened her eyes as if victory would soon be hers. He should do as she asked. It would be the sensible thing, but pride kept him from saying the words. Not yet. He still had another opponent to defeat, and so far she hadn’t been an easy one to overcome. Despite his steady attack, she kept her muscles relaxed, her balance sure. Her attention followed his movements no matter how small, adjusting her stance, looking for weaknesses. “How do you know I’m Captain Glanville?” When work was at hand, he didn’t dress any differently than his men. “I know much about you.” Stepping clear of two men battling to their left, she blocked his sword with her own and lunged with her dagger. He jumped from the blade, avoiding injury by the barest inch. This one relied on speed and accuracy rather than power. Smart woman. “What do you want from us?” he asked, launching an attack of his own, this time with so much force and speed, she had no choice but to retreat until her back came up against the railing. “We only just left London four days ago. Our cargo is mainly iron and ale.” Her gaze sharpened even as her expression became strained. His assault was wearing her down. “I want the Ruby Cross.” How the hell did she know he had the cross? And did she believe he’d simply hand it over? Hand over a priceless antiquity of the Knights Templar? Absurd. He swung his sword all the harder. The clang of steel rang through the air. Her reactions slowed, and her arms trembled. He made a final cut, putting all his strength behind the blow, and knocked her sword from her hand. Triumph surged through his veins. She attempted to slash out with her dagger. He grabbed her arm before her blade could reach him and hauled her close, their faces nose to nose. “You’ll never take the cross from me,” he vowed as he towered over her, his grip strong. The point of a sword touched his back. Thomas tensed, he swore beneath his breath, self-disgust heavy in his chest. The distraction of this one woman had sealed his fate. Bloody hell.

On the seventh days she underwent repairs. A machine longs to be used, but it hates to be mishandled. The strain of extreme anal fisting, pony shows and nosecocking tested the limits of her robot durability. But Dr. Hugo Sploogeworthy, flush with renewed funding for Project Ultrafuck, addressed her injuries with a series of upgrades: a harder, more sensitive skin; removable and interchangeable modular genitals in both genders and a variety of pubic hairstyles; a breakaway stunt nose. He also tested other new features requested specifically by the NAFTA military: nipple tasers, supersensitive fingercams, an anal jetpack. The NAFTA leaders dreamed of a robot that could do double duty, killing and copulating, simultaneously if possible. They wanted mass-produced Slutbots, giant-breasted and strong, ten feet tall, armed with cannons, able to double as crowd-control systems when not producing porn or fellating members of Congress. They wanted Slutbots that could mint money and mine coal, fulfill erotic fantasies and survive a nuclear winter. As society crumbled in their fists, the leaders grew paranoid. Sex and power were their simple needs, and in the golden age of robotics they expected Slutbot and her kin to take care of all the messy details.

Enough, I say. Our guests will be arriving shortly, and I would as lief they were left in the dark about this particular strain of insanity in the family that makes you two revert to childhood at the drop of a napkin.

For the German fighter pilot, there was no magic number of sorties or hours, the completion of which guaranteed a return home. He was already home, and in the skies over the Reich he faced an opponent who enjoyed overwhelming superiority. If he survived the first missions and his skills reached those of his opponents, he would fly until fatigue and strain led to a mistake that was more often than not fatal.

But I’m still breathing. Not deeply; not enough to satisfy, but breathing. Peter pushes my eyelids over my eyes. Does he know I’m not dead? Does Jeanine? Can she see me breathing? “Take the body to the lab,” Jeanine says. “The autopsy is scheduled for this afternoon.” “All right,” Peter replies. Peter pushes the table forward. I hear mutters all around me as we pass the group of Erudite bystanders. My hand falls off the edge of the table as we turn a corner, and smacks in the wall. I feel a prickle of pain in my fingertips, but I can’t move my hand, as hard as I try. This time, when we go down the hallway of Dauntless traitors, it is silent. Peter walks slowly at first, then turns another corner and picks up the pace. He almost sprints down the next corridor, and stops abruptly. Where am I? I can’t be in the lab already. Why did he stop? Peter’s arms slide under my knees and shoulders, and he lifts me. My head falls against his shoulder. “For someone so small, you’re heavy, Stiff,” he mutters. He knows I’m awake. He knows. I hear a series of beeps, and a slide--a locked door, opening. “What do--” Tobias’s voice. Tobias! “Oh my God. Oh--” “Spare me your blubbering, okay?” Peter says. “She’s not dead; she’s just paralyzed. It’ll only last for about a minute. Now get ready to run.” I don’t understand. How does Peter know? “Let me carry her,” Tobias says. “No. You’re a better shot than I am. Take my gun. I’ll carry her.” I hear the gun slide out of its holster. Tobias brushes a hand over my forehead. They both start running. At first all I hear is the pounding of their feet, and my head snaps back painfully. I feel tingling in my hands and feet. Peter shouts, “Left!” at Tobias. Then a shout from down the hallway. “Hey, what--!” A bang. And nothing. More running. Peter shouts, “Right!” I hear another bang, and another. “Whoa,” he mumbles. “Wait, stop here!” Tingling down my spine. I open my eyes as Peter opens another door. He charges through it, and just before I smack my head against the door frame, I stick my arm out and stop us. “Careful!” I say, my voice strained. My throat still feels as tight as it did when he first injected me and I found it difficult to breathe. Peter turns sideways to bring me through the door, then nudges it shut with his heel and drops me on the floor. The room is almost empty, except for a row of empty trash cans along one wall and a square metal door large enough for one of the cans to fit through it along the other wall. “Tris,” Tobias says, crouching next to me. His face is pale, almost yellow. There is too much I want to say. The first thing that comes out is, “Beatrice.” He laughs weakly. “Beatrice,” he amends, and touches his lips to mine. I curl my fingers into his shirt. “Unless you want me to throw up all over you guys, you might want to save it for later.” “Where are we?” I ask. “This is the trash incinerator,” says Peter, slapping the square door. “I turned it off. I’ll take us to the alley. And then your aim had better be perfect, Four, if you want to get out of the Erudite sector alive.” “Don’t concern yourself with my aim,” Tobias retorts. He, like me, is barefoot. Peter opens the door to the incinerator. “Tris, you first.

Glock Delaney had given him before departure. In the strained silence of the car he could hear he wasn’t the sole person doing a final clearance, a series of weapons checks sounding out. The ride took twenty minutes to complete, four Suburbans moving through the

A leader needs a balanced approach to time lest it become his bondage and downfall. Without a grip on time, the leader works under unnecessary strain. Even when the leader has done the utmost to fulfill daily obligations, vast areas of work always remain. Every call for help is not necessarily a call from God, for it is impossible to respond to every need. If the leader sincerely plans his day in prayer, then executes the plan with all energy and eagerness, that is enough. A leader is responsible only for what lies within the range of control. The rest he should trust to our loving and competent heavenly Father.

How you doing, Helena?" she asked quietly. "Not so good, Alley." The wounded trooper's voice was harsh, strained, despite all the painkillers in her pharmacope could do. The plasma bolt which had knocked out her armor hadn't killed her outright, but she'd lost her left leg just below the hip, and the entire left side of her armor was a smoking ruin. Her battle rifle had been destroyed, and her vital signs flickered unsteadily on Alicia's monitors. Alicia looked up at Tanis' face through the visor of her armor, and her wing shook her head silently. "We -" Alicia began, but Chu cut her off. "I already figured it out, Alley," she said. "I figured you had," Alicia said softly, and laid her armored hand on Chu's right shoulder. She knelt there for a few silent heartbeats, then straightened her spine. "You guys need to get moving," Chu said. She reached down and drew her sidearm-a CHK three-millimeter, identical to the one Alicia normally carried. "I'll just wait here with Bill," the crippled corporal said, nodding to where her wingman had already died. Alicia gazed down at her, longing for something-anything-to say. Some comforting lie, like "I'm sure the bad guys will be too busy concentrating on us to send in a follow-up sweep," or "Hang on, and we'll get a med team out here as soon as we've polished off Green Haven." But Chu knew the odds as well as Alicia did, and she could read her own life sign monitors. She knew how little time she had left unless the med team arrived almost instantly, that only her pharmacope and augmentation were keeping her alive even now, and Alicia owed her people something better than a lie. "God bless, Helena," she said, very quietly, instead, then turned to lead the fifty-eight surviving effectives of Charlie Company, Third Battalion, Second Regiment, Fifth Brigade, Imperial Cadre back into motion.

Is there any hope of rescue? How could those barriers to the flow of God’s acceptance be taken down? God hadn’t changed, but somehow they didn’t know and couldn’t feel His unchanging love and delight in them anymore. They had lost that wonderful and life-giving assurance of unconditional acceptance. Rejection had infected them, and their once-perfect relationship was now severely strained. What was needed was an exchange, a return to the warmth of acceptance in place of the pain of rejection, and a reinstatement of the open relationship with God which would bring back true security. A renewed potential for living in relationships of unconditional acceptance might then be possible.

No spiritual exercise is such a blending of complexity and simplicity. It is the simplest form of speech that infant lips can try, yet the sublimest strains that reach the Majesty on high. It is as appropriate to the aged philosopher as to the little child. It is the ejaculation of a moment and the attitude of a lifetime. It is the expression of the rest of faith and of the fight of faith. It is an agony and an ecstasy. It is submissive and yet importunate. In the one moment it lays hold of God and binds the devil. It can be focused on a single objective and it can roam the world. It can be abject confession and rapt adoration.

Today I can create a computer model and know exactly the stress and strains at every location for my chosen design. But in the near future, with infinite computing, I could ask the cloud to run design simulations, experimenting with every possible location for the motor and a range of different materials and thicknesses, resulting in not just an adequate design, but the best design.

Prayer is my half of an ongoing conversation between my God and me. ~ Donna Fawcett         Why Worry When We Can Pray?     “Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” (Matthew 6:27)     The hill in the distance looked daunting. “You want to climb that?” I stopped walking to re-lace my shoes.   Helen giggled. “Yes, of course. I do it almost every day. The dogs love it.” Her two dogs ran ahead, eager to get going.   “Well, I suppose. But I’m not sure if I’ll make it.” I shifted my water bottle to my hip. The hill loomed ahead, a 5 kilometre walk upwards. I wasn’t a stranger to a good hike; I loved to tromp through the woods and along the trails. But a walk straight up a steep hill was not my usual repertoire.   To pass the time and keep my mind off the pain in my calves, we talked. Enjoying a good chat is one of my favourite things to do in combination with a walk. Helen explained how she normally walks alone and she agreed that having a partner makes the upwards strain that much easier. She shared with me a story of how she had been walking the same road the day before and suffered from blasts of dust from cars that raced by with no consideration for her and her dogs. Her frustration was compounded by the heat. She threw her arms up in irritation as cars sped past. “Why are you not slowing down? Have you no consideration?” she called after them. But as her anger and indignation rose, she felt convicted in her spirit. Why worry when you could pray? So as the next car came into vision, instead of complaining and getting agitated waiting for the dust to swirl around her, she chose to pray instead. “Dear Lord, please make this driver slow down.” As she watched the vehicle approach, it slowed to such a degree that she expected the driver to pull over and ask directions. Instead he gave a wave and continued on.   “Thank You, Jesus!” Helen exclaimed. As each car came into view, Helen prayed to God and He came through every time. The walk became enjoyable and a real testament to the fact that God cares about our every need.   As Helen finished her story, a farm vehicle, large and spewing dust all around came over the hill. “Let’s pray!” Helen enthusiastically challenged. We prayed and the truck passed without a flicker of dust. “God

It was perfect. Just right. Just what the raging, frothing she-demon inside her needed. The demon that had driven the stupid argument between them and nothing short of his possession was going to drive her out. Revenge sex had taught Juliet that it wasn’t possible to screw the angry out, but if anyone could, it was Ryder. She moved restlessly against him as he held himself high inside her. “Again,” she demanded. “More.” “Christ.” His breath was hot on her neck, his voice strained and clearly pissed off. “You’re so fucking bossy.

strains their capacities. The limitation he mentions sounds vaguely as if it were drawn from the Golden Rule: we should force them to do only such work as we would force ourselves to do.8 And if they do work for us, he thinks that we should be grateful. In his course lectures, Kant sometimes told a story about the philosopher Leibniz carefully returning a grub he had been studying to the tree from which he had taken it when he was done, “lest he should be guilty of doing any harm to it.”9 Both in his lectures and in The Metaphysics of Morals, Kant has hard words for people who shoot their horses or dogs when they are no longer useful.10 Such animals should be treated, Kant insists,

A repetitive strain injury of the mind. How to exist in the 21st century and not have a panic attack Keep an eye on yourself. Be your own friend. Be your own parent. Be kind to yourself. Check on what you are doing. Do you need to watch the last episode of the series when it is after midnight? Do you need that third or fourth glass of wine? Is that really in your best interests? Declutter your mind. Panic is the product of overload. In an overloaded world we need to have a filter. We need to simplify things. We need to disconnect sometimes. We need to stop staring at our phones. To have moments of not thinking about work. A kind of mental feng shui. Listen to calm noise. Things that aren’t as stimulating as music. Waves, your own breath, a breeze through the leaves, the purr of a cat, and best of all: rain. Let it happen. If you feel panic rising the instinctive reaction is to panic some more. To panic about the panic. To metapanic. The trick is to try to feel panic without panicking about it. This is nearly—but not quite—impossible. I had panic disorder—a condition defined not by the occasional panic attack but by frequent panic attacks and the continuous hellish fear of the next one. By the time I’d had hundreds of panic attacks I began to tell myself I wanted it. I didn’t, obviously. But I used to work hard at trying to invite the panic—as a test, to see how I could cope. The more I invited it, the less it wanted to stay around. Accept feelings. And accept that they are just that: feelings. Don’t grab life by the throat. “Life should be touched, not strangled,” said the writer Ray Bradbury. It is okay to release fear. The fear tries to tell you it is necessary, and that it is protecting you. Try to accept it as a feeling, rather than valid information. Bradbury also said: “Learning to let go should be learned before learning to get.” Be aware of where you are. Are your surroundings overstimulating? Is there somewhere you can go that is calmer? Is there some nature you can look at? Look up. In city centers, the

Of course, what we care about most is whether today's young people will be upwardly mobile, not whether today's 40-year-olds did better than their parents. We should pursue that goal aggressively, acting as if the American Dream is under threat, even if we believe it's not.

But she seems to be on a roll of not giving a fuck. “If the Rebels make it to the World Series, Brody and Gary are required to perform the following rituals in this order. First game, both lying on their backs, pinkies linked.” Jesus, not the pinkies linked. “Second game, back-to-back, rotating every half inning so they don’t strain their necks.” That one just makes sense. “Third game, they feed each other potato salad every inning. That one’s disgusting to witness.” We keep a cooler to the side so it doesn’t get warm, not that you were asking. “Fourth game…hmm, what do they, oh yeah. They pretend their feet are phones and ring each other up every inning to call in the inning’s plays.” That one we could have left out. “Fifth, sixth, and seventh, those are up for grabs. But if they do reach game seven, they have to wear their clothes backward with their underwear on the outside and sing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ before every inning while holding hands and spinning around in circles.” Well…fuck. That’s pretty damning. And for the record, I carry that song for the both of us. Gary has an awful voice, and I should be sainted for dealing with his off-pitch singing.

We need not doubt that the Evangelical movement had a powerful effect in waking up eighteenth-century England from its religious apathy, or that eighteenth-century England needed it. Where it failed was in its long-term effects. Religion became identified in the popular mind with a series of moods, in which the worshipper, disposed thereto by all the arts of the revivalist, relished the flavours of spiritual peace. You needed neither a theology nor a liturgy; you did not take the strain of intellectual inquiry, nor associate yourself whole-heartedly with any historic tradition of worship. You floated, safely enough, on the little raft of your own faith, eagerly throwing out the lifeline to such drowning neighbours as were ready to catch it; meanwhile the ship was foundering. It is this by-passing of an historic tradition in favour of a personal experience that has created the modem religious situation in England, and to some extent in the English-speaking world. The Oxford Movement did but lock the door on a stolen horse. On the one hand, it is assumed that every man's religion is his own affair; it does not concern, need not alarm his neighbours. On the other hand, the Christian witness has become a sectional affair; Christianity is one of the fads which people adopt if they are interested in that kind of thing. A poster in a railway station, bidding you be prepared to meet your God, is passed by with an indulgent smile. If people are burdened with a sense of sin, by all means let them seek comfort in some conventicle which promises them release from it; the same is perhaps true of people who begin to feel lonely in old age. But always religion is thought of, instinctively, as a way of changing from one state of mind into another.

Thus the “brainy” economy designed to produce this happiness is a fantastic vicious circle which must either manufacture more and more pleasures or collapse—providing a constant titillation of the ears, eyes, and nerve ends with incessant streams of almost inescapable noise and visual distractions. The perfect “subject” for the aims of this economy is the person who continuously itches his ears with the radio, preferably using the portable kind which can go with him at all hours and in all places. His eyes flit without rest from television screen, to newspaper, to magazine, keeping him in a sort of orgasm-with-out-release through a series of teasing glimpses of shiny automobiles, shiny female bodies, and other sensuous surfaces, interspersed with such restorers of sensitivity—shock treatments—as “human interest” shots of criminals, mangled bodies, wrecked airplanes, prize fights, and burning buildings. The literature or discourse that goes along with this is similarly manufactured to tease without satisfaction, to replace every partial gratification with a new desire. For this stream of stimulants is designed to produce cravings for more and more of the same, though louder and faster, and these cravings drive us to do work which is of no interest save for the money it pays—to buy more lavish radios, sleeker automobiles, glossier magazines, and better television sets, all of which will somehow conspire to persuade us that happiness lies just around the corner if we will buy one more. Despite the immense hubbub and nervous strain, we are convinced that sleep is a waste of valuable time and continue to chase these fantasies far into the night. Animals spend much of their time dozing and idling pleasantly, but, because life is short, human beings must cram into the years the highest possible amount of consciousness, alertness, and chronic insomnia so as to be sure not to miss the last fragment of startling pleasure. It isn’t that the people who submit to this kind of thing are immoral. It isn’t that the people who provide it are wicked exploiters; most of them are of the same mind as the exploited, if only on a more expensive horse in this sorry-go-round. The real trouble is that they are all totally frustrated, for trying to please the brain is like trying to drink through your ears. Thus they are increasingly incapable of real pleasure, insensitive to the most acute and subtle joys of life which are in fact extremely common and simple.

I’ll hiss at you all I fucking want, Mom.” Bared teeth sharpened as amber spread through Sophie’s pupils. “I went to her because of you. Because I don’t want you to live like a troll for the rest of your life. And you can’t-,” A growl ran over Sophie’s words as her upper lip split, the septum of her nose sliding down towards it. “Baby no! Don’t!” Gloria pleaded. Bones cracked as Sophie tore off her clothing. “Why not? She waaants to meeeeet you anywaay aaahhh.” The words strained against the background of popping bones. She kicked her skirt from around her ankles as fur raced up her spine, spreading from the base of her tail. “Huuurts,” She ground out as she fell down to the floor. “Always does during the new moon,” I said, raising myself up on tiptoes to watch the transformation. Gloria watched her daughter change, with wide eyes and a shaking head, but Taya had gone so pale, I feared she’d faint. “She will not hurt you. Right, Sophie? You just wanted to show them.” Sophie made a gargle of sounds that might have been a yes as her hips narrowed in a series of violent snaps, seeming to squeeze muscle up into her neck. Torso reshaped, the transformation continued down through her limbs, muscles swelling with the stretching of bones. Fingers bent backwards as they thickened to the fleshy digits of paws. The sickle-like claws folded back into the tips before a wave of tawny golden fur hid them away. That fur lightened to white on her chest and chin. With the change finished, she sank down onto the floor with a relieved sound somewhere between a meow and a human sigh. I recognized the signs of a shift forced by spending too long in human form. I’d be running into my own limit soon. If Sophie had been human since we exited that cave then the pressure to change had probably been immense

Keep your wheels on the ground to minimize suspension strain. If your motorized RV has trouble leveling on a sloped RV site, use leveling blocks to even things out and keep your tires firmly planted. While leveling jacks are helpful, you don’t want to rely on them solely if it means they lift your tires off the ground like your RV is about to take off! That is less stable, and also puts your RV’s leveling system and suspension under unnecessary strain. If you still can’t get level, consider parking your RV in the opposite direction in your campsite—even if it means you need to run the water hose and/or power cord underneath the RV to reach hookups on the other side.

There was a great strain on the little ships, which had to evade constant bombing and mining, and minesweepers and fighters were in short supply.

I hope it will turn out that our policy of helping Greece is the right one. To me it is absolutely right but I much doubt if our resources, particularly naval and air, are equal to the strain.’47

Most people cope in some fashion or other with the various strains under which they live, or they simply come out in spots, or leave home, or get drunk.

In 1959 the Steed family was still divided into two branches: the Devon Steeds, who lived on what was left of the island; and the Refuge Steeds, who occupied a much more congenial series of estates on the mainland. The original strain had grown quite thin; after Judge Hathaway and Congressman Jefferson the Devon connection was quite barren, and after Lyman Steed the Refuge line was almost as bad. The family as a unit still owned the stores; their land was leaping ahead in value; and if the tomato canneries had proved a dead loss, the cornfields were replacing them.

The quality of mercy is not strained, there's like, umm, lumps in it.

To prosper you must improve your brain power; and nothing helps the brain more than a healthy body. The race of to-day is only to be won by those who will study to keep their bodies in such good condition that their minds are able and ready to sustain that high pressure on memory and mind, which our present fierce competition engenders. It is health rather than strength that is now wanted. Health is essentially the requirement of our time to enable us to succeed in life. In all modern occupations--from the nursery to the school, from the school to the shop or world beyond--the brain and nerve strain go on, continuous, augmenting, and intensifying.

So I did. I strained. I reached. I tried so hard, I farted! Mrs. V cracked up.

see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!

My relationship with my father was strained at best, and there were certain pivotal events that I preferred to forget altogether—events that involved my mother, which I don’t really wish to go into now, but I will explain later, I promise.

I caught a couple of landmarks and knew we were on Benedict Canyon Drive, getting up into the hills. I'd driven here several times before—in happier days—and I knew almost all the road. It was hilly along here and there were steep clifflike drops and sloping ones. Maybe Dutch would let me jump off a cliff. Suicide. I strained at the rope on my wrists, but it was tight.

moved down to her waist. She slid up against my body like a fluid, her lips parted and her head thrown back as I found her mouth with mine and strained her to me. We clung to each other, our bodies molding together until she pulled her lips from mine. For a moment, she looked up into my face, silently, then her hand went behind my head and pulled it down to hers again. Last night, when I had looked at her she had seemed beautiful and cool, relaxed and almost lethargic in her movements. She was different now, close against me, her long body moving hungrily, her lips searching my mouth and her tongue darting and curling. I slid my hands over the swell of her hips, up the arching curve of her back and gripped the fragile straps at her shoulders. In a moment, she moved away from me, dropped her arms to her sides and let me ease the dress from her shoulders and down over her breasts while she looked at me, breathing through her mouth. When I let go of the cloth and pressed my hands against the smoothness of her, she moved her fingers briefly at the side of the dress, then slid it down over her hips, let it fall and stepped from it, naked, toward me. I picked her up, carried her to the divan and lowered her to it, fumbled with my clothes and then sank to the divan to lie full-length beside her, reaching for her with my lips and my hands and my body. Ayla placed both her palms against my chest and whispered almost inaudibly, "Wait, Shell." For what seemed a long time she held me from her, then she smiled. Her eyes closed. "Hold me. Love me." When I pulled her close her arms went around me and she pressed the length of her body almost violently against mine. Her lips were moist and clinging as they kissed me and pressed against my flesh and nibbled at my skin, and the long fingernails traced fire down my spine. Then she was softness, an incredible softness, every touch of her hands, her breasts, her thighs, a velvet softness, and warmth that swallowed me, enveloped me, for an immeasurable time.

When reading this unusual novel, then, with its oddly unsettling and sometimes strained combination of Christian and pagan, sacred and profane attributes—its earthiness and surreality, violence and pastoralism, pantheism and anthropomorphism, naturalism and lyricism—it is helpful to remember that Steinbeck invested his essential self in it, which is to say, he wrote it more like an extensive poem, or extended dream sequence, than like a traditionally mimetic or realistic novel. “I have the instincts of a minstrel rather than those of a scrivener,” he informed Grove Day in late 1929. Thus, while To a God Unknown has an urgent, breathless fairy-tale quality, and is, as critic Howard Levant asserts, more “a series of detached... scenes” than “a unified... organic whole,” it is not an incoherent concoction—“a rambling and improbable history,” as Warren French calls It—that flies in the face of all sensible literary convention. During its long gestation through different versions and multiple drafts, Steinbeck worked hard to create a palpable factual dimension that gives this otherwise arcane book a recognizable texture in regard to its geographical setting and landmarks (the moss-covered rock actually existed in the northern California town of Laytonville), its unusual characters (some of whom, such as the seer, Steinbeck claimed were based on living persons), and in its feel for telling details of nature and social life in Monterey County in the early part of this century.

A few paces away, Spock paused. He looked up into the deep sky. "I have been …" he said. At his strained and tortured voice, Jim moved instinctively toward him. " … and always shall be … your friend. . . ." "Yes," Jim whispered. "Yes, Spock." Spock half turned. "The ship," he said. "Out of danger …?" "You saved the ship, Spock. You saved us all! Don't you remember?" Spock said nothing for a moment. He cocked his head, as if listening to some far-away inner voice. He arched his eyebrow and slowly faced Jim Kirk. "Jim," he said softly. "Your name is Jim." "Yes!" Jim's voice broke, and he caught his breath. Spock nodded once, briefly, as if acknowledging to himself that he had found the proper path. He glanced at McCoy, and then at the others.

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How did your research go?” “Oh, that.” Alejandro waved a hand. “The people recover from the fit after a few minutes of being removed from the environment. And they’re perfectly fine afterwards. I’m assuming that means that if they hear the same song or see the same movie again it has no effect.” “Hmm,” Max said. Crystal looked at him. “What?” Max asked. “You said ‘hmm’.” Alejandro snorted. “You’ll get used to him saying ‘hmm’. He does it to sound wise.” “The way I designed the beat structures,” Max said, ignoring Alejandro. “People are supposed to be affected but not know it. The more I think about it, the more certain I am that these fits are because I did not complete my work and had only tested it on a limited number of people.” Alejandro rolled his eyes. “Can I continue to give my feedback or do you want to bore us all about your scientific research?” “Your feedback is about my research.” “No it’s about the effects of your research, which, might I add, was highly unethical and inimical.” “He just said inimical,” Max said, clapping. “He knows a word that’s more than two syllables.” “Unethical is more than two syllables, too,” Alejandro retorted. “Two words!” Max snorted. “He’s a genius.” “Going back to my findings,” Alejandro said, glaring at Max, and then turning to Crystal. “I don’t trust them. I don’t trust anything I read in the papers or see in the media. Especially when it’s something related to the SOT. Luke is too powerful. The truth about these fits will never be reported. If we want to know what’s really going on, we will have to go out and find out for ourselves.” “Agreed,” Crystal said slowly. “He actually sounded pretty intelligent then,” Max whispered to Donovan. “I propose that—” “He has a proposal!” Max said. Alejandro gave Max a dismissive look. “Those with brains alone always envy and persecute those possessing both beauty and brains.” Crystal held back a snort of laughter. Even Donovan looked amused despite the deep frown of strain on his forehead. Juda’s expression didn’t change. Max glowered at Alejandro. “Why would a man refer to himself as beautiful?