Suddenly Feel Heavy Quotes

It slowly began to dawn on me that I had been staring at her for an impossible amount of time. Lost in my thoughts, lost in the sight of her. But her face didn't look offended or amused. It almost looked as if she were studying the lines of my face, almost as if she were waiting. I wanted to take her hand. I wanted to brush her cheek with my fingertips. I wanted to tell her that she was the first beautiful thing that I had seen in three years. The sight of her yawning to the back of her hand was enough to drive the breath from me. How I sometimes lost the sense of her words in the sweet fluting of her voice. I wanted to say that if she were with me then somehow nothing could ever be wrong for me again. In that breathless second I almost asked her. I felt the question boiling up from my chest. I remember drawing a breath then hesitating--what could I say? Come away with me? Stay with me? Come to the University? No. Sudden certainty tightened in my chest like a cold fist. What could I ask her? What could I offer? Nothing. Anything I said would sound foolish, a child's fantasy. I closed my mouth and looked across the water. Inches away, Denna did the same. I could feel the heat of her. She smelled like road dust, and honey, and the smell the air holds seconds before a heavy summer rain. Neither of us spoke. I closed my eyes. The closeness of her was the sweetest, sharpest thing I had ever known.

Suddenly, this word fills me with a sense of sadness I haven't felt since childhood. The kind of sadness you feel at the end of summer. When the fireflies are gone, the ponds are all dried up and the plants are wilted. It's no longer really summer but the air is still too warm and heavy to be fall. It's the season between seasons. It's the feeling of something dying.

A woman in her thirties came to see me. As she greeted me, I could sense the pain behind her polite and superficial smile. She started telling me her story, and within one second her smile changed into a grimace of pain. Then, she began to sob uncontrollably. She said she felt lonely and unfulfilled. There was much anger and sadness. As a child she had been abused by a physically violent father. I saw quickly that her pain was not caused by her present life circumstances but by an extraordinarily heavy pain-body. Her pain-body had become the filter through which she viewed her life situation. She was not yet able to see the link between the emotional pain and her thoughts, being completely identified with both. She could not yet see that she was feeding the pain-body with her thoughts. In other words, she lived with the burden of a deeply unhappy self. At some level, however, she must have realized that her pain originated within herself, that she was a burden to herself. She was ready to awaken, and this is why she had come. I directed the focus of her attention to what she was feeling inside her body and asked her to sense the emotion directly, instead of through the filter of her unhappy thoughts, her unhappy story. She said she had come expecting me to show her the way out of her unhappiness, not into it. Reluctantly, however, she did what I asked her to do. Tears were rolling down her face, her whole body was shaking. “At this moment, this is what you feel.” I said. “There is nothing you can do about the fact that at this moment this is what you feel. Now, instead of wanting this moment to be different from the way it is, which adds more pain to the pain that is already there, is it possible for you to completely accept that this is what you feel right now?” She was quiet for a moment. Suddenly she looked impatient, as if she was about to get up, and said angrily, “No, I don't want to accept this.” “Who is speaking?” I asked her. “You or the unhappiness in you? Can you see that your unhappiness about being unhappy is just another layer of unhappiness?” She became quiet again. “I am not asking you to do anything. All I'm asking is that you find out whether it is possible for you to allow those feelings to be there. In other words, and this may sound strange, if you don't mind being unhappy, what happens to the unhappiness? Don't you want to find out?” She looked puzzled briefly, and after a minute or so of sitting silently, I suddenly noticed a significant shift in her energy field. She said, “This is weird. I 'm still unhappy, but now there is space around it. It seems to matter less.” This was the first time I heard somebody put it like that: There is space around my unhappiness. That space, of course, comes when there is inner acceptance of whatever you are experiencing in the present moment. I didn't say much else, allowing her to be with the experience. Later she came to understand that the moment she stopped identifying with the feeling, the old painful emotion that lived in her, the moment she put her attention on it directly without trying to resist it, it could no longer control her thinking and so become mixed up with a mentally constructed story called “The Unhappy Me.” Another dimension had come into her life that transcended her personal past – the dimension of Presence. Since you cannot be unhappy without an unhappy story, this was the end of her unhappiness. It was also the beginning of the end of her pain-body. Emotion in itself is not unhappiness. Only emotion plus an unhappy story is unhappiness. When our session came to an end, it was fulfilling to know that I had just witnessed the arising of Presence in another human being. The very reason for our existence in human form is to bring that dimension of consciousness into this world. I had also witnessed a diminishment of the pain-body, not through fighting it but through bringing the light of consciousness to it.

What a hypocrite I am; I spend my whole life reading books that allude to happiness, when I refuse to experience it. Sadness is an emotion you can trust. It is stronger than all of the other emotions. It makes happiness look fickle and untrustworthy. It pervades, lasts longer, and replaces the good feelings with such an eloquent ease you don’t even feel the shift until you are suddenly wrapped in its chains. How hard we strive for happiness, and once we finally have the elusive feeling in our grasp, we hold it briefly, like water as it trickles through our fingers. I don’t want to hold water. I want to hold something heavy and solid. Something I can understand. I understand sadness, and so I trust it. We are meant to feel sadness, if only to protect us from the brief spiels of happiness. Darkness is all I’ll ever know; maybe the key is to make poetry out of it.

The phone felt suddenly heavy, like an anchor to a life she was already losing.

Realism; fatalism; phlegm. To live in the Fens is to receive strong doses of reality. The great flat monotony of reality; the wide empty space of reality. Melancholia and self-murder are not unknown in the Fens. Heavy drinking, madness and sudden acts of violence are not uncommon. How do you surmount reality, children? How do you acquire, in a flat country, the tonic of elevated feelings?

And, I think, this greening does thaw at the edges, at least, of my own cold season. Joy sneaks in: listening to music, riding my bicycle, I catch myself feeling, in a way that’s as old as I am but suddenly seems unfamiliar, light. I have felt so heavy for so long. At first I felt odd- as if I shouldn’t be feeling this lightness, that familiar little catch of pleasure in the heart which is inexplicable, though a lovely passage of notes or the splendidly turned petal of a tulip has triggered it. It’s my buoyancy, part of what keeps me alive: happy, suddenly with the concomitant experience of a sonata and the motion of the shadows of leaves. I have the desire to be filled with sunlight, to soak my skin in as much of it as I can drink up, after the long interior darkness of this past season, the indoor vigil, in this harshest and darkest of winters, outside and in.

One fast more or I'm gone', I realize, gone the way of the last three years of drunken hopelessness which is a physical and spiritual and metaphysical hopelessness you can't learn in school no matter how many books on existentialism or pessimism you read, or how many jugs of vision-producing Ayahuasca you drink, or Mescaline you take, or Peyote goop up with-- That feeling when you wake up with the delirium tremens with the fear of eerie death dripping from your ears like those special heavy cobwebs spiders weave in the hot countries, the feeling of being a bent back mudman monster groaning underground in hot steaming mud pulling a long hot burden nowhere, the feeling of standing ankledeep in hot boiled pork blood, ugh, of being up to your waist in a giant pan of greasy brown dishwater not a trace of suds left in it--The face of yourself you see in the mirror with its expression of unbearable anguish so hagged and awful with sorrow you can't even cry for a thing so ugly, so lost, no connection whatever with early perfection and therefore nothing to connect with tears or anything: it's like William Seward Burroughs' 'Stranger' suddenly appearing in your place in the mirror- Enough! 'One fast move or I'm gone' so I jump up, do my headstand first to pump blood back into the hairy brain, take a shower in the hall, new T-shirt and socks and underwear, pack vigorously, hoist the rucksack and run out throwing the key on the desk and hit the cold street...I've got to escape or die...

Sober. So that’s what I’m here to become. And suddenly, this word fills me with a brand of sadness I haven’t felt since childhood. The kind of sadness you feel at the end of summer. When the fireflies are gone, the ponds have dried up and the plants are wilted, weary from being so green. It’s no longer really summer but the air is still too warm and heavy to be fall. It’s the season between the seasons. It’s the feeling of something dying.

The doorway smells of lavender, of freshly brewed chamomile tea, and my doll eyes flutter, suddenly heavy, like silver coins placed on the eyelids of the dead. I feel the soft, dreamy tug of a gentle wind. Easy and quiet. Like bedding down in a knoll of moss, or sinking into a cellar, without sound.

I had always had mixed feelings about Narnia, mostly because of the heavy-handed lion-Jesus allegory. I suddenly had very strong feelings that C. S. Lewis had not spent nearly enough time on te sudden realization, when moving between worlds, that nothing could be taken for granted. Maybe fog hung around all day here, even when the sky was bright. Maybe there was no night, or maybe this was what night looked like. Maybe gravity stopped working here on Tusdays.

Yet today I realize that the most important thing in dividing tasks is the psychological effect of making the task bearable. The idea of small tasks always felt too abstract and not at all magical. But today it had a concrete effect on me. Suddenly, the idea of starting a task didn’t seem so heavy. The tasks just need to be small enough so that they feel conquerable. After that, starting is easy.

All of a sudden the air feels thin and something heavy is bearing down on my chest. Am I really doing the right thing? The thought makes me feel helpless, isolated.

Well, thought Winnie, crossing her arms of the windowsill, she was different. Things had happened to her that were hers alone, and had nothing to do with them. It was the first time. And no amount of telling about it could help them understand or share what she felt. It was satisfying and lonely, both at once. She rocked, gazing out at the twilight, and the soothing feeling came reliably into her bones. That feeling—it tied her to them, to her mother, her father, her grandmother, with strong threads too ancient and precious to be broken. But there were new threads now, tugging and insistent, which tied her just as firmly to the Tucks” "Winnie watched the sky slide into blackness over the wood outside her window. There was not the least hint of a breeze to soften the heavy August night. And then, over the treetops, on the faraway horizon, there was a flash of white. Heat lightning. Again and again it throbbed, without a sound. It was like pain, she thought. And suddenly she longed for a thunderstorm." "She cradled her head in her arms and closed her eyes. At once the image of the man in the yellow suit rose up. She could see him again, sprawled motionless on the sun-blanched grass. 'He can't die,' she whispered, thinking of Mae. 'He mustn't.

Hurt me?" he asked. "How would you do that? By taking away everything I love? Everything I honour? You're too late, Hannah. Far too late. Fallon already did that." Claire's terrible feeling suddenly condensed into a heavy, sickening weight. "He took Jesse," she said. "Fallon took Jesse.

He moved his arm so that she could rest against his chest. “All the time. The FBI loves overwhelming people with manpower and firepower.” “Good.” In her drowsy state, this suddenly was very important to her, knowing that he was as safe as possible while doing his extraspecial agent thing. Her eyes felt heavy, so she decided to shut them for just a teeny tiny moment. The last thing she remembered was feeling Vaughn’s fingers stroking up and down on her arm in a light, soothing caress.

My past still haunted me: an anxious, dizzy feeling every time I heard sirens, or heavy footsteps, or shouting men. This, I had learned, is trauma: a nearly constant feeling in my gut that something is wrong, or that something terrible is about to happen, the automatic fear responses in my body telling me to run away, to take cover, to hide myself from the danger that is everywhere. My trauma can still rise up out of mundane encounters. A sudden sight, a particular smell, can transport me back to the past.

I’m alone, going in the opposite direction. We’re on different tracks in more ways than one. All of a sudden the air feels thin and something heavy is bearing down on my chest. Am I really doing the right thing? The thought makes me feel helpless, isolated.

Just imagine the existence of a man - let us call him A - who has left youth far behind, and of a woman whom we may call B, who is young and happy and has seen nothing as yet of life or of the world. Family circumstances of various kinds brought them together, and he grew to love her as a daughter, and had no fear that his love would change its nature. But he forgot that B was so young, that life was still a May-game to her and that it was easy to fall in love with her in a different way, and that this would amuse her. He made a mistake and was suddenly aware of another feeling, as heavy as remorse, making its way into his heart, and he was afraid. He was afraid that their old friendly relations would be destroyed, and he made up his mind to go away before that happened.

At this point, I can no longer avoid setting out, in an initial, provisional statement, my own hypothesis about the origin of “bad conscience.” It is not easy to get people to attend to it, and it requires them to consider it at length, to guard it, and to sleep on it. I consider bad conscience the profound illness which human beings had to come down with, under the pressure of the most fundamental of all the changes which they experienced—that change when they finally found themselves locked within the confines of society and peace. Just like the things water animals must have gone though when they were forced either to become land animals or to die off, so events must have played themselves out with this half-beast so happily adapted to the wilderness, war, wandering around, adventure—suddenly all its instincts were devalued and “disengaged.” From this point on, these animals were to go on foot and “carry themselves”; whereas previously they had been supported by the water. A terrible heaviness weighed them down. In performing the simplest things they felt ungainly. In dealing with this new unknown world, they no longer had their old leader, the ruling unconscious drives which guided them safely. These unfortunate creatures were reduced to thinking, inferring, calculating, bringing together cause and effect, reduced to their “consciousness,” their most impoverished and error-prone organ! I believe that on earth there has never been such a feeling of misery, such a leaden discomfort—while at the same time those old instincts had not all at once stopped imposing their demands! Only it was difficult and seldom possible to do their bidding. For the most part, they had to find new and, as it were, underground satisfactions for them.

Tonglen practice has four stages: Rest your mind for a second or two in a state of openness or stillness. This is called flashing absolute bodhichitta, or suddenly opening to the basic spaciousness and clarity of the awakened heart. Work with texture. Breathe in a feeling of hot, dark, and heavy—a sense of claustrophobia—and breathe out a feeling of cool, bright, and light—a sense of freshness. Breathe in through all the pores of your body and radiate out completely, through all the pores of your body. Do this until your visualization feels synchronized with your in and out-breaths. Now contemplate any painful situation that’s real to you. For example, you can breathe in the hot, dark, constricted feeling of sadness that you feel, and breathe out a light, cool sense of joy or space or whatever might provide relief. Widen the circle of compassion by connecting with all those who feel this kind of pain, and extending the wish to help everyone.

His August Majesty chided the bureaucrats for failing to understand a simple principle: the principle of the second bag. Because the people never revolt just because they have to carry a heavy load, or because of exploitation. They don't know life without exploitation, they don't even know that such a life exists. How can they desire what they cannot imagine? The people will rvolt only when, in a single movement, someone tries to throw a second burden, a second heavy bag, onto their backs. The peasant will fall face down into the mud - and then spring up and grab an ax. He'll grab an ax, my gracious sir, not because he simply can't sustain this new burden - he could carry it - he will rise because he feels that, in throwing the second burden onto his back suddenly and stealthily, you have tried to cheat him, you have treated him like an unthinking animal, you have trampled what remains of his already strangled dignity, taken him for an idiot who doesn't see, feel, or understand. A man doesn't seize an ax in defense of his wallet, but in defense of his dignity, and that, dear sir, is why His Majesty scolded the clerks. For their own convenience and vanity, instead of adding the burden bit by bit, in little bags, they tried to heave a whole big sack on at once.

Trixie could feel the weight of her father's worry. Who knew that the words you never got around to saying could settle so heavy? Suddenly, she remembered a blown-glass candy dish she had broken when she was 11, an heirloom that had belonged to her mother's grandmother. She had gathered all the pieces and had glued them together seamlessl and she still hadn't been able to fool her mother. She imagined the same would be true, now, of herself.

The small eyes, buried in epicanthic folds, shifted. A low, reverberating voice rumbled from the flesh and blood warrior. ‘Trull Sengar. Is this… is this mortality?’ The Tiste Edur drew a step closer. ‘You don’t remember? How it feels to be alive?’ ‘I-I… yes.’ A sudden look of wonder in that heavy, broadly featured face. ‘Yes.’ Another deep breath, then a gust that was nearly savage in its exultation. The strange gaze fixed on Quick Ben once more. ‘Wizard, is this illusion? Dream? A journey of my spirit?’ ‘I don’t think so. I mean, I think it’s real enough.’ ‘Then… this realm. It is Tellann.’ ‘Maybe. I’m not sure.’ Trull Sengar was suddenly on his knees, and Quick Ben saw tears streaming down the Tiste Edur’s lean, dusky face. The burly, muscled warrior before them, still wearing the rotted remnants of fur, slowly looked round at the withered landscape of open tundra. ‘Tellann,’ he whispered. ‘Tellann.

To have lost everything. To have had to endure what she has endured, and be punished for it. Suddenly the needle feels as heavy as a brick. How can she go on? How can she work for a new enemy?

The cicadas buzzing, I can hear them through the window. Buzzing louder and louder. Just like the night I sat by the window in the dark, gasping for air, feeling the riddle wriggling in my chest, hearing the monster's heavy footsteps in my ears. And suddenly I know. What they do all those years living in the ground. The nymphs who are to become cicadas. Maybe they don’t know it themselves, but they are writing their song. Collecting the notes in the dark earth. The song rising to the sky, this is how it is, this is how it always is. The song floating toward the sky comes from the underworld.

Joffrey called out, “Dog!” Sandor Clegane seemed to take form out of the night, so quickly did he appear. He had exchanged his armor for a red woolen tunic with a leather dog’s head sewn on the front. The light of the torches made his burned face shine a dull red. “Yes, Your Grace?” he said. “Take my betrothed back to the castle, and see that no harm befalls her,” the prince told him brusquely. And without even a word of farewell, Joffrey strode off, leaving her there. Sansa could feel the Hound watching her. “Did you think Joff was going to take you himself?” He laughed. He had a laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit. “Small chance of that.” He pulled her unresisting to her feet. “Come, you’re not the only one needs sleep. I’ve drunk too much, and I may need to kill my brother tomorrow.” He laughed again. He was mocking her, she realized. “No one could withstand him,” she managed at last, proud of herself. It was no lie. Sandor Clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. She had no choice but to stop beside him. “Some septa trained you well. You’re like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren’t you? A pretty little talking -bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite.” “ Take your look.” His fingers held her jaw as hard as an iron trap. His eyes watched hers. Drunken eyes, sullen with anger. She had to look. The right side of his face was gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a grey eye beneath a heavy brow. His nose was large and hooked, his hair thin, dark. He wore it long and brushed it sideways, because no hair grew on the other side of that face. The left side of his face was a ruin. His ear had been burned away; there was nothing left but a hole. His eye was still good, but all around it was a twisted mass of scar, slick black flesh hard as leather, pocked with craters and fissured by deep cracks.

More wine for me, pour me some more!" "You smart girl, I knew you're a smart girl, just teasing...” Faces turn red, the dark earth blood is rising. They wink at Pelka, wink at the host: "He knows his goods!" The women feel the buttons constricting them - they undo one, another, a third. By twos the guests go outside to get some air. "Well, my dear guests, are you soaked to the gills? Eh? And now-to dance! Get lively!" The table and the chairs vanish. The middle of the room is empty. Ivan the Monk jumps out of his hole, a tambourine in his hands: "Tim-ta-a-am! Tim-ta-a-am!" “Eh-hey!" the redhead suddenly snatches the tambourine and sweeps off, tapping wildly in a circle. Eyes closed: a white sleepless sun-a white night on the meadow-white columns of smoke swaying over fires... "Eh-ah!"-to whirl herself to death, to whirl out everything, to empty herself - nothing has ever been... Heavy boots are thumping on the floor, beards fly in the wind, the frock-coat tails go flying... hey, get going, faster, faster - a hundred versts an hour! ("The North")

This, I realize, is what life is like for most Thais. They are not in control of their fates. A terrifying thought, yes, but also a liberating one. For if nothing you do matters, then life suddenly feels a lot less heavy. It’s just one big game. And as any ten-year-old will tell you, the best games are the ones where everyone gets to play. And where you can play again and again, for free. Lots of cool special effects are nice, too.

Charity gave him a disapproving look. “Inciting a member of our head family to steal one of our core secrets is a grave offense. Especially for a Sage. You might say that with great power comes great responsib—” Charity shuddered as though she’d sensed something. Lindon frowned. “What’s wrong?” “I don’t know…I just suddenly got the feeling that if I completed that sentence, I would immediately die.” “You could phrase it differently,” Lindon suggested. “I’ll try.” Charity straightened her spine and spoke again. “Power like yours carries heavy responsibility.” She paused, waiting for something, and neither of them sensed anything ominous this time. Charity let out a breath of relief. “That was very strange,” she said. Lindon slapped his forearm. “Now what was that?” Charity asked. “Oh, it’s nothing. A spider tried to bite me, but I got it in time.” Lindon brushed his arm clean. “Now, what were you saying?

Sadness is an emotion you can trust. It is stronger than all of the other emotions. It makes happiness look fickle and untrustworthy. It pervades, lasts longer, and replaces the good feelings with such an eloquent ease you don’t even feel the shift until you are suddenly wrapped in its chains. How hard we strive for happiness, and once we finally have the elusive feeling in our grasp, we hold it briefly, like water as it trickles through our fingers. I don’t want to hold water. I want to hold something heavy and solid. Something I can understand. I understand sadness, and so I trust it. We are meant to feel sadness, if only to protect us from the brief spiels of happiness. Darkness is all I’ll ever know; maybe the key is to make poetry out of it.

There was a downpour coming; Avery could feel it. The wind was already gaining strength, tearing out the last of her hairpins, whipping her dress close to her body. The air was heavy with the scent of rain. Avery's thoughts circled frantically in her mind, pressing so hard she thought she would burst. A falcon that had been perched farther along the railing turned a beady eye on her, curious. Avery watched it unfurl its wings and take off. She felt a sudden kinship with the bird, the way it flew screaming into the sky like a wild thing. She wished she could follow it straight into the gathering storm.

Mary Lou suddenly realizes that Mack calls the temperature number because he is afraid to talk on the telephone, and by listening to a recording, he doesn’t have to reply. It’s his way of pretending that he’s involved. He wants it to snow so he won’t have to go outside. He is afraid of what might happen. But it occurs to her that what he must really be afraid of is women. Then Mary Lou feels so sick and heavy with her power over him that she wants to cry. She sees the way her husband is standing there in a frozen pose. Mack looks as though he could stand there all night with the telephone receiver against his ear.

If he were alive today, Plato—to take him as an example, because along with a dozen others he is regarded as the greatest thinker who ever lived—would certainly be ecstatic about a news industry capable of creating, exchanging, refining a new idea every day; where information keeps pouring in from the ends of the earth with a speediness he never knew in his own lifetime, while a staff of demiurges is on hand to check it all out instantaneously for its content of reason and reality. He would have supposed a newspaper office to be that topos uranios, that heavenly realm of ideas, which he has described so impressively that to this day all the better class of people are still idealists when talking to their children or employees. And of course if Plato were to walk suddenly into a news editor’s office today and prove himself to be indeed that great author who died over two thousand years ago he would be a tremendous sensation and would instantly be showered with the most lucrative offers. If he were then capable of writing a volume of philosophical travel pieces in three weeks, and a few thousand of his well-known short stories, perhaps even turn one or the other of his older works into film, he could undoubtedly do very well for himself for a considerable period of time. The moment his return had ceased to be news, however, and Mr. Plato tried to put into practice one of his well-known ideas, which had never quite come into their own, the editor in chief would ask him to submit only a nice little column on the subject now and then for the Life and Leisure section (but in the easiest and most lively style possible, not heavy: remember the readers), and the features editor would add that he was sorry, but he could use such a contribution only once a month or so, because there were so many other good writers to be considered. And both of these gentlemen would end up feeling that they had done quite a lot for a man who might indeed be the Nestor of European publicists but still was a bit outdated, and certainly not in a class for current newsworthiness with a man like, for instance, Paul Arnheim.

You make some great promises in this journey called ‘life’. You tell people that you love them and need them but, in the end, you leave them in silence because, you feel heavy and lost & everything feels tough to you all of a sudden, you leave them in the hope that you find someone better but, one day, life lets you realize that it is not easy to find someone with ‘perfectionism

You go around for a long time carrying the minutiae of yourself in your own two hands, and it's not so bad, not even that heavy. It's just a thing you have to do. And then every so often a person shows up and opens their arms like the clean empty surface of a table, and suddenly your hands feel unbearably full, and you know what was true isn't true anymore, you couldn't for another instant continue bearing so many stories on your own.

I’m smiling, doing my best to impersonate a person who doesn’t feel disoriented and sick. But my arms feel so heavy I can barely lift them, and I stay motionless, to reduce exertion. Every part of my body feels sore or shocked, or both. It’s like being a newborn, this sudden sensory overload of noise, color, smells and gravity after months of quietly floating, encased in relative calm and isolation. No wonder babies cry in protest when they’re born.

For several weeks she has sometimes wished she had a bed, or something akin to a bed, right there where she was, a bed on which to lay this heavy, leaden body, this body so difficult to move, this thankless and tender maturity, just on the verge of falling down upon an unresponsive, all-devouring earth. Ah, what is this body with which she suddenly feels herself saddled? Whatever became of the indefatigable, birdlike body that had been hers up till now?

It is the sheer weight of the robot that makes us feel we are living in a ‘wooden world’. We can see for example that the moment Ouspensky or Ward returned from the mystical realm of perfect freedom and found themselves ‘back in the body’ they once again found themselves saddled with all their boring old habits and worries and neuroses, all their old sense of identity built up from the reactions of other people, and above all the dreary old heaviness, as if consciousness has turned into a leaden weight. This is the sensation that made the romantics feel that life is a kind of hell — or at the very least, purgatory. Yet we know enough about the robot to know that this feeling is as untrustworthy as the depression induced by a hangover. The trouble with living ‘on the robot’ is that he is a dead weight. He takes over only when our energies are low. So when I do something robotically I get no feedback of sudden delight. This in turn makes me feel that it was not worth doing. ‘Stan’ reacts by failing to send up energy and ‘Ollie’ experiences a sinking feeling. Living becomes even more robotic and the vicious circle effect is reinforced. Beyond a certain point we feel as if we are cut off from reality by a kind of glass wall: suddenly it seems self-evident that there is nothing new under the sun, that all human effort is vanity, that man is a useless passion and that life is a horrible joke devised by some demonic creator. This is the state I have decribed as ‘upside-downness’, the tendency to allow negative emotional judgements to usurp the place of objective rational judgements. Moreover this depressing state masquerades as the ‘voice of experience’, since it seems obvious that you ‘know’ more about an experience when you’ve had it a hundred times. This is the real cause of death in most human beings: they mistake the vicious circle effects of ‘upside-downness’ for the wisdom of age, and give up the struggle.

Astarte has come again, more powerful than before. She possesses me. She lies in wait for me. December 97 My cruelty has also returned: the cruelty which frightens me. It lies dormant for months, for years, and then all at once awakens, bursts forth and - once the crisis is over - leaves me in mortal terror of myself. Just now in the avenue of the Bois, I whipped my dog till he bled, and for nothing - for not coming immediately when I called! The poor animal was there before me, his spine arched, cowering close to the ground, with his great, almost human, eyes fixed on me... and his lamentable howling! It was as though he were waiting for the butcher! But it was as if a kind of drunkenness had possessed me. The more I struck out the more I wanted to strike; every shudder of that quivering flesh filled me with some incomprehensible ardour. A circle of onlookers formed around me, and I only stopped myself for the sake of my self-respect. Afterwards, I was ashamed. I am always ashamed of myself nowadays. The pulse of life has always filled me with a peculiar rage to destroy. When I think of two beings in love, I experience an agonising sensation; by virtue of some bizarre backlash, there is something which smothers and oppresses me, and I suffocate, to the point of anguish. Whenever I wake up in the middle of the night to the muted hubbub of bumps and voices which suddenly become perceptible in the dormant city - all the cries of sexual excitement and sensuality which are the nocturnal respiration of cities - I feel weak. They rise up around me, submerging me in a sluggish flux of embraces and a tide of spasms. A crushing weight presses down on my chest; a cold sweat breaks out on my brow and my heart is heavy - so heavy that I have to get up, run bare-foot and breathless, to my window, and open both shutters, trying desperately to breathe. What an atrocious sensation it is! It is as if two arms of steel bear down upon my shoulders and a kind of hunger hollows out my stomach, tearing apart my whole being! A hunger to exterminate love. Oh, those nights! The long hours I have spent at my window, bent over the immobile trees of the square and the paving-stones of the deserted street, on watch in the silence of the city, starting at the least noise! The nights I have passed, my heart hammering in anguish, wretchedly and impatiently waiting for my torment to consent to leave me, and for my desire to fold up the heavy wings which beat inside the walls of my being like the wings of some great fluttering bird! Oh, my cruel and interminable nights of impotent rebellion against the rutting of Paris abed: those nights when I would have liked to embrace all the bodies, to suck in all the breaths and sup all the mouths... those nights which would find me, in the morning, prostrate on the carpet, scratching it still with inert and ineffectual fingers... fingers which never know anything but emptiness, whose nails are still taut with the passion of murder twenty-four hours after the crises... nails which I will one day end up plunging into the satined flesh of a neck, and... It is quite clear, you see, that I am possessed by a demon... a demon which doctors would treat with some bromide or with all-healing sal ammoniac! As if medicines could ever be imagined to be effective against such evil!

Feeling the slight tremor of his fingers against her skin, Daisy was emboldened to remark, “I’ve never been attracted to tall men before. But you make me feel—” “If you don’t keep quiet,” he interrupted curtly, “I’m going to strangle you.” Daisy felt silent, listening to the rhythm of his breath as it turned deeper, less controlled. By contrast his fingers became more certain in their task, working along the row of pearls until her dress gaped open and the sleeves slipped from her shoulders. “Where is it?” he asked. “The key?” His tone was deadly. “Yes, Daisy. The key.” “It fell inside my corset. Which means… I’ll have to take that off too.” There was no reaction to the statement, no sound or movement. Daisy twisted to glance at Matthew. He seemed dazed. His eyes looked unnaturally blue against the flush on his face. She realized he was occupied with a savage inner battle to keep from touching her. Feeling hot and prickly with embarrassment, Daisy pulled her arms completely out of her sleeves. She worked the dress over her hips, wriggling out of the filmy white layers, letting them slide to the floor in a heap. Matthew stared at the discarded dress as if it were some kind of exotic fauna he had never seen before. Slowly his eyes returned to Daisy, and an incoherent protest came from his throat as she began to unhook her corset. She felt shy and wicked, undressing in front of him. But she was encouraged by the way he seemed unable to tear his gaze from each newly revealed inch of pale skin. When the last metal hook came apart, she tossed the web of lace and stays to the floor. All that remained over her breasts was a crumpled chemise. The key had dropped into her lap. Closing her fingers around the metal object, she risked a cautious glance at Matthew. His eyes were closed, his forehead scored with furrows of pained concentration. “This isn’t going to happen,” he said, more to himself than to her. Daisy leaned forward to tuck the key into his coat pocket. Gripping the hem of her chemise, she stripped it over her head. A tingling shock chased over her naked upper body. She was so nervous that her teeth had begun to chatter. “I just took my chemise off,” she said. “Don’t you want to look?” “No.” But his eyes had opened, and his gaze found her small, pink-tipped breasts, and the breath hissed through his clenched teeth. He sat without moving, staring at her as she untied his cravat and unbuttoned the layers of his waistcoat and shirt. She blushed everywhere but continued doggedly, rising to her knees to tug the coat from his shoulders. He moved like a dreamer, slowly pulling his arms from the coat sleeves and waistcoat. Daisy pushed his shirt open with awkward determination, her gaze drinking in the sight of his chest and torso. His skin gleamed like heavy satin, stretched taut over broad expanses of muscle. She touched the powerful vault of his ribs, trailing her fingertips to the rippled tautness of his midriff. Suddenly Matthew caught her hand, seemingly undecided whether to push it away or press it closer. Her fingers curled over his. She stared into his dilated blue eyes. “Matthew,” she whispered. “I’m here. I’m yours. I want to do everything you’ve ever imagined doing with me.” He stopped breathing. His will foundered and collapsed, and suddenly nothing mattered except the demands of a desire that had been denied too long. With a rough groan of surrender, he lifted her onto his lap.

Trees, trees, millions of trees, massive, immense, running up high; and at their foot, hugging the bank against the stream, crept the little begrimed steamboat, like a sluggish beetle crawling on the floor of a lofty portico. It made you feel very small, very lost, and yet it was not altogether depressing, that feeling. After all, if you were small, the grimy beetle crawled on--which was just what you wanted it to do. Where the pilgrims imagined it crawled to I don't know. To some place where they expected to get something, I bet! For me it crawled toward Kurtz--exclusively; but when the steam-pipes started leaking we crawled very slow. The reaches opened before us and closed behind, as if the forest had stepped leisurely across the water to bar the way for our return. We penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness. It was very quiet there. At night sometimes the roll of drums behind the curtain of trees would run up the river and remain sustained faintly, as if hovering in the air high over our heads, till the first break of day. Whether it meant war, peace, or prayer we could not tell. The dawns were heralded by the descent of a chill stillness; the woodcutters slept, their fires burned low; the snapping of a twig would make you start. We were wanderers on a prehistoric earth, on an earth that wore the aspect of an unknown planet. We could have fancied ourselves the first of men taking possession of an accursed inheritance, to be subdued at the cost of profound anguish and of excessive toil. But suddenly, as we struggled round a bend, there would be a glimpse of rush walls, of peaked grass-roofs, a burst of yells, a whirl of black limbs, a mass of hands clapping, of feet stamping, of bodies swaying, of eyes rolling, under the droop of heavy and motionless foliage. The steamer toiled along slowly on the edge of a black and incomprehensible frenzy. The prehistoric man was cursing us, praying to us, welcoming us--who could tell? We were cut off from the comprehension of our surroundings; we glided past like phantoms, wondering and secretly appalled, as sane men would be before an enthusiastic outbreak in a madhouse. We could not understand, because we were too far and could not remember, because we were traveling in the night of first ages, of those ages that are gone, leaving hardly a sign--and no memories.

Like many of the things he encountered each day, Professeur was confused by what happened next. He felt an odd sensation and looked down to find the shaft of an arrow protruding from his stomach. For a moment he wondered if La Vierge had played some kind of joke. Then a second arrow appeared, then a third. Professeur stared in horrified fascination at the feathers on the slender shafts. Suddenly he could not feel his legs and he realized he was falling backward. He heard his body make heavy contact with the frozen ground. In the brief moments before he died, he wondered, Why doesn't it hurt?

The explosion was deafening; a huge cloud of fire rolled out the window after us, its immense heat brushing my face as we tumbled into the snow. We hit the ground and rolled. Flaming debris from the house came down around us; Griffin shoved me flat on my back, covering us both with his heavy coat. The echoes of the explosion reflected back across the river, then slowly dwindled away, like dying thunder. The leaping flames threw warm light onto the falling snow, turning it into a storm of sparks pouring down from the heavens. Griffin started to push himself off of me, then stoped. His hands were braced on either side of my shoulders, his legs twined with mine. Mt heart pounded, my palms sweated, and I was suddenly, acutely aware of how close his face was to mine. "You're a madman," he whispered. "An utter madman." "Perhaps," I allowed. "But it worked." The leaping light from the burning house painted his features in gold, highlighting his patrician nose and finding threads of brown and blue in his green eyes. His pupils widened, the irises contracting to silver. "Whatever am I going to do with you?" he murmured. The warmth of his breath feathered over my skin. Heat collected in my groin, my lips. My mouth was dry, my voice hoarse, and perhaps he was right and it was madness when I whispered, "Whatever you want." A shiver went through his body, perhaps because we were lying on the cold ground. But instead of getting up, he leaned closer, his overlong hair tumbling over his forehead. He paused, his mouth almost touching mine, his eyes seeming to ask a question. It was madness; it was folly; it was sheer selfishness. I was delusional, misguided, wrong, out of control. I needed to pull back, to say something sane, to re-establish mastery over myself. I could not do this. I could not take the risk. Later tonight, I'd relive this moment in my lonely bed and wonder if I'd done the right thing. But at least that would be familiar, would be something I knew how to cope with. And yet the very thought felt like dying. I surged forward, crossing the final, tiny gap and pressing my lips to his. It was awkward and desperate and frantic, but the feel of his mouth against mine sent a bolt of electricity straight down my spine. Just a moment, just this one kiss, surely that would be enough... Then he kissed me back, and it would never be enough, a thousand years of this would not be enough. His mouth was hungry and insistent, his tongue probing my lips, asking for greater intimacy. I granted it, tongues swirling together, mine followed his when it retreated and tasting him in return. There came the clanging of bells in the distance, the fire company alerted to the explosion. Griffin drew back a fraction. His breath was as raged as mine, which left me dazed with wonder. "My dear," he whispered against my lips. Then he swallowed convulsively. "We should leave, before the fire companies come." "Y-Yes." It was amazing I managed that much coherence. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against mine, our breaths mingling. "Will you come home with me?" Was he asking...? "Yes." Oh, God, yes. His lips curved into a smile.

We have to stop,” Harvard said, abrupt and desperate. “Wait, why?” Aiden murmured, reaching to drag Harvard back when Harvard pulled away, barely seeming to understand the words Harvard had spoken. “I don’t want to. You said you didn’t want to…” He trailed off, hands still grasping Harvard’s shirt, exerting pressure to bring Harvard back where he had been. Aiden’s eyes were heavy-lidded, almost as if he was drowsy, but it was an electric drowsiness. For a terrifying moment, Harvard looked at Aiden and couldn’t remember why they should stop. Then he looked at Aiden and did remember. “I don’t want to, but we have to,” Harvard tried to explain. Aiden looked suddenly wide awake and affronted to be so, like a cat disturbed from his rest. His voice as sharp this time as it had been soft before, he said, “Why?” When Aiden had agreed to help Harvard with practice dating, Harvard remembered vividly the exact words he’d used. I know how dating works. It doesn’t matter, and this wouldn’t even be real dating. It doesn’t mean anything. It won’t change anything. He looked at Aiden, his chest feeling cold and empty, bleak with despair. Harvard was just like all the rest of Aiden’s guys, only worse. He was the one who really knew Aiden, and he should know better. Harvard said, “Because this means nothing.

Arin heard the door to the barracks creak. The sound brought him immediately to his feet, for only one person would come to his cell this late at night. Then he heard the first heavy footfall, and his hands slackened around the metal bars. The footsteps coming were not hers. They belonged to someone big. Solid, slow. Probably a man. Torchlight pulsed toward Arin’s cell. When he saw who carried it, he pulled away from the bars. He saw a child’s nightmare come to life. The general set the torch in a sconce. He stared, taking in Arin’s fresh bruises, his height, his features. The general’s frown deepened. This man didn’t look like Kestrel. He was all mass and muscle. But Arin found her in the way her father lifted his chin, and his eyes held the same dangerous intelligence. “Is she all right?” Arin said. When he received no response, he asked again in Valorian. And because he had already damned himself with a question he couldn’t bear not to ask, Arin said something he had sworn he would never say. “Sir.” “She’s fine.” A feeling flowed into Arin, something like sleep or the sudden absence of pain. “If I had my choice, I would kill you,” said the general, “but that would cause more talk. You’ll be sold. Not right away, because I don’t want to be seen reacting to a scandal. But soon. “I’ll be spending some time at home, and I will be watching you. If you come near my daughter, I will forget my better judgment. I will have you torn limb from limb. Do you understand?

To the extreme of this feeling I was ever a victim. The heavy responsibility, often suddenly and unexpectedly imposed—the struggle for success, when success was all but hopeless—the intense anxiety for the arrival of those critical periods which change the character of a malady, and divest it of some of its dangers, or invest it with new ones—the despondence when that period has come only to confirm all the worst symptoms, and shut out every prospect of recovery—and, last of all, that most trying, of all the trying duties of my profession, the breaking to the perhaps unconscious relatives, that my art had failed, my resources were exhausted, in a word, that there was no longer a hope. These things have preyed on me for weeks, for months long, and many

People who haven’t found their sacred cause just drift from one thing to another. They may be consumed by a sudden passion and enthusiasm for something, believing they have at last found their sacred cause, but the feeling doesn’t last, and soon they move on to the next thing. Some people of this kind simply never find their sacred cause and end up as the ultimate cynics, skeptics, nihilists and atheists. They are totally embittered and negative, and frequently heavy users of alcohol and drugs to numb their pain. Nothing is more important than finding your sacred cause. You are lost without it. When you have assumed a sacred cause, you at last feel aligned with your soul itself. You feel real, valid, authentic, true and right, no longer fake, phoney, fraudulent, false and wrong.

But when she got up it was quite light, and it turned out to be half past nine. There had been a heavy fall of snow in the night; the trees were clothed in white, and the air was particularly light, transparent, and tender, so that when Anna Akimovna looked out of the window her first impulse was to draw a deep, deep breath. And when she had washed, a relic of faraway childish feelings—joy that today was Christmas—suddenly stirred within her. After that she felt lighthearted, free, and pure in soul, as though her soul, too, had been washed or plunged in the white snow. Masha came in, dressed up and tightly laced, and wished her a happy Christmas; then she spent a long time combing her mistress’s hair and helping her to dress. The fragrance and feeling of the new, gorgeous, splendid dress, its faint rustle, and the smell of fresh scent, excited Anna Akimovna.

it was not only his competence that the nuns praised, they spoke of his thoughtfulness and tenderness. Of course he could be very tender. He was at his best when you were ill; he was too intelligent to exasperate, and his touch was pleasant, cool and soothing. By some magic he seemed able by his mere presence to relieve your suffering. She knew that she would never see again in his eyes the look of affection which she had once been so used to that she found it merely exasperating. She knew now how immense was his capacity for loving; in some odd way he was pouring it out on these wretched sick who had only him to look to. She did not feel jealousy, but a sense of emptiness; it was as though a support that she had grown so accustomed to as not to realise its presence were suddenly withdrawn from her so that she swayed this way and that like a thing that was top-heavy.

The ocean made space for me, pressing against the blackness of my assumed skin, buoying me and counter-acting the heaviness of the lead fastened around my waist. I kicked and continued my initial dive, feeling the pressures sliding back against my belly and legs, the quiet acceptance of the seas. Space and oceans have much in common, both are alien to us, not our element, both contain mysteries, dangers, sudden beauties of their own and beyond our land-bound experience. But space is a container of nothingness, a vacuum, a void of immeasurable loneliness and occasional transcendence. Water is a repository of life, and the life asserts itself as you move through the ocean; creatures large and small, beautiful or stunningle grotesque according to their custom, aquatic forests and microscopic landscapes, beings caught between the layers of life, rocks made of living creatures and living creatures made of stone, vegetable animals and animated plants and sudden deep, heart-breaking, lovely jewels that flick their trailing rainbows and dart away from you between the fronds of weeds, leaving shimmering mysteries that can be pursued, but never truly caught and comprehended. Space does not care whether you are there or not, and the struggle to survive between worlds is a fight to avoid being sucked into a vacuum, into an ultimate nil. Implacable in its indifference, it kills you simply because it is, and crushes you with the weight of your knowledge of its indifference. But the ocean is not indifferent. It reacts and shapes itself to your presence or absence, presents its laws as implacable realities, but an instant later displays the very non-exemplar of that rule swimming calmly through the depths. Accept the strangeness and the ocean opens to you, gives you freedom and beauty, a hook into otherness. But wonder approached in fear is cancelled, disappears into threathening shiverings of distant plants, into terrifying movements of bulky darkness through the rocks.

Unsure what she was doing, she simply emulated his actions, allowing her tongue to tangle with his. It brought a growl from his throat that made her shiver, and then his kiss became hungrier and deeper, almost violent as his hands began moving, caressing her everywhere. He kneaded her back, urging her flush against him again, then let his fingers slide over her arms, and her sides, before his hands suddenly clasped her waist and he lifted and turned her to straddle him. The moment he'd settled her there, his hands shifted down and around to clasp her bottom. He then squeezed her cheeks through her gown, his fingers meeting in the middle and brushing against her core through the cloth. Claray gasped into his mouth at the touch and began to suck frantically on his tongue in response. When he released her bottom to tug at the top of her gown, dragging it off her shoulders, she let her hands drop to help him. The moment the wet cloth slid away to pool around her in the water, his hands claimed her breasts through the thin cloth of her shift. Claray broke their kiss on a cry at the touch, her hands grasping at his upper arms and then moving down to his wrists, urging him on. She looked down then to see that the thin linen of her shift had gone almost transparent. She could see the pink of her breasts and the darker rose of her nipples as his fingers squeezed the full globes and his thumbs ran back and forth over her hard, excited nipples. Watching him touch her so intimately only added to Claray's excitement and she found herself shifting in his lap, mindlessly rubbing herself against the hardness she could feel beneath her. When the Wolf gasped in response and claimed her mouth again, she kissed him frantically back and continued to move against him until he suddenly released her breasts and rolled them in the water. Only his hand under her neck kept her head from being submerged. Distracting her with kisses, the Wolf dragged her closer to shore until her head was out of the water and then broke their kiss to move upright. Kneeling with his legs in either side of her he then let his eyes slide over her, hot and hungry.

There is some quite trivial, distant noise; a sound, moreover, which has nothin to do with me, to which there is not the slightest need for me to pay any attention; yet it suffices to wake me, and in no gentle way, either, but savagely, violently, shockingly, like an air raid alarm. The wheels, my masters, are already vibrating with incipient motion; the whole mechanism is preparing to begin the monotonous, hateful functioning of which I am the dispirited slave. I began to feel that if I did not succeed in breaking out of the loathsome circle I should suddenly become mad, scream, perpetrate some shocking act of violence in the open street. But worst of all was the knowledge that the laws of my temperament would forbid me even a relief of this kind. I was inexorably imprisoned behind my own determination to display no emotion whatever. Now I saw that I was in a street which I did not know very well. Night had fallen, the lights glowed mistily through a thin haze. It was as though, in some mysterious way, I had become the central point around which the night scene revolved. People walking on the pavement looked at me as they passed. Some with pity, some with detached interest, some with more morbid curiosity. Some appeared to make small, concealed sights, but whether these were intended for warning or encouragement I could not be sure. The windows lighted or unlighted, were like eyes more or less piercing, but all focused upon me. The houses, the traffic, everything in sight, seemed to be watching to see what I would do. To wait — with no living soul in whom to confide one's doubt, one's fears, one's relentless hope. Some secret court must have tried and condemned me, unheard, to this heavy sentence. Coiling itself round me it knows I cannot escape. Imprisoned in its very fabric, I am like a small worm, a parasite, which the host harbors not altogether unwillingly. A human being can only endure depression up to a certain point. When this point of saturation is reached it becomes necessary for him to discover some element of pleasure. No matter how humble or on how low a level, in his environment if he is to go on living at all.

For some reason newspapers are not the laboratories and experimental stations of the mind that they could be, to the public's great benefit, but usually only its warehouses and stock exchanges. If he were alive today, Plato—to take him as an example, because along with a dozen others he is regarded as the greatest thinker who ever lived—would certainly be ecstatic about a news industry capable of creating, exchanging, refining a new idea every day; where information keeps pouring in from the ends of the earth with a speediness he never knew in his own lifetime, while a staff of demiurges is on hand to check it all out instantaneously for its content of reason and reality. He would have supposed a newspaper office to be that topos uranios, that heavenly realm of ideas, which he has described so impressively that to this day all the better class of people are still idealists when talking to their children or employees. And of course if Plato were to walk suddenly into a news editor’s office today and prove himself to be indeed that great author who died over two thousand years ago he would be a tremendous sensation and would instantly be showered with the most lucrative offers. If he were then capable of writing a volume of philosophical travel pieces in three weeks, and a few thousand of his well-known short stories, perhaps even turn one or the other of his older works into film, he could undoubtedly do very well for himself for a considerable period of time. The moment his return had ceased to be news, however, and Mr. Plato tried to put into practice one of his well-known ideas, which had never quite come into their own, the editor in chief would ask him to submit only a nice little column on the subject now and then for the Life and Leisure section (but in the easiest and most lively style possible, not heavy: remember the readers), and the features editor would add that he was sorry, but he could use such a contribution only once a month or so, because there were so many other good writers to be considered. And both of these gentlemen would end up feeling that they had done quite a lot for a man who might indeed be the Nestor of European publicists but still was a bit outdated, and certainly not in a class for current newsworthiness with a man like, for instance, Paul Arnheim.

Late that night after the fire was made, the cold supper eaten, the surface dust removed, Nel lay in bed thinking of her trip. [...] It had been an exhilarating trip but a fearful one. She had been frightened of the soldiers' eyes on the train, the black wreath on the door, the custard pudding she believed lurked under her mother's heavy dress, the feel of unknown streets and unknown people. But she had gone on a real trip, and now she was different. She got out of bed and lit the lamp to look in the mirror. There was her face, plain brown eyes, three braids and the nose her mother hated. She looked for a long time and suddenly a shiver ran through her. "I'm me," she whispered. "Me" Nel didn't know quite what she meant, but on the other hand she knew exactly what she meant. "I'm me. I'm not their daughter. I'm not Nel. I'm me. Me." Every time she said the word me there was a gathering in her like power, like joy, like fear. Back in bed with her discovery, she stared out the window at the dark leaves of the horse chestnut. "Me," she murmured. And then, sinking deeper into the quilts, "I want... I want to be... wonderful. Oh, Jesus, make me wonderful.

His nostrils flared and he couldn't wait any longer. He lifted her bodily, moving her farther up on the bed, placing her head and shoulders against the pillows, and then pushed up her chemise, crawling between her spread thighs and settling to enjoy what he'd found. There. There she was, her pretty, pretty pink cunny, all coral lips and wispy dark-blond curls. He hiked her trembling legs over his arms, ignoring her gasp of shocked surprise. He glanced up at once and saw wide, wondering eyes gazing back at him. Her gentlemanly first husband had evidently never done this to her. More fool he. Then he bent and feasted. His nose pressed into her mound, inhaling her woman's scent, his cock grinding hard into the bed, his tongue licking into tart and salt and her. Oh God, her. She squealed at his first touch and tried to squirm away, but he held her fast with his hands on her hips. He almost smiled against her tender flesh, his teeth scraping oh so gently. She might be startled, might be outraged and shocked, but she liked it. Perhaps even loved it- what he was doing to her. She was moaning now, low in her throat, making little mewling sounds, so erotic and sweet, her hips twitching against his lips, trying to get more. He opened his mouth, covering her, breathing over her. He stiffened his tongue and speared into her as far as he could reach, his jaw aching. She cried out at that and he felt fingers tangling in his hair. He withdrew his tongue and moved to her clitoris, taking the small bit of flesh gently between his teeth and pulling. She froze, trembling all over, and he could hear her gasping breaths. He opened his mouth and licked her. Softly. Tenderly. Thoroughly. And at the same time he shoved two fingers into her, feeling her wet walls contract against his knuckles, smelling the rise of her arousal. She arched under him, her soft thighs thrashing restlessly, making no sound, but he knew. He knew. He curled the fingers inside her and stroked her wet, silky inner walls as he pulled them back. Then he shoved them again into her, hard and firm, repeating the motion as he suckled her clitoris. She moaned- loud in the quiet room- and pushed against him, and he felt her tremble and suddenly grow wetter. She shuddered helplessly and he was drunk on her release, his cock a heavy, near-painful throb. He turned his head and kissed the inside of her soft thigh, listening to her pant.

The next morning I showed up at dad’s house at eight, with a hangover. All my brothers’ trucks were parked in front. What are they all doing here? When I opened the front door, Dad, Alan, Jase, and Willie looked at me. They were sitting around the living room, waiting. No one smiled, and the air felt really heavy. I looked to my left, where Mom was usually working in the kitchen, but this time she was still, leaning over the counter and looking at me too. Dad spoke first. “Son, are you ready to change?” Everything else seemed to go silent and fade away, and all I heard was my dad’s voice. “I just want you to know we’ve come to a decision as a family. You’ve got two choices. You keep doing what you’re doing--maybe you’ll live through it--but we don’t want nothin’ to do with you. Somebody can drop you off at the highway, and then you’ll be on your own. You can go live your life; we’ll pray for you and hope that you come back one day. And good luck to you in this world.” He paused for a second then went on, a little quieter. “Your other choice is that you can join this family and follow God. You know what we stand for. We’re not going to let you visit our home while you’re carrying on like this. You give it all up, give up all those friends, and those drugs, and come home. Those are your two choices.” I struggled to breathe, my head down and my chest tight. No matter what happened, I knew I would never forget this moment. My breath left me in a rush, and I fell to my knees in front of them all and started crying. “Dad, what took y’all so long?” I burst out. I felt broken, and I began to tell them about the sorry and dangerous road I’d been traveling down. I could see my brothers’ eyes starting to fill with tears too. I didn’t dare look at my mom’s face although I could feel her presence behind me. I knew she’d already been through the hell of addiction with her own mother, with my dad, with her brother-in-law Si, and with my oldest brother, Alan. And now me, her baby. I remembered the letters she’d been writing to me over the last few months, reaching out with words of love from her heart and from the heart of the Lord. Suddenly, I felt guilty. “Dad, I don’t deserve to come back. I’ve been horrible. Let me tell you some more.” “No, son,” he answered. “You’ve told me enough.” I’ve seen my dad cry maybe three times, and that was one of them. To see my dad that upset hit me right in the gut. He took me by my shoulders and said, “I want you to know that God loves you, and we love you, but you just can’t live like that anymore.” “I know. I want to come back home,” I said. I realized my dad understood. He’d been down this road before and come back home. He, too, had been lost and then found. By this time my brothers were crying, and they got around me, and we were on our knees, crying. I prayed out loud to God, “Thank You for getting me out of this because I am done living the way I’ve been living.” “My prodigal son has returned,” Dad said, with tears of joy streaming down his face. It was the best day of my life. I could finally look over at my mom, and she was hanging on to the counter for dear life, crying, and shaking with happiness. A little later I felt I had to go use the bathroom. My stomach was a mess from the stress and the emotions. But when I was in the bathroom with the door shut, my dad thought I might be in there doing one last hit of something or drinking one last drop, so he got up, came over, and started banging on the bathroom door. Before I could do anything, he kicked in the door. All he saw was me sitting on the pot and looking up at him while I about had a heart attack. It was not our finest moment. That afternoon after my brothers had left, we went into town and packed up and moved my stuff out of my apartment. “Hey bro,” I said to my roommate. “I’m changing my life. I’ll see ya later.” I meant it.

I wish you would, because I’m not sure how long I can put up with this.” “I’ll bet you can put up with it a little longer,” I said brightly, desperate to get out from under the heavy subject. “How much do you love college in New York?” He grinned. “I love college in New York. I love just being in the city. I love my classes. I love the hospital. I wish I weren’t there at two in the morning because I also love sleep, but I do love the hospital. I love Manohar and Brian. In a manly love kind of way, of course.” “Of course,” I said, the corners of my mouth stretched tight, trying not to laugh. “You get along great with everybody. Because that’s what you do.” “Because that’s what I do,” he agreed. “Do you love college in New York?” I sighed, a big puff of white air. “I do love college in New York. Lately I’ve been so busy with work and homework that I might as well be in Iowa, but I remember loving college in New York a month ago. I’m afraid it may be coming to a close, though.” He leaned nearer. “Seriously.” “If I got that internship,” I said, “I could hold on. Otherwise I’m in trouble. I wanted so badly to start my publishing career in the publishing mecca. But maybe that’s not possible for me now. I can write anywhere, I guess.” I laughed. He didn’t laugh. “What will you do, then?” “I might try California,” I said. “It’s almost as expensive as New York, though. And it’s tainted in my mind because my mother tried it with the worst of luck.” Hunter’s movement toward me was so sudden that I instinctively shrank back. Then I realized he was reaching for my hand. He took it in his warm hand again, rubbing my palm with his calloused thumb. His voice was smooth like a song as he said, “I would not love college in New York if you weren’t there.” Suddenly I was flushing hot in the freezing night. “You wouldn’t?” I whispered. “No. When I said I love it, I listed all these things I love about it. I left you out.” He let my hand go and touched his finger to my lips. “I love you.” I started stupidly at him. Was he joking again, reciting another line from my story? I didn’t remember writing this. He leaned in and kissed me. I didn’t respond for a few seconds. My mind lagged behind what my body was feeling. “Say it,” he whispered against my lips. “I know this is hard for you. Tell me.” “I love you.” Hearing my own words, I gasped at the rush of emotion. He put his hands on either side of my jaw and took my mouth with his. My mind still chattered that something was wrong with this picture. My body stopped caring. I grabbed fistfuls of his sweater and pulled him closer.

One day, out of the blue, they just became too much. The faces of people who thought nothing of making endless demands, of being constantly given things. The way they sat at the table simply waiting to be served, not lifting a finger. Their certainty that they would be taken care of, without even having to try. I began, in an instant, to hate them. I couldn't be bothered to buy seasonal ingredients, prepare them, cook, choose the plates, serve up the food, then clear away the dishes and wash up for people like that. When I stopped being in touch, when I stopped doing the housework and the cooking, they panicked. Some of them became hyper-suspicious and their behavior took on a stalkerish air. Some of them, after returning to life alone, began neglecting themselves, and suffered physically as a result. Like babies, all of them, whose mother had ceased looking after them. It's odd, isn't it? Once I had found their incompetence, their reliance on me adorable. I believed, up until that point, that I liked pleasing them. Yet I suddenly saw that it was always just me, working away frenziedly, all alone." Rika didn't fail to notice the slightest change in Kajii's expression, the note of sorrow that went sliding across her peach-hued face. "Don't get the wrong idea. I like serving men and giving them pleasure. Women who don't don't deserve the name. But being with just one man, a changeable woman like me gets bored." "And yet you haven't given up looking for a marriage partner?" "It's just that I haven't met the right person yet." "I feel like what you're saying isn't---" "Cooking is enjoyable, but the moment it becomes a duty, it grows boring. The same is true of sex, and fashion, and beauty. When you're forced to do something, it becomes a chore, and the pleasure disappears." Rick's body felt heavy. She knew this was important, and yet she couldn't bring herself to ask a question. "The kind of wife that the men on those sites are looking for is, at base, a woman with no sense of life about her. Their ideal partner would be a kind of ghost." It wasn't at all hot in the room, and yet Rika's armpits were slick with lukewarm sweat. Even the gap between her sleeves and her wrists felt clammy. "The quickest way for a modern Japanese woman to gain the love of a man is to become corpse-like. The kind of men who want those women dead are dead themselves. Indeed, it's because they're dead that they're so terrified of anyone with a sense of life about them. If those men hadn't met me, if I hadn't rejected them, they'd quite probably have died anyway. They were never really here to begin with.

Close to midnight, I gather up Kitty and the puppy and the sparklers. We put on heavy coats and I make Kitty wear a hat. “Should we put a hat on Jamie too?” she asks me. “He doesn’t need one,” I tell her. “He’s already got on a fur coat.” The stars are out by the dozen; they look like faraway gems. We’re so lucky to live by the mountains the way we do. You just feel closer to the stars. To heaven. I light up sparklers for each of us, and Kitty starts dancing around the snow making a ring of fire with hers. She’s trying to coax Jamie to jump through but he isn’t having it. Al he wants to do is pee around the yard. It’s lucky we have a fence, or I bet he’d pee his way down this whole block. Josh’s bedroom light is on. I see him in the window just as he opens it and calls out, “Song girls!” Kitty hollers, “Wanna light a sparkler?” “Maybe next year,” Josh calls back. I look up at him and wave my sparkler, and he smiles, and there’s just this feeling of all rightness between us. One way or another, Josh will be in our lives. And I’m certain, I’m so suddenly certain that everything is exactly the way it’s supposed to be, that I don’t have to be so afraid of good-bye, because good-bye doesn’t have to be forever. When I’m back in my room in my flannel nightgown, I get out my special flowy pen and my good thick stationery, and I start to write. Not a good-bye letter. Just a plain old love letter. Dear Peter…

Jasper’s boot tapped against the side of her foot. She met his gaze with raised brows. Look at me, he mouthed with darkened eyes. Did he not understand how difficult that was? Of course he didn’t. He did not feel overheated and confused when he looked at her. He didn’t struggle to understand why the act of pressing their lips together had created overwhelming feelings in other parts of the anatomy. Frustrated, she crossed her arms and looked at the passing carriages. The toe of his boot touched her ankle, then slid up along the back of her lower calf. Eliza froze. Her lungs seized, holding her breath. A shiver moved up her leg to unmentionable places. Wide-eyed, she glanced at him. Jasper winked. As indignation welled up within her, his tongue traced the curve of his lower lip in a slow, sensual glide. Her breath left her in a rush. Instantly and viscerally she recalled the feel of that talented tongue against her lips and in her mouth, thrusting deep and sure in imitation of a far more intimate act. Her breasts grew heavy and tender. The beat of her heart quickened and her skin tingled from her head to the place where his boot stroked her. It suddenly struck her that Jasper was deliberately arousing her. In the middle of the day. In the center of town. Seated inches away from two other people. His hand lifted to an unsecured button on his coat. Strong fingers grasped it, the pad of his thumb rubbing leisurely

But then, as I’m leaving school, I see John parked out front. He’s standing in front of his car; he hasn’t seen me yet. In this bright afternoon light, the sun warms John’s blond head like a halo, and suddenly I’m struck with the visceral memory of loving him from afar, studiously, ardently. I so admired his slender hands, the slope of his cheekbones. Once upon a time I knew his face by heart. I had him memorized. My steps quicken. “Hi!” I say, waving. “How are you here right now? Don’t you have school today?” “I left early,” he says. “You? John Ambrose McClaren cut school?” He laughs. “I brought you something.” John pulls a box out of his coat pocket and thrusts it at me. “Here.” I take it from him, it’s heavy and substantial in my palm. “Should I…should I open it right now?” “If you want.” I can feel his eyes on me as I rip off the paper, open the white box. He’s anxious. I ready a smile on my face so he’ll know I like it, no matter what it is. Just the fact that he thought to buy me a present is so…dear. Nestled in white tissue paper is a snow globe the size of an orange, with a brass bottom. A boy and girl are ice-skating inside. She’s wearing a red sweater; she has on earmuffs. She’s making a figure eight, and he’s admiring her. It’s a moment caught in amber. One perfect moment, preserved under glass. Just like that night it snowed in April. “I love it,” I say, and I do, so much. Only a person who really knew me could give me this gift. To feel so known, so understood. It’s such a wonderful feeling, I could cry. It’s something I’ll keep forever. This moment, and this snow globe. I get on my tiptoes and hug him, and he wraps his arms around me tight and then tighter. “Happy birthday, Lara Jean.

It makes you worry about what people think about who you married, or if your new house you bought is less expensive than the last one you bought, or that your husband may have a roving eye.” Amanda felt a sudden twinge of sympathy, and ruthlessly tried to quell it. She really didn’t want to feel it for the mayor at all. “Doesn’t excuse her bad behavior, I know, but thought it would help for you to hear a bit about her. My Dad says she used to be really well-liked in town. She didn’t always push people around like this.” Amanda thought about that, trying to imagine the mayor as a carefree bride, hopeful for her future. It wasn’t easy. She needed some time to think about it. Maybe the mayor changed because she thought she had to change, or because she was afraid what would happen to her world if she didn’t. Maybe she was just trying to survive. Amanda subdued any twinges of compassion as she furiously cleaned in the corner between the wall and the massive bed. Yes, people change, she thought, but that doesn’t give anyone the right to treat other people like garbage. Just because she had a bad life doesn’t mean she can act like she rules everyone else. She saw the corner of the torn envelope the moment she flipped back the corner of the rug. She picked it up and was just going to toss it into the small garbage can she was dragging with her through the room, when her eyes caught some writing on the outside. YOU HAVE TWO HOURS Big dark letters, written in an angry scrawl across the front. Amanda’s blood ran cold. This wasn’t a piece of mail carelessly left. This was something that had been deliberately hidden, and that was much more personal and angry. She glanced sideways at James, who was busy ripping down the heavy velvet curtains, a cloud of dust poofing around his head. It took only a moment for Amanda to fold the envelope in half and stuff it into her pocket. She patted it hard to ensure there’d be no telltale bulge, and pulled the

Come here,” he growled, his body so heavy with need that he was afraid he would explode into fragments if he took one step. She shook her head slowly, her tongue deliberately moistening her full lower lip. “I only want my true lifemate. I hunger tonight. My body is hungry.” Her hand drifted slowly, enticingly, over her satin skin, and his eyes followed the graceful movement while his body raged at him. Gregori covered the distance between them in a sudden surge, catching her up, the momentum taking them to the wall. He held her prisoner there, his mouth fastened on hers, commanding her response, feeding, devouring, his hands claiming her body for his own. “No one else will ever touch you and live,” he snarled, his mouth burning a trail of fire down her throat to her breast. He fed hungrily, his teeth grazing the creamy fullness. “No other, Savannah.” “Why, Gregori? Why can no other touch my body like this?” she whispered, her mouth on his skin, her tongue lapping at his pulse. “Tell me why my body is only yours and your body is only mine.” His hands cupped her bottom, brought her hard against him. “You know why, Savannah.” “Say it, Gregori. Say it if you believe it. I won’t have lies between us. You have to feel it in your heart as I do. You have to feel it in your mind. Your body has to burn for mine. But most of all, in your deepest soul, you have to know I’m your other half.” He lifted her, set her up high on the rim of the sleeping chamber, his hands parting her thighs. “I know I burn for you. Even in my sleep, the sleep of our people where there can be no thought, I burn for you.” He bent his head to taste her, his wet hair bathing her inner thighs as he dragged her body closer to him. Savannah cried out at the first touch of his mouth, the rush of hot desire turning her into a liquid, living flame. She bunched his hair into her fists and held him to her. “Say it, Gregori,” she bit out between clenched teeth. “I need to hear you say it.” I am saying it, lifemate. Can you not hear me?

We could call Christianity, in particular, a huge treasure house of the most elegant forms of consolation — there are so many pleasant, soothing, narcotizing things piled up in it, and for this purpose it takes so many of the most dangerous and most audacious chances. It shows such sophistication, such southern refinement, especially when it guesses what kind of emotional stimulant can overcome, at least for a while, the deep depression, leaden exhaustion, and black sorrow of the physiologically impaired. For, generally speaking, with all great religions, the main issue concerns the fight against a certain endemic exhaustion and heaviness. We can from the outset assume as probable that from time to time, in particular places on the earth, a feeling of physiological inhibition must necessarily become master over wide masses of people, but, because of a lack of knowledge about physiology, it does not enter people’s consciousness as something physiological, so they look for and attempt to find its “cause” and remedy only in psychology and morality (—this, in fact, is my most general formula for whatever is commonly called a “religion”). Such a feeling of inhibition can have a varied ancestry; for instance, it can be the result of cross-breeding between different races (or between classes — for classes also always express differences in origin and race: European “Weltschmerz” [pain at the state of the world] and nineteenth-century “pessimism” are essentially the consequence of an irrational, sudden mixing of the classes), or it can be caused by incorrect emigration — a race caught in a climate for which its powers of adaptation are not sufficient (the case of the Indians in India); or by the influence of the age and exhaustion of the race (Parisian pessimism from 1850 on); or by an incorrect diet (the alcoholism of the Middle Ages, the inanity of vegetarians, who, of course, have on their side the authority of Squire Christopher in Shakespeare); or by degeneration in the blood, malaria, syphilis and things like that (German depression after the Thirty Years’ War, which spread bad diseases in an epidemic through half of Germany and thus prepared the ground for German servility, German timidity).

Did you just take something off?” I ask the darkness. “Sam,” she scolds. I roll onto my side to face her. “What was it?” I whisper. “Nothing,” she hisses back. But I can hear laughter in her voice and I love it. “You took your shorts off, didn’t you?” I say quietly. “Maybe.” “You did.” I wait a beat. Just long enough for silence to settle around the room. “Do you know what that means?” “It means you should shut up and go to sleep.” She giggles. God, that’s a pretty sound. She’s quiet for a second. “What does it mean?” she suddenly asks. “It means your naked thighs are pressed against my sheets.” I groan. I’m turning myself on. Or she’s turning me on. “Sam,” she warns. But she’s laughing, too. She’s so far away from me that I imagine she’s going to roll right off the bed. “You’re awfully far away.” “There’s a reason for that,” she whispers. “What is it?” I whisper back. “Because I have this awful feeling that you’re going to break my heart,” she says. No stutter, so she must have found something to tap on. But I kind of would prefer to think she didn’t. “I don’t plan to hurt you.” God, she might as well have stabbed me in the gut. “No one plans to hurt anyone else. It just happens. Even to good people. So I’m trying not to let myself like you.” “You like me?” “I like you a lot. Too much.” “You like me,” I sing-song in a playful voice. “Sam,” she says on a heavy breath. “What?” “Don’t hurt me, okay?” I can hear the quiver in her voice and tension radiates off of her even from across the bed. It’s like a wire pulled taut. I reach out a hand and feel for her stomach. When I find it, I lift the edge of her shirt and lay my palm on her hip. She squeals when I roll her over and pull her to me. “Sam!” she cries. I adjust her until her bottom is cradled by my thighs. The scent of her hair tickles my nose, so I brush it out of my face, pushing it down between us. It’s silky smooth and she smells so damn good. “Um, Sam…” I nuzzle my face into the nape of her neck and press a kiss to her shoulder. “What?” “You promised to stay on your side of the bed.” “I am on my side of the bed.” She chuckles. “Go to sleep.” She wiggles her bottom in my lap, and I have to pull back a little and adjust my junk. “Um…” “That’s just my dick. I told you he likes you. He’ll give up in a minute. Go to sleep.” My head is lying on my bicep and I feel her turn her head ever so slightly and press a kiss against the tender skin of my inner arm. Damn, that feels good. My hand creeps up a little. This is the first time I’ve touched her naked stomach, and my fingertips are a little greedy. Her hand covers mine and holds it flat against her belly. “Sorry,” I whisper. She doesn’t say anything. She just holds my hand there against her skin, wrapped in hers. After a couple of minutes, she goes soft in my arms. I realize in that moment that I am in serious trouble. Like the awful, terrible, no good, very bad kind. Because I think I’m in love with her. No. I don’t think it. I know it. What I don’t know is whether or not she’s capable of loving me back.

Jesse was moaning in her sleep. She was a delicate woman of thirty-five with long curly red hair. She lay deep in a shapeless feather mattress, cradled in a wooden bed which hung from the ceiling on four rusted chains. Somewhere in the big rambling house a clock chimed. She must wake up. Two hours until the Vampire Lestat’s concert. But she could not leave the twins now. This was new to her, this part unfolding so rapidly, and the dream was maddeningly dim as all the dreams of the twins had been. Yet she knew the twins were in the desert kingdom again. The mob surrounding the twins was dangerous. And the twins, how different they looked, how pale. Maybe it was an illusion, this phospherescent luster, but they appeared to glow in the semidarkness, and their movements were languid, almost as if they were caught in the rhythm of a dance. Torches were thrust at them as they embraced one another; but look, something was wrong, very wrong. One of them was now blind. Her eyelids were shut tight, the tender flesh wrinkled and sunken. Yes, they have plucked out her eyes. And the other one, why she make those terrible sounds? “Be still, don’t fight anymore,” said the blind one, in the ancient language which was always understandable in the dreams. And out of the other win came a horrid, gutteral moaning. She couldn’t speak. They’d cut out her tongue! I don’t want to see any more, I want to wake up. But the soldiers were pushing their way through the crowd, something dreadful was to happen, and the twins became suddenly very still. The soldiers took hold of them, dragged them apart. Don’t separate them! Don’t you know what this means to them? Get the torches away. Don’t set them on fire! Don’t burn their red hair. The blind twin reached out for her sister, screaming her name: “Mekare!” And Mekare, the mute one, who could not answer, roared like a wounded beast. The crowd was parting, making way for two immense stone coffins, each carried in a great heavy bier. Crude these sarcophagi, yet the lids had the roughened shape of human faces, limbs. What have the twins done to be put in these coffins? I can’t stand it, the biers being set down, the twins dragged towards the coffins, the crude stone lids being lifted. Don’t do it! The blind one is fighting as if she can see it, yet they are overpowering her, lifting her and putting her inside the stone box. In mute terror, Mekare is watching, though she herself is being dragged to the bier. Don’t lower the lid, or I will scream for Mekare! For both of them- Jesse sat up, her eyes opened. She had screamed. Alone in the house, with no one to hear her, she’d screamed and she could feel the echo still. Then nothing but the quiet settling around her, and the faint creaking of the bed as it moved on its chains. The song of the birds outside in the forest, the deep forest; and her own curious awareness that the clock had struck six.

At first, you have these overwhelming feelings of loss and grief. The sadness is heavy and unbearable. You are riding on a debilitating roller coaster of despair, rage, disbelief, and sleepless nights. You wonder if your pain will ever end. You question why no one understands and what to do next. Focusing on anything—anything at all, let alone meaningful—seems impossible. This is normal. You’re grieving and you’re allowed to…no, encouraged to grieve. Give yourself permission to mourn in your own way.

People who haven’t found their sacred cause just drift from one thing to another. They may be consumed by a sudden passion and enthusiasm for something, believing they have at last found their sacred cause, but the feeling doesn’t last, and soon they move on to the next thing. Some people of this kind simply never find their sacred cause and end up as the ultimate cynics, skeptics, nihilists and atheists. They are totally embittered and negative, and frequently heavy users of alcohol and drugs to numb their pain. Nothing is more important than finding your sacred cause. You are lost without it. When you have assumed a sacred cause, you at last feel aligned with your soul itself. You feel real, valid, authentic, true and right, no longer fake, phoney, fraudulent, false and wrong.

Suddenly I feel heavy. A lifetime of training wasn’t enough for me. My first instinct is still self-preservation.

He recalled that when the sun had risen that morning, he was on another continent, still a shepherd with sixty sheep, and looking forward to meeting with a girl. That morning he had known everything that was going to happen to him as he walked through the familiar fields. But now, as the sun began to set, he was in a different country, a stranger in a strange land, where he couldn’t even speak the language. He was no longer a shepherd, and he had nothing, not even the money to return and start everything over. All this happened between sunrise and sunset, the boy thought. He was feeling sorry for himself, and lamenting the fact that his life could have changed so suddenly and so drastically. He was so ashamed that he wanted to cry. He had never even wept in front of his own sheep. But the marketplace was empty, and he was far from home, so he wept. He wept because God was unfair, and because this was the way God repaid those who believed in their dreams. When I had my sheep, I was happy, and I made those around me happy. People saw me coming and welcomed me, he thought. But now I’m sad and alone. I’m going to become bitter and distrustful of people because one person betrayed me. I’m going to hate those who have found their treasure because I never found mine. And I’m going to hold on to what little I have, because I’m too insignificant to conquer the world. He opened his pouch to see what was left of his possessions; maybe there was a bit left of the sandwich he had eaten on the ship. But all he found was the heavy book, his jacket, and the two stones the old man had given him. As he looked at the stones, he felt relieved for some reason. He had exchanged six sheep for two precious stones that had been taken from a gold breastplate. He could sell the stones and buy a return ticket. But this time I’ll be smarter, the boy thought, removing them from the pouch so he could put them in his pocket.

as we could tell by the washing of the water over our heads, and the heavy breaking of the seas against her bows, (with a sound as though she were striking against a rock,) only the thickness of the plank from our heads, as we lay in our berths, which are directly against the bows. At eight bells, the watch was called, and we came on deck, one hand going aft to take the wheel, and another going to the galley to get the grub for dinner. I stood on the forecastle, looking at the seas, which were rolling high, as far as the eye could reach, their tops white with foam, and the body of them of a deep indigo blue, reflecting the bright rays of the sun. Our ship rose slowly over a few of the largest of them, until one immense fellow came rolling on, threatening to cover her, and which I was sailor enough to know, by “the feeling of her” under my feet, she would not rise over. I sprang upon the knight-heads, and seizing hold of the fore-stay with my hands, drew myself upon it. My feet were just off the stanchion, when she struck fairly into the middle of the sea, and it washed her fore and aft, burying her in the water. As soon as she rose out of it, I looked aft, and everything forward of the main-mast, except the long-boat, which was griped and double-lashed down to the ring-bolts, was swept off clear. The galley, the pig-sty, the hen-coop, and a large sheep-pen which had been built upon the forehatch, were all gone, in the twinkling of an eye-leaving the deck as clean as a chin new reaped—and not a stick left, to show where they had stood. In the scuppers lay the galley, bottom up, and a few boards floating about, the wreck of the sheep-pen,—and half a dozen miserable sheep floating among them, wet through, and not a little frightened at the sudden change that had come upon them.

each other’s ass, but I think the result would be the same . . . that I feel accepted. Loved. Enough. “I don’t know anyone else good enough for my baby sister,” Ross says, as emotional about this as I am. “Hey, I’m getting in on this action,” Courtney says, and suddenly, our hug becomes a three-way. “Take care of my boy, Court,” he tells her, and I can’t help but smile. Ross has always been a pivot point for us, the one who brought us together, and in a way, the one who kept us apart. But now that I know he’s not just okay with me and Court but is actually happy for us, it’s like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. No, like a truck, because that fucker was heavy. Violet joins in too. “Don’t make me cry. I don’t have time for lasagna and redoing my makeup.” Courtney reaches to a bowl on the counter and unwraps a piece of chocolate. “Open.” Violet does as commanded and eats the candy with that wiggle of happiness all women do when you feed them good food. “Just to be clear . . . we’re not telling Archie that you’re my brother,” Ross says as Violet heads back to her lasagna. “Agreed.” We fist bump on that, and I draw us back to the issue of the evening

The street was very narrow, cobbled with the same color tones as the faded cinnamon-brown buildings that darkened the street with their shade. It had the feel of an alleyway. Many red flags decorated the walls, spaced only a few yards apart, flapping in the wind that whistled through the narrow lane. It was crowded, and the foot traffic slowed our progress. ‘Just a little farther,’ Olivia encouraged me; I was gripping the door handle, ready to throw myself into the street as soon as she spoke the word. She drove in quick spurts and sudden stops, and the people in the crowd shook their fists at us and said angry words that I was glad I could not understand. She turned onto the little path that could not have been meant for cars; shocked people had to squeeze into doorways as we scraped by. We found another street at the end. The buildings were taller here; they leaned together overhead so that no sunlight touched the pavement- the thrashing red flags on either side nearly met. The crowd was thicker here than anywhere else. Olivia stopped the car. I had the door open before we were at a standstill. She pointed to where the street widened into a patch of bright openness. ‘There were at the southern end of the square. Run straight across, to the right of the clock tower. I'll find a way around-’ Her breath caught suddenly, and when she spoke again, her voice was a hiss. ‘They're everywhere?’ I froze in place, All the same, and all, she pushed me out of the car. ‘Forget about them. You have two minutes. Go, Bell, go!’ she shouted, climbing out of the car as she spoke. I did not pause to watch Olivia melt into the shadows. I did not stop to close my door behind me. I shoved a heavy woman out of my way and ran flat out, head down, paying little attention to anything All the same and all, the uneven stones beneath my feet.

I also bought an evening dress suit from a secondhand clothing store in Charing Cross Road. It was double-breasted and in a very heavy, uncomfortable material, and I looked, frankly, stupid in it, but it was the only one I could afford. Miss Leigh announced to us one day that Gone with the Wind was going to be rereleased theatrically, and she requested the pleasure of our entire company at the premiere, which would be my first. And so, also for the first time, I had to wear that tux in public. I had by this time bid farewell to my friends and moved out of the boardinghouse, to slightly nicer digs that were walking distance from the London Coliseum in St. Martin’s Lane. This meant that I would not need to get out of a taxi and walk the red carpet—I knew that I looked idiotic in my tuxedo and wanted to keep a low profile. Inside, there was a champagne reception before the film in the upstairs bar, and my castmates had a field day making fun of me and my shit suit. Evidently, Miss Leigh caught sight of this scene and took pity on me. For all of a sudden, her boyfriend, John Merivale, was at my side, whispering into my ear that he was going to be sitting on one side of Vivien at the screening and that she had requested that I sit on her other side. I was already besotted with her, and this act of kindness only intensified my feelings. The capper was that, once I was seated beside her, I addressed her as “Miss Leigh” and she took my hand in hers. “Patrick,” she said, “you are to call me Vivien.” My erstwhile Irish roommate was right: The memorable experiences were already piling up. One more happened that evening. The film had been running for about an hour when Vivien—I still couldn’t quite believe I got to call her that—turned to me and again took my hand. I could see that she was crying. “I am so sorry, Patrick, but I am going to have to leave,” she said. “So many of these dear people I worked with are now dead, and it is making me so sad. I hope you enjoy the rest of it.” And off she went into the night.

As I look down on the baby, I feel the strangest rush of emotion. I never particularly wanted a child. I felt like I’d barely lived my own life yet. But the thought of having a baby like this, with soft dark curls like Sebastian’s, and maybe his autumn brown eyes, too . . . I didn’t know you could want something so suddenly and so hard.

Do you always…make that ‘I don’t give a damn about myself’ face?” “…I don’t.” “You do.” “I said I don’t!” “I’m tellin’ you that you do! You looked calm even when you were surrounded by those guys. We rescued you, yet you tell us ‘not to get involved’!?” “‘Cos…it’s really none of your business, right? Whether I get kidnapped…or killed…so…” “How many people have you hurt by acting that way…you suicidal idiot!!?” “Suicidal? Stop it. Don’t go treating me like I have a death wish…” “But you do! Don’t you!? When you sacrifice yourself like that…do you really believe you’ve saved someone!? You’re only trying to protect your own feelings!! You’re sacrificing yourself just to satisfy your own ego!! You don’t even know how much those left behind are hurt…yet you dare say ‘hurting others is too heavy a burden’!? You can afford to say something soft like that…’cos you’re pushing that ‘burden’ onto other people!! The people who care for you…the people who try to protect you…they’re the ones shouldering your burden…so they don’t lose you, because you don’t even try to protect yourself.” “Stop. Enough…let me go—” “I’m not finished yet!! Listen…you’re not going to be able to protect anybody like this. If you treat your own life so lightly…you don’t deserve to protect anybody else’s life!!” “Shut up.” “You’ve given up on yourself. You go around pretending you’re some tragic hero.” “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.” “Are you going to keep living your life…hurting yourself and the people around you!!?” “SHUT UP!!! You don’t know anything…! Yet you suddenly barge in…and say whatever you want…what do you know about me…!? Yeah, fine! I’m stupid! I’m lower than dirt!! I’m a powerless fool who tries to help people to satisfy my own ego!! So…what’s so bad about that!? I was denied. I wasn’t wanted. So the least I can do…is not inconvenience anybody…so the only one who gets hurt is me…!” I’ll accept…all my sufferings and sorrows. There’s nothing absolute in this world…so I’ll be fine…if I believe that’s the way things are. Even if…everyone abandons me in the future…I’ll be fine. I’m sure I won’t be hurt then— “No one will be hurt, even if I die.” “That’s just your ego.” “I don’t believe…I deserve the same rights as everyone else…

You are not in the habit of making diagnoses, and you don't want to start now. What is worrying you, what is disturbing you, what is frightening you, but which now and then gives you a thrill, is not the suddenness of your metamorphosis, but precisely the opposite: the vague and heavy feeling that it isn't a metamorphosis at all, that nothing has changed, that you've always been like this, even though you only now realize it fully: that thing, in the cracked mirror, is not your new face, it is just that the masks have slipped, the heat in your room has melted them, your torpor has soaked them off. The masks of unswerving conviction, of the straight and narrow. Did you never have an inkling, not once in twenty-five years, of that which, today, has already become inexorable? Did you never see any cracks in what, for you, takes the place of a history? Times when nothing was happening, times when you were simply ticking over in neutral. The fleeting and poignant desire to hear no more, to see no more, to remain silent and motionless. Crazy dreams of solitude. An amnesiac wandering through the Land of the Blind: wide, empty streets, cold lights, faces without mouths that you would look at without seeing. They would never get to you.

Everything in Kira froze at the feel of those sharp fangs puncturing her skin, but she wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Instead of pain, a cascade of pure sensation flowed over her. Sweet, luscious warmth seemed to spread slowly from her neck, down her shoulders, and lower, until it felt like her body was submerged in heated chocolate. All her worries drained away in such a rush that she felt dizzy, only realizing how heavy the stress had been when it was no longer there to weigh her down. Something thick and silky threaded through her fingers. After a hazy moment, Kira realized she’d raised her arms and was now gripping Mencheres’s hair. He made a deep, guttural sound that vibrated against her neck as he swallowed. My blood. Mencheres is swallowing my blood. The thought should have frightened her, or at the very least, made her uneasy, but Kira found herself pressing closer to him instead. Shards of pleasure spiked in her as his fangs slid deeper in response. The heat spreading through her began to swirl and concentrate in one spot, making her gasp at the sudden intense need in her loins. Her hands tangled tighter in his hair while a dark, inexplicable urge had Kira rubbing her neck against his mouth. Pleasure stabbed into her with enough impact to make her gasp as his fangs slid into her again. She heard herself moaning. Felt another dizzying sweep of heat. How could a bite be responsible for so much bliss? Mencheres lifted his head all too soon, leaving cool air on her throat instead of the hard, sensual pressure of his mouth. The firm caress of his hands on her back and head vanished, too, resulting in disappointing emptiness instead of the feel of him gripping her. She didn’t even think before she yanked his head back down to her neck. “Don’t stop,” she gasped.

We were scared. We just had Reign, and I was already terrified of trying to be a good mother to one child. Then suddenly, we had two.” A smile breaks across her red lips, eyes distant with the memory. “But when your father laid eyes on you? When I watched him refuse to leave your side? All the fear left, and I knew you were ours. I named you Seraphina because your father’s name means smoke.” Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.  I hate crying. Loathe it with every fiber of my being. It makes me feel weak, exposed, like my heart is on display for the world to pick apart. I’ve spent years building walls, brick by brick, to keep all that vulnerability locked away. But now, as she speaks, those walls slide down a little, and I can feel the burn of tears in my eyes. And the worst part? I can’t even be angry at her for making me feel this way ’cause all I feel is love. “You are exactly who we expected you to be,” she mutters, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “Our daughter. Nothing will ever change that.”  “Not even if I hate Shakespeare?” I counter, arching a brow as I quickly wipe the tears from my cheeks.  She tilts her head back with a laugh, shaking it as she says, “Not even then.” Before we part, she pulls me into a hug, squeezing me a little tighter than normal.  Her parting words remind me why blood has never and will ever determine who my family is. “I know that weight on your shoulders is heavy. I can see it. When you’re ready, I’m right here, baby. I’m strong enough to help you carry it, always.

I pull out my phone and text her really quickly. Me: Hayley has a recital tomorrow. She wants to know if you’re coming. I wait with my fingers poised over the phone. Nothing. I get nothing. I lay it down on the bed and pound my fist into my pillow, jamming it into a ball beneath my head. Suddenly, my phone dings, and I reach for it like I’m an addict reaching for a fix. Her: Don’t use Hayley as collateral. Me: I’ll use anything I can. Quiet. No response. Me: Please forgive me. Come back home. Her: I don’t think that’s a good idea. Me: I think it’s the best idea I’ve ever had. Her: What time is her recital? Yes! Thank God! Me: Seven. Will you come? Her: I’ll come. But only because Hayley asked me to. I take a deep breath because I suddenly can. I feel like the belt that was wrapped around my chest just loosened. Me: I’ll take you however I can get you. She doesn’t send more messages and my eyelids are getting heavy, so I send one last message. Me: I’ve been taking care of people my whole life. My job was to solve everyone’s problems and make sure that everything was okay. You weren’t my responsibility, and I should have realized that. I want you to be my equal, not someone I have to take care of. I promise not to do that again. And when I make a promise, I mean it. I’ll talk to you and listen when you talk. I won’t always do what you want. But I’ll try not to steamroll you again. She’s not going to reply. I knew that before I sent the message. I tuck my phone under my pillow, just in case she does, and I close my eyes. I dream about her red lips and that perfect smile. And for the first time all week, I don’t wake up grasping for something I don’t have.

His words reminded me of something else I’d meant to bring up when he got back to town, something that had taken a very low priority. “Your coat—you never took it back after the wedding. It’s in my car.” He waved dismissively “Keep it. I’ve got others.” “What am I going to do with a wool coat?” I asked. “Especially here in Palm Springs?” “Sleep with it,” he suggested. “Think of me.” I put my hands on my hips and tried to stare him down, which wasn’t easy since he was so tall. That, and because his words suddenly returned me to the disorienting feeling I’d had sitting on his bed. “You said you weren’t going to bring up any romantic stuff around me.” “Was that romantic?” he asked. “I was just making the suggestion, since the coat’s so heavy and warm. I figured you’d think of me since it was such a nice gesture. And yet, once again, you’re the one who finds romantic subtext in everything I say.” “I do not. You know that’s not what I meant.” He shook his head in mock sympathy. “I tell you, Sage. Sometimes I think I’m the one who needs to take out the restraining order on you.” “Adrian!

You don’t think she’s too fatigued? She’s not too pale?” A sparkle of mischief lighted Nathaniel’s eyes and a chuckle escaped his throat. “She’s fine.” “What’s so funny?” “Nothing.” Thomas lowered his voice as he leaned toward Nathaniel. “Why did she ask me to leave? I’ve seen her wound a hundred times. Doesn’t she know that?” This time, Nathaniel burst into a full-blown guffaw. “Oh, Thomas, my boy, you are in deep, aren’t you?” Jerking back, Thomas stiffened. “What are you talking about?” “You care for her. Don’t try to deny it.” “You didn’t answer my question.” Thomas tilted his head toward the ceiling and let out a heavy sigh. He refused to give credence to such an inane suggestion. Nathaniel continued his aggravating behavior. “What question?” “Why would she ask me to leave? It’s not as if she’s ever been indecent. Kitty and I have always made sure to keep her properly covered.” Nathaniel stood, laughing again. Thomas wanted to kick him, literally, out of the house. “I can’t honestly say.” Nathaniel pulled his ankle over his knee as he nestled back into the patterned chair. “My assumption is, now that she’s more aware of what’s going on, it’s probably embarrassing for her.” “Embarrassing?” Thomas protested. “Then why isn’t she embarrassed to have you looking at her?” Nathaniel cocked his head and lifted one eyebrow. “Need I explain? I’m a doctor. It’s different. She only sees me occasionally and she knows this is my trade. But you, you’re here all the time. And knowing that you will be so close in such an intimate way—” “Nathaniel.” Thomas spoke through his teeth to keep from shouting. “There’s nothing intimate about it.” He cooled his growing fury with several cleansing breaths. “It can seem intimate, if you care about someone.” Shaking his head, Thomas grit his teeth and stared into the crackling flames. Nathaniel’s chair creaked and suddenly Thomas felt his friend’s hand on his shoulder. “You may not have feelings for her, but I believe she might have feelings for you.” Thomas’s jaw gaped open and he flicked his gaze at Nathaniel. “See, did I not tell you?” Nathaniel laughed, but without his usual teasing. “You can’t hide anything from me. I know you’re falling in love with her.” What?

All those songs I used to pretend to understand, all the angsty, heartbroken songs I had heard all my life, they suddenly made so much more sense. "Well, then she probably needs a giant coffee, a huge box of your creations, and some time to nurse her feelings in private, don't you think?" Brantley Dane, local hero, saves girl from sure death brought on by sheer mortification. That'd be his headline. "Come on, sweetheart," he said, moving behind me, casually touching my hip in the process, and going behind counter. "What's your poison? Judging by the situation, I am thinking something cold, mocha or caramel filled and absolutely towering with full fat whipped cream." That was exactly what I wanted. But, broken heart aside, I knew I couldn't let myself drown in sweets. Gaining twenty pounds wasn't going to help anything. There was absolutely no enthusiasm in my voice when I said, "Ah, actually, can I have a large black coffee with one sugar please?" "Not that I'm not turned on as all fuck by a woman who appreciates black coffee," he started, making me jerk back suddenly at the bluntness of that comment and the dose of profanity I wasn't accustomed to hearing in my sleepy hometown. "But if you're only one day into a break-up, you're allowed to have some full fat chocolate concoction to indulge a bit. I promise from here on out I won't make you anything even half as food-gasm-ing as this." He leaned across the counter, getting close enough that I could see golden flecks in his warm brown eyes. "Honey, not even if you beg," he added and, if I wasn't mistaken, there was absolutely some kind of sexually-charged edge to his words. "Say yes," he added, lips tipping up at one corner. "Alright, yes," I agreed, knowing I would love every last drop of whatever he made me and likely punish myself with an extra long run for it too. "Good girl," he said as he turned away. And there was not, was absolutely not some weird fluttering feeling in my belly at that. Nope. That would be completely insane. "Okay, I got you one of everything!" my mother said, coming up beside me and pressing the box into my hands. She even tied it with her signature (and expensive, something I had tried to talk her out of many times over the years when she was struggling financially) satin bow. I smiled at her, knowing that sometimes, there was nothing liked baked goods from your mother after a hard day. I was just lucky enough to have a mother who was a pastry chef. "Thanks, Mom," I said, the words heavy. I wasn't just thanking her for the sweets, but for letting me come home, for not asking questions, for not making it seem like even the slightest inconvenience. She gave me a smile that said she knew exactly what I meant. "You have nothing to thank me for." She meant that too. Coming from a family that, when they found out she was knocked up as a teen, had kicked her out and disowned her, she made it clear all my life that she was always there, no matter what I did with my life, no matter how high I soared, or how low I crashed. Her arms, her heart, and her door were always open for me. "Alright. A large mocha frappe with full fat milk, full fat whipped cream, and both a mocha and caramel drizzle. It's practically dessert masked as coffee," Brantley said, making my attention snap to where he was pushing what was an obnoxiously large frappe with whipped cream that was towering out of the dome that the pink and sage straw stuck out of. "Don't even think about it, sweetheart," he said, shaking his head as I reached for my wallet. "Thank you," I smiled, and found that it was a genuine one as I reached for it and, in a move that was maybe not brilliant on my part, took a sip. And proceeded to let out an almost porn-star worthy groan of pure, delicious pleasure. Judging by the way Brant's smile went a little wicked, his thoughts ran along the same lines as well.

You don’t like all the makeup?” “I just don’t think you need it. I mean, you look pretty without it.” Oh, really? That was totally unexpected. He started tapping the steering wheel like he was listening to a rock concert, or suddenly embarrassed, maybe wishing someone would shut him up. “Sorry I don’t have a towel in the car.” Subject change. He was embarrassed. How cute was that? “That’s okay. We should probably get home, anyway, and we have plenty of towels there.” “Right.” He shifted into reverse and did that thing guys do where they twist their whole bodies and put their arm across the back of the seat. Only his car had bucket seats, and his fingers grazed my cheek and then jerked as though they’d been stung, before he grabbed the back of the headrest. He was staring at me, really staring at me, and I wondered if he wanted his fingers to touch my cheek again, because I wanted them to. I wanted to feel that spark again, that little spark I felt every time he gave me the slightest accidental touch. “Do you like Mac?” he asked. “Oh, yeah,” I said really quickly, too quickly. He nodded, looked over his shoulder, and backed out of the parking spot. As we drove home, a heavy silence filled the car. I began to wonder if maybe he hadn’t really been asking if I liked Mac. If maybe he’d been asking something completely different. Maybe he’d been asking if I liked him.

They’re such little thoughts”—Matrona winced, fingers returning to her temples—“often passing as quickly as they came, or after a good night’s rest. Only, imagine if all those thoughts were . . . I don’t know, saved in a chest. Every single one. And every bad feeling you’ve ever had. Guilt over telling a lie, or shame from doing something wrong. All of it inside this chest. And then suddenly you’re in the room with the chest, and it opens, but someone’s jammed the door and you can’t get out—” “You’re rambling, Matrona.” Roksana clicked her tongue and resituated her heavy body, trying to get comfortable. “You sound almost poetic, in a sad, strange way.” “Just imagine it, Roksana!” Matrona cried, her hands jerking away from her temples and slamming fists into her pillow, making her friend jump. “Imagine how it would make you feel. What would you do, trapped with all of it around you?” Tears wet her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to banish them, her eyes still sore from the night’s weeping. “Tell me what to do.

door, waited then let herself in, and instantly she saw that her employer was fast asleep, propped up against the pillows in her bed. But this was Mrs Spooner as she had never seen her before. The old lady’s wig was discarded on the dressing table, and with her wispy grey hair floating about her head and without her heavy layers of paint and powder she looked suddenly very old and fragile. Sunday had often helped her to undress but Biddy had always insisted on having complete privacy afterwards, seeing to the rest of her toilette herself. Now the girl saw why. Mrs Spooner was understandably reluctant to let anyone see her like this, so not wishing to upset her she quickly turned about and tiptoed from the room. The incident did bring home to Sunday, however, that Mrs Spooner might be even older than she had thought and she found herself wondering what would happen to herself, Nell and Mickey if their beloved employer should die. But then, feeling utterly selfish and guilty for having such thoughts, she let herself into her room, revelling in the sheer luxury of it. For now, she was just going to enjoy herself. The future would see to itself. Chapter Forty The following morning after Sunday had helped Mrs Spooner to get dressed in yet another outrageous gown, mint-green this time, and enjoying a hearty breakfast in the hotel dining room the three of them set off on a sightseeing tour of London in a horse-drawn carriage.

That was amazing,” she told him. He kissed the top of her thigh. “For me, too.” She heard him sit up and prepared to pass over the condom. But before she could, she felt his finger enter her again. Just the finger. It shouldn’t have been that exciting, but there was something about the way he touched her. She’d just had more than her fill of orgasms, but she couldn’t help clamping around him, drawing him in deeper. “Good?” he asked. “Oh, yeah. Don’t stop.” Without thinking, she reached down and grabbed his wrist. Holding his hand still, she thrust her hips forward and back, finding the right pace until the heavy tension returned, and she felt the telltale contractions begin again. He swore softly. “Can you do that while I’m inside of you?” “Absolutely.” She pulled his hand free and pressed the condom into his palm. “Can you put this on in the dark?” He chuckled. “With you as motivation, I could probably put it on after I was dead.” Then he was pressing against her. She reached between them and guided him inside of her. As he entered her, she contracted around him. He filled her slowly, stretching her, delighting her. Each thrust was enough to send her flying. Zane shifted so he could hold on to her hips. “I can feel you coming,” he murmured. “You’re killing me. I can’t hold on much longer.” “Go for it,” she told him. He took her at her word. Moving faster and faster, he pulled out of her, then slipped back inside. She lost herself in the movement, in what she was feeling. The pleasure was greater than any she’d ever experienced. Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe it was something about being outdoors or the placement of the moon. Whatever. At this point, she didn’t much care. Instead, as she felt Zane tensing for his own release, she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him close. One last shudder rippled through her. She gave herself up to the feel of him, to the sudden weight as he wrapped his arms around her and groaned his surrender.

What made you come back?” Kitty jerked at his sudden question. She sputtered for a moment then laughed. “What made me come back? What do you mean?” He shrugged with one shoulder, never moving his gaze away from her. “At Eliza’s and Thomas’s wedding last year you were convinced that returning to Boston and living with your aunt was the best course to take. But it appears you have changed your mind. So, what made you come back?” “Is that why you followed me? To ask me that?” Her face burned, but she feigned composure and looked at him with as much ease as she could marshal. “Boston is too dangerous, you know that.” “’Tis true, I am well aware of what Boston and its residents suffer. But I cannot believe that was the only reason you returned.” Training her mouth to reveal nothing more than a slight grin, she strained to keep her pulse quiet. She stepped toward the fire, resting her hand atop the chair, acting more casual than she felt. “If there were any other reason, do you think that I would share such information with you? Surely, Nathaniel, I cannot share all my secrets.” “Secrets? Well, now I am curious.” Kitty rubbed the lace on her gloves and emitted a warm, genuine laugh that eased the strain in her voice. She offered an impish smile. “I came back for several reasons, if you must know. As I mentioned, ‘twas for matters of safety that Henry Donaldson insisted I return as well as—”  “Donaldson?” Kitty peered over her shoulder, hiding the grin that surged at the undeniable question in Nathaniel’s eyes. Could he be... nay, not possible. She kept her focus. “Aye, Henry Donaldson. You remember him, do you not?” “Aye, of course. I just... I just hadn’t known he was still... around. He was always a good friend and I admire him, despite his poor choice of allegiances.” Nathaniel’s interested expression stayed lifted, but the light in his eyes went flat. “Are you... have you been seeing much of him of late?” “I have,” she said. “He’s a close friend and I admire him very much.” Nathaniel’s expression didn’t change, but his Adam’s apple bobbed and he cleared his throat. “I see.”  She once again toyed with the fabric of her gloves, unsure what else to do with her hands. Quickly focusing on the subject of their conversation, she stared back into the fire. “Henry said it was too dangerous for me to stay despite my protestations. With Father gone and Eliza here—and since our home was destroyed that December… well, my home is here now.” The scent of smoke wafting from the fireplace in front of her snatched the horrid vision from its hiding place in her mind. Instantly she witnessed anew the roaring flames that devoured her treasured childhood home, taking with it all her cherished memories and replacing them with ash. She turned to Nathaniel, his face drawn as if he too relived the tragedy. The bond they’d shared that night had forged a friendship that could never be shaken.  Nathaniel stepped forward, the look of tenderness so rich in his eyes it wound around her shoulders like a warm cloak. “I can well understand that, Kitty. Donaldson was right in advising you to return.” Then, as if the heaviness were too much, he shrugged and sighed with added gaiety to his tone. “Well, I will admit that Sandwich didn’t feel the same with you gone, that’s for certain.” She tipped her head with a smirk. “You pined for my return?”  “With the pains of an anguished soul.” “Lying is a sin, Nathaniel,” she teased. Nathaniel laughed, his broad smile exposing his straight teeth. “All right, if you want the truth I pined more for your cooking, and more specifically for your carrot pudding. Are you satisfied?” “I knew it.

He tore his mouth from her eager lips to whisper, “Juliet…ah, sweeting…” Only he had ever called her sweeting. “Morgan…” she whispered back. He froze. Jerking back from her, he stared uncomprehending into her eyes. Then his face drained of heat as suddenly as hot iron dunked in water. He dropped his hands from her. “What the devil am I doing? I must be mad…” Pivoting away, he leaned over to brace his fists on the table. His shoulders shook from the force of his sharp, heavy breaths. “Morgan?” She stepped forward to lay her hand on his back. He flinched at her touch. “Don’t ever call me that again. Call me Sebastian or Lord Templemore, but never Morgan. I’m not him!” He whirled to face her once more. His haunted eyes gleamed in the dimness, and his features were twisted into anger. “I think I’ve proved that sufficiently.” His denial struck a dagger to her heart, and she began to tremble. Surely, he didn’t mean to continue in his lies after what they’d just shared. How could he? “Please, Morgan, don’t-“ “I’m not Morgan!” He glanced away. “I’m not.” Only his shaky hand shoving his beautiful, thick hair from his face belied his seeming control. “And another thing: no woman ruined by a man waits two years to hunt him down when her family is spoiling for vengeance. She doesn’t hide the truth from them, and she doesn’t come in secret to accuse her supposed debaucher.” His gaze swung back to her as he dropped his voice. “She certainly doesn’t let him kiss her intimately. Your encounter with my brother wasn’t ‘wicked’ at all, was it? This was merely another of your little tests.” He did mean to deny it all! Of all the infernal, dastardly- “But now you should realize,” he went on, twisting the dagger, “that your attempts to paint me the villain are pointless. I’m not the man you seek. You’ll never prove I am.” If she’d had one of his horrible weapons in her hand right now, he’d be dead for certain. That he could stand here and kiss her with such passion, then deny that it meant anything, deny their entire past together, while she still tasted him on her lips… Very well, she could play that game. Lord knows she’d seen enough games played in society to manage one of her own. If that’s what it took to make him confess the truth. “You’re right. It was a test. But you passed.” Her sudden change of tactic made him eye her with suspicion. “I did?” “Certainly. First, by your reaction to my calling you Morgan. And second, because you kiss nothing like him.” “You mean because he didn’t kiss you intimately.” “No. Because he put more feeling into it. Like the rogue he was, Morgan kissed with great abandon.” She’d die before she admitted that his lordship had gone the same. If he could deceive her without remorse, he deserved this. “Of course, that’s to be expected of a reckless adventurer. His sort excel at inflaming women’s passions. Whereas you-“ She broke off, as if the rest were perfectly obvious. He gazed at her mulishly. “Whereas I what?” “You’re a gentleman, of course. You’re much too proper to kiss recklessly, and certainly you’d never attempt to inflame a woman’s passion.” “You can’t tell me that my brother kissed you with more passion, for I know otherwise. His kiss was-“ He broke off, realizing his error too late. “You’ve already said that his kisses were perfectly chaste.” Aha! Finally she’d pierced his infernal armor. She hadn’t told him there’d been only one kiss; he’d slipped up already. Let him believe she’d given up her suspicions-it would lull him into lowering his guard. She’d use his own arrogance against him, batter his pride at every opportunity with “perfectly innocent” comments about the past. She shrugged. “Chaste? Well, that’s a different matter entirely. His kiss may have been ‘chaste,’ as you put it, but it was still thrilling.” She could hardly suppress her smile at the lovely effect her words had on Lord Templemore. He looked positively offended.

Then there are these heavy perennial moments that suddenly unearth me, when the world takes on this ravaging clarity and you feel marooned, cut off from normality.

I am disturbed to discover that my colleagues have invented a new game which seems to involve attempting to kill me in every juvenile way that presents itself to them. They delight in surprising me with shoves into the paths of oncoming double-decker buses, constructing ridiculous rope-and-pulley devices with the aim of dropping heavy furniture on my head, placing tripwires at the tops of escalators, and other such inanities. They persist for some weeks, during which I become increasingly adept at avoiding sudden death by blackly humorous means. I feel that my senses are sharpened day by day, that my sight is keener, my reflexes quicker. Soon I can detect by the smell of linseed oil alone the presence of a cricket-bat wielding acquaintance in the bathroom. Everything is enhanced. Colours are richer, noises are louder. I awaken to the pattern of life, the weight of deeds. Eventually my heightened awareness evolves into a vividly focused paranoia. I can only retreat; I move surreptitiously to a small seaside resort on the east coast and wait, slowly, for a death of my own choosing.

I will crane my neck to the sky, the kind of odd evening sky that allows for sunlight and stars at the same time. I'll find a star and hang on to it with my eyes. The periphery of greenery will swish away as my vision rises and rises and rises to greet that star. I will feel my body left behind. When I tear my eyes away and shake my head, my brain will become bleary with the suddenness of my soul sailing through the atmosphere, back into the spacious cavern of my skull. For a moment, my head will fell heavy with it. How much heavier than I'd ever imagined. How much sturdier.

sandwich,” he said good-naturedly, obviously not upset with the arrangement. That made one of us.  I took another bite of the dry sandwich and had even more trouble swallowing than before. It had seemed like a good idea to eat, but now each bite was beginning to feel like heavy lead in my stomach. I put the sandwich down on the plate, suddenly disgusted with it. “Black isn't your color,” Alaric commented. “I tried to pick your clothes, but I was over-ruled.” “Who picked them?” I asked, feeling uncomfortable that he cared what I wore.  “Sophie,” he replied. “She chose them before you arrived.

Jake caught Meridith as she stumbled backward, tightening his arms around her. He pulled her toward him instinctively, breaking her fall. She clutched his hand, his shoulder, helpless against gravity. He drew her upright and realized she was nestled against his chest. Then he realized something else. He liked it. His right arm had curled around her impossibly small waist. His other hand trapped hers against his heart. He wondered if she could feel its heavy thumps. If she knew it was more than her sudden stumble that caused it. Her moss green eyes widened. Her lips parted as if she were surprised to find herself pressed against him. He could feel her breaths coming and going, feel the warm puffs of air against his neck. Have mercy, he wanted to kiss her. Lay one on her and let the pieces fall where they may. Sudden strains of music broke the silence. Meridith blinked, then dropped her arms and jerked away like he’d electrocuted her. “My

My, my, have you ever seen such a nauseatingly tender, sickeningly domestic, scene?" drawled a voice that was, despite the words, ripe with amusement.  Turning, Charles saw Lucien, with Gareth, Nerissa, and Juliet standing beside him.  "Congratulations.  And what will our newest de Montforte be named, eh?" "Mary," said Charles, getting to his feet.  "After both our mothers." "Mary Elizabeth," Amy added, gazing at her husband and daughter. "A girl, then," murmured Lucien. "A girl."  Charles came forward, holding a fold of the blanket back so that everyone could see his daughter.  He was beaming with excitement.  Bursting with pride.  "Isn't she just beautiful?  Have you ever seen anything so precious?  Look at her little fingers!  Look at that head of black hair!  Look how perfect, how sweet, how exquisite she is —" Lucien shook his head, secretly amused that something so tiny could reduce not only a de Montforte, but an army major, to this.  With a heavy sigh, he raised a brow and looked at the Wild One.  "It would seem, my dear Gareth, that I owe you ten pounds after all," he murmured, with a rueful smile that could not disguise his delight in having yet another niece to spoil.  "Though how you knew it would be a girl is beyond me." A sudden gust of wind lashed the window, peppering it with rain.  "That's how I knew," said Gareth, handing Gabriel to Juliet and picking up a squirming Charlotte.  "With a storm on the make, how could we have expected anything but a female!" Laughter rang around the room at his wry observation.  Congratulations and well-wishes were said, and Mary Elizabeth de Montforte was passed around so that all could see her.  After inspecting his new niece, Lucien, feeling more than a little smug for his part in getting yet another brother safely married off, moved to the door. "I say, Luce, where are you going?" Charles asked. Lucien smiled.  "Well, someone's got to tell Andrew,

Suddenly, I can feel everything. Every fight we’ve ever lost and every door we ever slammed and every time we walked out on each other and swore we’d never come back. All of the silent treatments and heated exchanges in the kitchen. All the love and all the hate and the guilt and the love and the remorse and the shame and the anger and the fear and the love and the love and the love. I can feel every night we slept with backs against each other and every day we didn’t speak. I can feel it all pool in the space between my heart and my lungs—a well so heavy, I struggle to breathe. And then I open my mouth and exhale and it all comes flooding out of me. Guttural. I have wanted to live without him for so long, but in this moment, I take it back. I don’t want him to die.

story, preferably an exclusive, and preferably something that crosses into news. “You can pull over on the next corner,” she says, suddenly, spotting a restaurant/bar on Kingly Street she has always quite liked. It’s a bar she wrote about when it first opened, the chef letting her spend the day in the kitchen to get a true feel. She hasn’t been here for a while and the chef has long since moved on, but it is the perfect bar to have a couple of glasses of wine in a quiet corner while she gets out her notepad and jots down ideas. She needs ideas because time is running out. She needs to find a big story, and fast. Cat perches at the bar itself for the first glass of wine, surprised it disappears so quickly, taking a little longer over the second, before taking the third over to a corner table. She drapes her jacket over the back of the chair, pulls a stack of tabloids out from her bag, and starts to flick through them looking for ideas. There is the actress who keeps showing up with very heavy makeup that appears to be covering a black eye, who has a husband prone to temper tantrums and who has done time for drugs. Seedy stuff. And it seems that it is surely only a matter of time before the actress breaks down to reveal she is a victim of domestic abuse. Perhaps Cat can get to her? Cat scribbles the name down in her note pad. She’ll ring the BBC PR tomorrow and request an interview, but not about the black eye, obviously. She’ll say it’s about something innocuous, like her favorite

being okay with not being okay does not make things automatically better, but it does stop you from adding more tension to an already difficult situation being okay with not being okay helps you let go tough feelings and agitated thoughts cannot take over your life when you meet them with ease, acceptance, and a calm mind. sometimes these old imprints bring with them visceral, rough feelings that have been locked away but suddenly have the space they need to momentarily arise and evaporate. an important part of letting go is feeling without reinforcing—you can be honest with yourself about the heavy emotions that come up and choose not to act them out or make them worse. if you meet the rough parts of yourself with gentleness, they will melt away, leaving you lighter and giving you more space to act from a place of

Living is a like waiting for a bus, with no posted schedule, that comes once every day. You're not waiting for #168, you're waiting for happiness. Sometimes you catch the bus, but it never takes you as far as you want to go, as far as you need to go. What good is a five minute ride when you have eight hours ahead? If anything, the ride pisses you off; you're zooming at seventy miles an hour, comfortable, air-conditioned and laid-back, when suddenly you get kicked out, into the blazing sun, to carry your heavy backpack the rest of the way. The bus can drop you off at indifference, insignificance, loneliness, anxiety, anger, or depression. Some three-hundred pound thug kicks you off and lets another wanderer on. You walk for hours with an aching back, sweating like a pig, hopeless and helpless, and all the while you're thinking, god damn, this would have taken 20 minutes on the bus. You whine and moan hoping someone will lend a helping hand, hoping someone will reach out to you and save you, but everyone only has trite, meaningless expressions to give. Let me clear up a common misconception: you will never help anybody by telling them to "feel better." "Feel better" isn't an air-conditioned ride. What happens when you arrive, eight hours later, at the end of the road? I don't know either. I doubt you ever get there.

When they topped a small rise and the dust-wife stopped, Marra looked up for the first time in what felt like hours. The prince’s city shone savagely before her, high walls leading to an endless spiral to the Northern palace. People streamed through the gates, vanishing into the maw of the city, and all she could think was that there were so many people, hundreds, thousands, all of them living in the prince’s city and loyal to him and what was she? What could they do? It is too much, she thought bleakly. we have grand plans, but in reality? Most likely we’ll get into the city, and look up at the palace, and talk and plan and talk some more, and eventually realize there’s nothing we can actually do, and leave again. That’s the way it happens outside of the stories. The weight of this thought was suddenly very real, more than a feeling, a physical burden, heavy in her stomach and tight in her chest.

Time itself is behaving strangely. It seems to have fallen on this house like snow, clustering in certain dark corners, sparse elsewhere. It lays heavy on my rooftop, tangible in a way I can't quite explain. Certain moments in my daily life have clustered together so that they are almost touching. Every night, when I wash my face, I feel as though I have been standing at my sink in one continuous moment across several months. Time has looped and gathered, and I sometimes worry that I could skip through decades like his, standing in my bathroom, until I am suddenly old. At other points in the day it moves so slowly that I can scarcely believe the world is still turning. Something surely must have stalled.

Many people with ADD have noticed that a strange drowsiness may come over them in the midst of some emotionally charged situations, as, for example, during a conflict with a spouse. All of a sudden, they start yawning and their eyelids grow heavy. Their partners naturally believe that the drowsiness is a sign of boredom and a lack of caring. Or the emotionally stressed ADD child may suddenly—and genuinely—complain of being “tired,” only to regain energy a few minutes later if the source of anxiety, which may be some homework she feels beyond her capacities to do, is removed. The parent may conclude that the child is malingering. What is really happening is that the right prefrontal cortex is over-inhibiting a network of neurons in the brain stem, known as the reticular_formation-an important part of the circuitry of arousal—because the emotions are too threatening. The reticular formation sends axons (nerve cables) to the cortex, where chemicals are released that make the cortical cells more alert, more responsive to incoming information. The cortex, in turn, projects axons to the reticular formation and can inhibit its arousal function, as in the case of our drowsy individual or the tired child. For the person in emotional distress, drifting off to sleep would permit at least a temporary escape—an unconscious defense closely connected with tuning out.

The voices guiding the language course wanted him to repeat words and short sentences. Lips and tongue felt heavy and clumsy when he tried it. The ancient languages seemed made for his Bern mouth, and the thought that you had to hurry didn’t appear in this timeless universe. The Portuguese, on the other hand, seemed always to be in a hurry, like the French, which made him feel inferior. Florence had loved it, this breakneck elegance, and when he had heard how easily she succeeded, he had become mute. But now everything was different all of a sudden: Gregorius wanted to imitate the impetuous pace of the man and the woman’s dancing lightness like a piccolo, and repeated the same sentences over to narrow the distance between his stolid enunciation and the twinkling voice on the record. After a while, he understood that he was experiencing a great liberation; the liberation from his self-imposed limitation, from a slowness and heaviness expressed in his name and had been expressed in the slow measured steps of his father walking ponderously from one room of the museum to another;

Hey.” A lopsided smirk offers chagrin as he turns my way. “Sorry about that,” he says, and I’m struck by how much I’ve missed his voice. He opens the door and unfolds himself from the tiny car, and then I realize how much I’ve missed him. “You made it.” It’s tough to keep my emotions in check, but I know I need to. “You look tired.” “I took the long way home.” And just like that, he reaches out and pulls me into a hug. Not a shoulder hug, but the real thing, the kind you give to someone you thought of while you were away. I’m surprised at first. I wasn’t expecting…well…that. I was prepared for more of the uncertain off-and-on awkward dance we usually do. Friends…or two people who want something more? We’re never quite sure. But this feels different. I slip my arms under his and hang on. “Tough few days?” I whisper, and he rests his chin on my head. I listen to his heartbeat, feel the sultry warmth of skin against skin. My gaze lingers on the tangle of wisteria vines and crape myrtle branches hiding the ancient structures of Goswood Grove’s once spectacular gardens, concealing whatever secrets they know. “Tough few days all around, it sounds like,” Nathan says finally. “We should go in.” But he hangs on a minute longer. We part slowly, and the next step suddenly seems uncharted. I don’t know how to catalog it. One moment, we’re as natural as breathing. The next, we’re at arm’s length—or retreating to our separate safety zones. He stops halfway across the porch, turns, widens his stance a little like he’s about to pick up something heavy. Crossing his arms, he tilts his head and looks at me, one eye squeezing almost shut. “What are we to each other?” I stand there a moment with my mouth agape before words dribble out in a halting string. “In…in…what way?” I’m terrified, that’s why I don’t give a straight answer. Relationships require truth telling, and that requires risk. An old, insecure part of me says, You’re damaged goods, Benny Silva. Someone like Nathan would never understand. He’ll never see you in the same way again. “Just like it sounds,” he says. “I missed you, Benny, and I promised myself I’d just put it out there this time. Because…well…you’re hard to read.” “I’m hard to read?” Nathan has been largely a mystery I’ve pieced together in fragments. “Me?” He doesn’t fall for the turnabout, or he ignores it. “So, Benny Silva, are we…friends or are we…” The sentence shifts in the wind, unfinished—a fill-in-the-blank question. Those are harder than multiple-choice. “Friends…” I search for the right answer, one not too presumptuous, but accurate. “Going somewhere…at our own pace? I hope.” I feel naked standing there. Scared. Vulnerable. And potentially unworthy of his investment in me. I can’t make the same mistake I’ve made before. There are things he needs to know. It’s only fair, but this isn’t the right moment for it, or the right place. He braces his hands on his hips, lets his head rock forward, exhales a breath he seems to have been holding. “Okay,” he says with a note of approval. His cheek twitches, one corner of his mouth rising. I think he might be blushing a little. “I’ll take that.” “Me, too,” I agree.

As a devoted father of two, my primary concern has always been the safety and well-being of my family. This commitment to my family's security was put to the test on February 6, 2025, when I embarked on a quest to find a trustworthy home security system that could offer us the protection we needed. After conducting some research online, I stumbled upon a security company that seemed promising, and I took the initiative to reach out through their messaging platform. Hours later, my phone rang, and I was greeted by a representative claiming to be from a well-known home security company. They were reaching out to inform me about a special promotional offer, which immediately piqued my interest. However, as the promised week came and went without so much as a peep from the company, my feelings of unease began to escalate. I attempted to contact the company again to inquire about the delay, only to find that the number I had called was suddenly disconnected. It was at that moment—when the reality of the situation hit me—that I understood I had fallen victim to a scam. The devastation that followed was profound; losing $40,000 was not merely a financial setback but a personal failure in my eyes—an inability to safeguard my family's future. The experience left me feeling vulnerable, exposed, and utterly defeated. Determined to reclaim my lost resources, I knew that swift action was essential. I turned to the internet for help and began researching options for recovering my funds. During this search, I came across BOTNET CRYPTO RECOVERY, a company with a track record of assisting individuals who had encountered similar unfortunate situations. Intrigued by the success stories of people who had benefited from their services, I made the decision to reach out to them. From the moment I contacted BOTNET CRYPTO RECOVERY, I was met with professionalism and empathy. Their team was understanding of my plight and remained reassuring throughout the process. They immediately set to work on investigating the fraudulent transaction and kept me informed at every step, alleviating some of the anxiety that had consumed me since the incident. Thanks to their diligence, expertise, and unwavering commitment, BOTNET CRYPTO RECOVERY was eventually able to recover an astounding $35,800 of the $40,000 I had lost. The relief I felt was immeasurable; it was as if a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Not only did they help restore my finances, but they also provided me with something invaluable—peace of mind. Their contact info is listed below. +1 (431) 801-8951 botnet cryptorecovery @ groupmail . com

Driving Through Perfection: A Traveler’s Experience on India’s Modern Highway Road trips have always been my favorite way to explore new places. However, not all highways are made equal—some offer a smooth experience, while others can turn a journey into a nightmare. Thankfully, my recent drive on the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project was an absolute delight. This highway redefines what road travel should be: fast, safe, and stress-free. #modernroadmakers The Road That Feels Like a Runway The first thing I noticed about this highway was its exceptional road quality. The lanes are spacious, the asphalt is perfectly laid, and there are no unexpected surprises like potholes or sudden speed bumps. Unlike older highways where constant braking is needed, this toll road allows for a smooth and uninterrupted drive. I could maintain a consistent speed throughout the journey, making the travel time much shorter than I had expected. The toll collection system is also well-organized, with minimal waiting time, ensuring a seamless experience. Traveling with Safety and Comfort One of the highlights of this highway is the focus on safety. With clearly marked lanes, proper signboards, and dedicated emergency services, I felt completely at ease during my drive. Even during the night, the road is well-lit, eliminating the usual risks of nighttime travel. Another important feature is the presence of designated lanes for heavy vehicles, ensuring that smaller vehicles don’t have to navigate around slow-moving trucks. These small but crucial design choices make a big difference in enhancing road safety. #indiabesthighway Rest Stops That Add to the Experience Traveling long distances can be tiring, and well-maintained rest stops can make all the difference. This highway has multiple well-placed service areas where travelers can refuel, grab a meal, or simply take a break. I stopped at one of the food courts and was pleasantly surprised by the hygiene and quality of the food. It was refreshing to see such well-maintained facilities on a highway, making the journey even more enjoyable. Why This Highway is a Game-Changer The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is not just another highway—it’s a major upgrade for travelers and businesses alike. With reduced travel times, better safety features, and improved regional connectivity, this road is shaping the future of India’s highway network. For anyone who enjoys road trips or simply wants a comfortable and efficient travel experience, this highway is a must-try. It’s proof that India’s road infrastructure is heading in the right direction. #modernroad

Shrewd Shakespeare understood that the paradox of drama also ticks at the heart of life itself: we can't truly bear, understand or transcend tragedy without humour and we definitely appreciate levity more when unburdened from pitch darkness. Deepest drama often demands a sudden crash of laughter's lightning bolt. Surgically-wielded comic relief, used with acute awareness of audience and moment, doesn't merely lighten a heavy scene; it provides the critical human counterpoint, a vital exhale allowing the audience to bear the weight, and feel it all the more intensely when tension returns, effectively disproving the literally-minded misconception that to laugh at something is to disrespect it or not take it seriously. This profound effect isn't just theatrical technique; it taps into a timeless human impulse—gallows humour, whistling past the graveyard—a deep-seated capacity to find release and digest life's bitterest truths, even in the face of overwhelming gravity.

No sugarcoating would be necessary,” Matthew interrupted calmly. “Daisy…that is, Miss Bowman, is entirely—” Beautiful. Desirable. Bewitching. “—acceptable. Marrying a woman like Miss Bowman would be a reward in itself.” “Good,” Bowman grunted, clearly unconvinced. “Very gentlemanly of you to say so. Still, I will offer you fair recompense in the form of a generous dowry, more shares in the company and so forth. You will be quite satisfied, I assure you. Now as to the wedding arrangements—” “I didn’t say yes,” Matthew interrupted. Bowman stopped pacing and sent him a questioning stare. “To start with,” Matthew continued carefully, “it is possible Miss Bowman will find a suitor within the next two months.” “She will find no suitors of your caliber,” Bowman said smugly. Matthew replied gravely despite his amusement. “Thank you. But I don’t believe Miss Bowman shares your high opinion.” The older man made a dismissive gesture. “Bah. Women’s minds are as changeable as English weather. You can persuade her to like you. Give her a posy of flowers, throw a few compliments in her direction…better yet, quote something from one of those blasted poetry books she reads. Seducing a woman is easily accomplished, Swift. All you have to do is—” “Mr. Bowman,” Matthew interrupted with a sudden touch of alarm. God in heaven, all he needed was an explanation of courtship techniques from his employer. “I believe I could manage that without any advice. That’s not the issue.” “Then what…ah.” Bowman gave him a man-of-the-world smile. “I understand.” “You understand what?” Matthew asked apprehensively. “Obviously you fear my reaction if you should decide later on that my daughter is not adequate to your needs. But as long as you behave with discretion, I won’t say a word.” Matthew sighed and rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling weary. This was a bit much to face so soon after his ship had landed in Bristol. “You’re saying you’ll look the other way if I stray from my wife,” he said rather than asked. “We men face temptations. Sometimes we stray. It is the way of the world.” “It’s not my way,” Matthew said flatly. “I stand by my word, both in business and in my personal life. If or when I promise to be faithful to a woman, I would be. No matter what.” Bowman’s heavy mustache twitched with amusement. “You’re still young enough to afford scruples.” “The old can’t afford them?” Matthew asked with a touch of affectionate mockery. “Some scruples have a way of becoming overpriced. You’ll discover that someday.” “God, I hope not.” Matthew sank into a chair and buried his head in his hands, his fingers tunneling through the heavy locks of his hair.

Her heart heavy, she lay behind him on the small cot and snuggled close to his warm body. She shouldn’t be doing this. Christian would no doubt protest if he knew what she was about. Yet she couldn’t stop herself. She wanted to hold him. Needed to feel his strength with her body. She felt lost. Alone. She didn’t know what her future held anymore. Truthfully, that terrified her. Uncertainties assailed her in the darkness and brought tears to her eyes. “What’s to become of me?” she whispered as silent tears started falling. “I need guidance, Lord. Wisdom. My people need a queen who knows what she’s doing, not one who is lost and unsure.” Suddenly she felt the strength of Christian’s hand on hers. She swallowed in trepidation as he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. She pulled back as Christian rolled over to face her. “Don’t cry, Adara,” he whispered, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I won’t let them hurt you or take your kingdom from you. I know what it’s like to be without a home and I will pledge my eternal soul that you will never know that feeling.” His words only succeeded in making her cry more. Christian was at a loss as to how to cope with her tears. He’d never spent enough time with women to witness them often. The only woman he’d spent much time with was Mary, who had been a captive with them in the Holy Land. But Mary had never once wept. His stomach tightened in hopelessness. “Shhh,” he breathed, wiping her tears with his hand. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I don’t normally cry. I don’t. I’m j-just at a loss.” “I’m so often at a loss that it seems my most natural state.” He couldn’t believe he’d confessed that to her. Even when he was at his most perplexed, he refused to allow anyone to know it. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.” “Nay, my lady. Truly. I am often baffled by life. Struck dumb, point of fact.” -Adara & Christian

I have kissed every inch of your body. I have been in every secret corner of your mind.” His teeth skimmed her earlobe, sent a shiver along her spine. “I will admit, the blush suits you.” Raven found herself holding her breath, heat coiling deep within her. She pressed her forehead against the heavy muscles of his chest so that he couldn’t see the answering flare in her eyes. “Mikhail,” she warned, “there is no way you can change what I feel by seducing me. I know I cannot handle this.” “I hear your thoughts, little one. You have closed your mind to all possibilities.” He whispered the words like a terrible seduction. “I will give you what you wish. I no longer can bear your unhappiness.” His hand moved up to his chest, right below her chin, hovered over his heart. Her stomach clenched at the sudden knowledge of his intention. The sweet odor of hot blood mingled with his wild, masculine scent. Before she could stop him, before she could voice a protest, his life’s blood streamed freely down his chest. Instinctively she clamped both hands over the wound to apply pressure. Eyes wild with fear, Raven cried out frantically. “Stop, Mikhail. Don’t do this.” Tears welled up, spilled over. “Please tell me what to do to save you.” There was desperation in her voice. “You can stop it.” “I can’t, Mikhail. Stop this, you’re scaring me.” She pressed as hard as she was capable, but the blood continued to flow between her fingers. “Your tongue has the power to heal; so does the saliva in your mouth.” His voice was dark, hypnotic. He leaned back as if his strength was waning. “But do not counteract my choice unless you live also, because I refuse to go back to a world of darkness.

Now as the train moved towards Calcutta, Malay felt as if his life was coming full circle. It had been a strange decision to visit the city at a time when post-Partition vomit and excreta was splattered on Calcutta streets. Marked by communal violence, anger and unemployment, the streets smelled of hunger and disillusionment. Riots were still going on. The wound of a land divided lingered, refugees from East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) continued to arrive in droves. And since they did not know where to go, they occupied the pavements, laced the streets with their questions, frustrations and a deep need to be recognised as more than an inconvenient presence on tree-lined avenues. The feeling of being uprooted was everywhere. Political leaders decided that the second phase of the five-year planning needed to see the growth of heavy industries. The land required for such industries necessitated the evacuation of farmers. Devoid of their ancestral land and in the absence of a proper rehabilitation plan, those evicted wandered aimlessly around the cities—refugees by another name. Calcutta had assumed different dimensions in Malay’s mind. The smell of the Hooghly wafted across Victoria Memorial and settled like an unwanted cow on its lawns. Unsung symphonies spilled out of St Paul’s Cathedral on lonely nights; white gulls swooped in on grey afternoons and looked startling against the backdrop of the rain-swept edifice. In a few years, Naxalbari would become a reality, but not yet. Like an infant Kali with bohemian fantasies, Calcutta and its literature sprouted a new tongue – that of the Hungry Generation. Malay, like Samir and many others, found himself at the helm of this madness, and poetry seemed to lick his body and soul in strange colours. As a reassurance of such a huge leap of faith, Shakti had written to Samir: Bondhu Samir, We had begun by speaking of an undying love for literature, when we suddenly found ourselves in a dream. A dream that is bigger than us, and one that will exist in its capacity of right and wrong and beyond that of our small worlds. Bhalobasha juriye Shakti

That delicious sensations of gladness, of lightness, of springing vitality, that consciousness of youth and strength and ardour, that feeling that some divine power had suddenly granted me an undreamt-of felicity and made me free of boundless kingdoms and untold wealth, faded as mysteriously as it had come and was succeeded by a very different state. Now I was all moroseness and gloom—heavy-hearted, leaden-footed.

the thought of putting myself out there makes my body suddenly seize up, my chest feeling heavy and suffocating, like it’s filling with poured concrete.

Oh, Phil, I just think it’ll mix everybody up. People won’t know what you are.” “After I’m through, they’ll—” He couldn’t say it. A remarkable thing had happened. Something had seized him that he couldn’t argue with. It had started to happen with her first question. Now he knew suddenly what it was. This heavy strange thing in him was what you felt when you’d been insulted. He felt insulted. If he were really a Jew, this is what he’d feel. He was having his first lesson.

Luca is going to faint when he sees you in this dress. Poor thing will spend the entire ceremony and reception counting the minutes until Siena strips you out of it for him.” Cass flinched as the bell above the shop door jangled, announcing the arrival of another patron. Balmy street air rushed into the fitting area as a masculine voice called out, “Bongiorno. Anyone here?” It was Marco, Mada’s fiancé. “We’re in here,” Madalena called. “You can come in. She’s decent.” Cass touched a hand to her face. Her skin felt warm. Suddenly, the pinned fabric felt heavy and confining. She didn’t want anyone else to see her like this. Too late. Marco slipped into the fitting room and whistled long and low as he let the door close behind him. “Signorina Cassandra, you look stunning,” he said, shaking his wavy brown hair back from his face. “I swear if I weren’t already betrothed, I might ask for your hand right this second.” Madalena gave him a dark look, and he pretended to see her for the first time. “Only joking, my goddess,” he said, moving to stand behind her. He swept her dark braids to one side and pressed his lips to her exposed neck. Signor Sesti coughed as he returned from the back room, and Marco pulled his mouth away from Mada’s skin. “Mi dispiace, Signore.” Marco straightened the golden medallion that hung around his neck. He gestured to his wife-to-be. “But can you blame me?” “Marco.” Madalena swatted at him, pretending to be angry. But it was as though his presence had made a flame come to life inside of her; she was glowing, radiating happiness and desire. For the first time, Cass understood what it was like to burn in such a manner. But all of her burning was for Falco, the boy she’d never be allowed to marry, not for Luca, her fiancé. Cass closed her eyes momentarily, remembering the surge of emotion that had coursed through her when Falco had first touched his lips to hers. She remembered the way her body had trembled, the way she felt as if she were emerging from a cold, dark tunnel into the light of day for the first time. Luca would never make her feel that way. Ever.

He went through the back door into the long narrow kitchen, feeling as he always did the sudden onslaught of time, enthralled by the myriad smells of the kitchen: coffee and cloves and cinnamon, the heavy fruity odor of basketed apples and the faintly sour smell of dried peaches, and some other odor, rich and dark and mysterious, that was the odor of time itself, of days the old woman had stacked into years as carefully as a mason lays one stone atop another to construct a wall.

Seeing her approach, the pie man gave her a friendly wave. ‘Where’s your mate today, then?’ he shouted pleasantly. ‘Indoors with a nasty cough,’ Sassy told him, and after exchanging a few words she moved on. Somehow, without Clara there to share them, the faggots and peas didn’t hold the same appeal. Taking the list from her pocket, she smiled to herself. Clara would never be classed as a scholar, judging by the many spelling mistakes. Soon Sassy’s basket was full of her purchases and, deciding that there was nothing to be gained by lingering, she headed home. When she finally turned into Tuttle Hill, all the while moving the heavy basket from one arm to the other, she was feeling more than a little deflated. Without Clara’s cheerful gossip she hadn’t enjoyed the outing nearly as much as usual. It was then that a sudden movement in the spinney to the side of the lane caught her eye. Setting down the heavy basket, she stopped to rest for a while and saw Thomas, Ellie and Jez suddenly emerge from the trees.

thought. Suddenly the girl stopped. To his surprise, she said, “I feel someone watching me! Come out, whoever you are, and help me carry this basket. There’s so much food in it that I can barely lift it.” “Food!” thought L. B. “Dad was right!” Licking his chops, L. B. stepped out of the bushes behind the girl. “Did you say your basket is too heavy, little girl?” he asked. The little girl reached into her hood and pulled out a spray can. She wheeled around and pointed it at L. B.’s drooling muzzle. “Freeze, Buster!” she cried. “One move and you’re history!” L. B. froze until he read the label on the can. Then his long snout stretched into a wolfy grin. “Oh please, little girl, don’t squirt me with cheese spread! I’ll have to spend all morning licking it off my fur.” The little girl lowered the can in disgust. “Well, it was either that or bop you over the head with a pepperoni. I’m too young to carry weapons.” “You don’t need weapons with me. What’s your name?” “Everyone calls me Red Riding Hood, so you might as well, too. My mother got a deal on a bolt of red cloth, and she makes all my clothes from it. I talked her into adding

In My Prayer. My silent niche. You incarnate in my prayer. Dawn is all dancing like a rainbow in your smile. Anxious to uncover dreams after morning. The desire to arrange sparkly beads in your hair. Reduce heartbeat, please at the tips of your fingers. I will pray together with night just to keep remembering you. A never ending memory to always say your name. Silence that leads to longing for the rising of light. Horizon knocked on all the gates, which grabbed a reprehensible body, who hesitated to stop at the tip of the tongue. Lips murmuring, stringing questions hung at the end of time. The self that is always broken and dishonest, who is kufr and who is infidel. All beings submit to the most holy feet. Let silence accept everything that is magical. Although the reflection of the moon's face is filled with wounds with lies in our mouths, betrayed by lust and unstoppable desires. May you soon incarnate so that a million flowers bloom in the heart of the most cursory. The eyes are altered, betraying a million flashes of light from the darkest night. The most beautiful gems are buried in mud puddles. Even though the sky is still dark. Heavy rain that is redder than all blood. Which surpassed the fangs of the old snake. The endless cycle of the sun throws puzzles about the mysteries of the universe that are never answered. The beginning of all this sorrow in myself. If only you please, transform into a butterfly in my prayer tonight. A pair of wings that burned like a fire of longing in my heart. Who suddenly fidgeted and flew into your eyes. Then descend on the branch of the Khuldi tree, before breaking into my tears. Suppose tonight, in my prayer, you incarnate like a thunderous storm. Like the sound of noisy thunder. The footsteps stepped hurriedly on the foggy road. Infiltrate the gaps of our thoughts and feelings. Shackle our arms, knees and breath. If only, in my prayer tonight you will be transformed into murky tears. Who trembled, even though it would patiently take care of my sadness. The pain that somehow healed my soul. Beliefs that keep mysteries for my deepest secrets, which you endlessly hum, in order to be a comfort for my sad life. My dear. Lady of my heart. My love. My soul. Bless me with all your generosity. With your mercy, with your endless love. With your infinite anger.

Booking a last-minute flight is simple with ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232, your reliable number for urgent air travel needs. Whether you're dealing with a family emergency, sudden business trip, or just feeling spontaneous, you can secure a same-day or next-day flight quickly with the right support. ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232 connects you directly with travel specialists who understand the urgency and can provide multiple airline options in minutes. Instead of endlessly searching online, call ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232 and let a live expert do the heavy lifting for you. It’s the fastest route to booking a confirmed ticket on the go. When you're racing against time, ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232 is your best friend. Travel agents accessible through this number can locate discounted last-minute fares and hold bookings temporarily while you finalize plans. With ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232, you avoid the chaos of overbooked flights or outdated web listings that may not reflect real-time availability. Call ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232 for help with domestic or international departures, as agents can check all major U.S. carriers instantly. This is especially useful during peak travel periods when online tools are unreliable or slow to update. Many travelers overlook calling ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232 when rushing to catch the next flight, but it can actually save both time and money. Instead of clicking through dozens of websites, let ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232 show you immediate flight options from nearby airports. Whether flying out of JFK, LAX, or a smaller hub, the professionals behind ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232 are trained to optimize your travel route for speed and efficiency. In situations where every minute counts, ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232 is the only number you need. Another perk of dialing ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232 is access to airline cancellations or standby tickets that aren’t available online. Travel agents can reserve these seats quickly and even assist with baggage, seating, and special requests. If you’re running late or stuck in traffic, ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232 can notify the airline in real time. Forget the guesswork—just pick up your phone and call ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232 for direct assistance that keeps you moving forward. When booking under pressure, human help is often more efficient than AI-powered tools. Whether you're a frequent flyer or traveling on short notice for the first time, ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232 is designed to simplify your experience. There’s no need to register on multiple platforms or juggle comparison apps when one quick call to ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232 will handle it all. Trained professionals will walk you through the best options, provide prices instantly, and even help you avoid surprise fees. With ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232, you can make confident, informed travel decisions within minutes—even if your departure is just hours away. Many travelers are surprised at how cost-effective calling ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232 can be. Despite common belief, last-minute flights aren’t always expensive when handled by experienced agents. By calling ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232, you're tapping into unpublished rates, loyalty perks, and real-time discounts. Even if you're flying during a holiday weekend or weather delays are in play, ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232 agents will do their best to find you a fair deal. This personalized service is available 24/7 through ☎️ +1 (888) 714-8232, no matter where you are in the U.S.

She couldn't go through with it; this inability, however, had nothing to do with honesty or dishonesty, but with the sheer terror she was feeling. She had just realized there were two things that prevent us from achieving our dreams: believing them to be impossible or seeing those dreams made possible by some sudden turn of the wheel of fortune, when you least expected it. For at that moment, all our fears suddenly surface: the fear of setting out along a road heading who knows where, the fear of a life full of new challenges, the fear of losing forever everything that is familiar. People want to change everything and, at the same time, want it all to remain the same. Chantal did not immediately understand why, but that was what was happening to her. Perhaps she was too bound to Viscos, too accustomed to defeat, and any chance of victory was too heavy a burden to bear.

All those I touch,” Death whispered, “die.” His other hand pressed against her cheek suddenly, and he breathed out a wondrous sigh so heavy that Signa’s entire body warmed. “Except for you, Signa Farrow. When I touch you, I feel you. On you, my influence is temporary.

I had forgotten. After all these years without the company of a friend like him, I had forgotten. I had cast aside the memory of what it was like to feel the honest affection of a creature who had nothing to gain from your company but the pleasure of the experience, and wanted nothing tangible back but the love he or she traded for yours. There were tears in my eyes as I knelt and held my dog, and he made that little whine in his throat while that heavy, wet tongue found my face and neck. I was suddenly reminded of the expression by the great writer and humorist, Will Rogers: “If there are no dogs in

Witchcraft Removal in California – Restore Peace and Harmony in Your Life In today's modern world, the effect of ancient and negative practices such as magical sorcery -toon can still have a strong impact on people's lives. Many individuals experience unexplained challenges - persistent poor luck, health problems without medical reasons, breakdowns under circumstances, economic instability and frequent mental crisis. Often it can be a result of harmful source or targeted dark energy on them. For those who want a safe, effective and spiritual way to be free of such effects, the witchcraft removal in California provides the right solution. Understanding Witchcraft and Its Effects Witchcraft, when used with negative intentions, can cause accidents, emotional instability and even physical discomfort. These malicious practices are often used to harm one's personal life, career or relationship. Sorcery people can feel dry, worried and unable to move on, no matter how much they try to improve their position. Early identification of these characters and seeking professional help can cause harm. The Importance of Witchcraft Removal Removing sorcery is not just about breaking a curse - it is about restoration, positivity and restoration of life. In California, spiritual treatment is expected to identify the source of dark energy, clean it with your aura and create a protective shield to prevent future attacks. By doing this, they help you gain control of your life, strengthen your mental clarity and invite prosperity back to your life. Expert Witchcraft Removal in California California is home to highly experienced spiritual doctors, who have mastered traditional and wooded techniques to fight sorcery. These experts add astrology, energy cleaning rituals and protective mantras to counteract negative forces. Comes the attack from jealousy, revenge or unknown enemies. These measures fit your unique position for the best results. Signs You May Need Witchcraft Removal Services Suddenly, unexplained financial loss Repeated errors despite honest effort Health problems are in progress without a medical diagnosis Relationship struggles and cohabitation Bad dreams, insomnia, or feelings of being viewed Heavy emotional burden and constant concern If you notice these signs, it is smart to consult a professional spiritual treatment as soon as possible. How Witchcraft Removal Works A specific removal process for sorcery may include: Diagnosis - identify the presence and source of sorcery. Energy cleaning - use rituals, beans and mantras to clean your aura. Protective preservation - to create a spiritual obstacle to preventing future losses. Positive energy infusion - to restore peace, happiness and success in your life. Conclusion Witchcraft removal in California is not only about eliminating negative energies, but also to strengthen you to live life without fear and spiritual attack. By working with a reliable and experienced healer, you can remove the road, restore positivity and continue with new strength. If you suspect the presence of sorcery in your life, do not delay - seek professional help today and get your safety.

Negative Energy Removal in New York – Restore Balance and Peace in Your Life In today’s fast-paced world, people often face unexplained stress, emotional turbulence, or a feeling of heaviness that seems to drain their positivity. These experiences are often the result of negative energies surrounding an individual, their home, or workplace. If you are feeling constantly anxious, unlucky, or emotionally burdened, you may be under the influence of such dark forces. This is where Negative Energy Removal in New York becomes essential to restore harmony, positivity, and success in your life. Understanding Negative Energy and Its Effects Negative energy can hit anyone, regardless of age or background. They manifest in many forms: emotional disturbances, recurring failures, health problems, relationship issues, or even a feeling of spiritual blockage. More often than not, these negative energies come because of envy and jealousy or evil intentions thrown at you. This energy over time will clog up your spiritual and emotional growth. With the help of Negative Energy Removal in New York, the individual may clean these negative vibrations and get peace, love, and abundance back into their life. This strong spiritual process cleans not only your aura but also fortifies your inner energy to protect you from negativity in life thereafter. How the Process of Negative Energy Removal Works Accomplished spiritual healers and astrologers use ancient rituals, mantras, and energy-balancing techniques in order to locate and eliminate the root cause of negativity. The aura is cleansed and recharged with positive vibrations through prayers, yantras, and protective remedies. At the same time, much attention is paid to your living space. The energies of conflicts, failures, and stress accumulate in the places where they have taken place. The procedure for Negative Energy Removal in New York can help push these dark waves away and restore calmness and emotional balance. Connection Between Negative Energy and Black Magic Most of the time, negative energy is the outcome of black magic or evil spells cast by other people out of jealousy or for revenge. These dark forces disrupt every area of your life, be it personal, professional, or emotional. This is why Black Magic Removal in New York always goes hand in hand with negative energy cleansing. In Black Magic Removal in New York, expert healers identify the intensity of black magic through specific spiritual techniques, so as to neutralize its impact. As soon as these forces get removed, people will find immediate relief, better mental clarity, and a fresh motivational sensation. Why Choose Expert Help for Energy Cleansing Trying to handle negative energy or black magic on your own will not bring permanent results. Professional healers have deep spiritual vision, along with powerful remedies to remove all signs of negativity. Traditional methods of Indian astrology, spiritual prayers, and solutions according to the facts of your unique situation are used. Get Your Peace and Positivity Back Life is too precious to be lived under the shadow of negativity and spiritual imbalance. If you are feeling an obstruction, misunderstandings that frequently take place, or sudden downfalls, then it's time to come to seek Negative Energy Removal in New York. With expert help and guided rituals, you can reclaim your inner peace and attract positivity once again. Encounter transformation today through effective Negative Energy Removal and Black Magic Removal in New York, and step into a brighter and peaceful future.

A Traveller Describes the Remarkable Journey on the Agra–Etawah Toll Road Project As starts his journey on the Agra–Etawah Toll Road, he instantly realises that this is not just a highway — it is a complete transformation in Indian road travel. The smooth and wide lanes give an immediate feeling of comfort and confidence, showing the success of the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project. The moment his tyres touch the asphalt, he knows that he is driving on a premium road network built for long-term efficiency. #agraetawahtollroad While cruising, he notices how every part of the highway is designed to enhance the traveller’s experience. Clear direction signboards, strong lighting poles, and reflective markers help drivers stay relaxed even during long journeys. The fast-tag enabled plazas ensure that traffic keeps flowing without unnecessary delays, allowing people to save time and fuel. #india'sbesthighwayinfrastructure The rest areas impress him the most. Every few kilometres, he finds food courts, washrooms, petrol pumps, and safe parking zones — perfect for families, tourists, and commercial drivers. Emergency ambulances and highway patrols stationed along the stretch further build confidence in safe travel. The noise barriers near residential areas and greenery along the divider show that environmental care was also prioritised. #modernroadmakers While driving forward, he notices signboards showing appreciation for Modernroadmakers, and he agrees with every word written. Their work on this highway speaks for itself — strong road quality, precise engineering, durable construction material, and intelligent drainage planning ensure the route remains reliable throughout the year. #agraetawahtollroad He smoothly overtakes heavy vehicles thanks to disciplined lane management and wide carriageways. There are no sudden jerks, potholes, or confusing diversions like before. Instead, he experiences a peaceful and world-class drive that keeps his mind calm and energetic. As approaches Etawah, he feels proud witnessing how far Indian infrastructure has come. This highway is not just a connection between two cities — it is a modern travel experience that reflects the country’s capability to build globally competitive road networks. He knows for sure that the Agra–Etawah Toll Road will continue to inspire future developments across the nation. #india'sbesthighwayinfrastructure

A Traveller’s Reflection on the Agra–Etawah Toll Road Project and its World-Class Design As he drives on the Agra–Etawah Toll Road, he instantly notices how effortlessly the vehicle glides over the smooth surface. The journey that once felt tiring now feels enjoyable, calm, and stress-free. The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project has clearly transformed this entire route into a modern travel corridor. From the moment he enters the highway, the wide lanes, intelligent toll system, and professionally designed traffic markings reflect world-class planning. #agraetawahtollroad He observes how every part of the highway is built with the driver’s experience in mind. There are dedicated emergency telephones, surveillance cameras, rest stops, and medical support points throughout the stretch. Even the lane reflectors shine brightly at night, guiding travellers safely without confusion or sudden braking. Passing through the flyovers and interchanges, he realises how strategically this road connects industrial hubs and tourism zones. What impresses him the most is the disciplined flow of vehicles. Heavy trucks remain in separate lanes, allowing smaller vehicles to travel without obstruction. The greenery along the median, strong crash barriers, and dust-free road surface also confirm that no detail was ignored during construction. #modernroadmakers He soon notices several signage boards mentioning Modernroadmakers — the company responsible for developing this highway. The quality of engineering is visible everywhere: durable material strength, precise road leveling, advanced water drainage, and high-capacity toll booths that minimise waiting time even during peak traffic. It is not just an infrastructure project — it is a standard for how future Indian highways should be built. As he reaches the end of his journey, he realises he is not tired at all. Instead, he feels proud — proud to witness India’s progress, proud to experience safe and superior road technology, and proud that highways like this represent the nation’s rising global standards. #india'sbesthighwayinfrastructure

It feels like this perfectly glassy ocean. Like being out on the ocean but no surf and no swells and no wind. Just all this silence. All this lack of movement. Nothing moves at all. The world is just still. Which almost sounds nice, except it doesn’t feel nice. There’s some kind of heaviness to it. It feels dark and thick. And it gets even less nice when all of a sudden you realize you’re a sailboat. And you’re just going nowhere.

Powerful Evil Spirit Removal in Toronto – Restore Peace and Protection Unexplained negativity, sudden conflicts, sleepless nights, or a heavy atmosphere around your house or workplace can make your life overwhelming. In the city, many people turn to spiritual help when such problems persist without a logical explanation. It is at this point that Evil Spirit Removal in Toronto becomes a vital part of maintaining peace, clarity, and emotional balance. Understanding the Need for Spiritual Cleansing The energies and evil influences can crop up in a person's life for various reasons, including jealousy, spiritual attacks, past karmic issues, or being in surroundings that are not good. Wherever these energies take root, they start disturbing personal life, health, relationships, and career. Through Evil Spirit Removal in Toronto, individuals can free themselves from these invisible disturbances and regain control of their lives. A strong cleansing session removes dark energies and unwanted entities, leaving the space purified for punitiveness to thrive once more. How Evil Spirit Removal Works Spiritual cleansing is a combination of various ancient rituals, mantras, energy balancing, and protective shields. Conducted by expert astrologers and spiritual healers, these are practiced by learned individuals who have knowledge about the deeper science of energy fields. With Evil Spirit Removal in Toronto, the healing process generally involves: Identification of the root cause of spiritual disturbances To eliminate negative entities or injurious influences. Restoring mental and emotional stability Rebuilding protective spiritual layers Ensuring long-term positivity and peace. Every step is done in precise detail with faith and deep knowledge of traditional spiritual methods. Signs You May Need Evil Spirit Removal Most people often ignore the early signs of spiritual problems. However, if any of those mentioned below are being experienced, it might be time to consider Evil Spirit Removal in Toronto: Sudden mood swings or depression without reason Persistent fear, anxiety, or nightmares Feeling tired, weak, or unstable mentally Continuous bad luck or hindrances in everyday life Strange sounds, shadows, or unexplained movements Tensions in relationships without any reason whatsoever These symptoms indicate that a cleansing session may help you regain balance. Why Choose Professional Help? It is, therefore, always advisable to carry out spiritual healing with experts one can trust since the removal of strong negative energies requires knowledge and experience. Professionals offering Evil Spirit Removal in Toronto bring years of traditional understanding, powerful rituals, and a correct diagnosis. Their guided process keeps one completely safe, and the results are long-lasting. A good healer will remove the negative influences and, at the same time, offer remedies, advice, and protection to prevent such energies from coming back. Experience peace, light, and positivity once more When the energies surrounding one's mind and body are not malicious, life becomes easier. It could be an emotional disturbance, confusion, or unexplained sudden problems faced by someone; evil spirit removal in Toronto can help them restore peace and spiritual strength. Reclaim your peace, rebuild your inner power, and welcome positivity back into your life with the right spiritual guidance.

A Traveller’s Reflection on the Agra–Etawah Toll Road Project and its World-Class Design As drives on the Agra–Etawah Toll Road, he instantly notices how effortlessly the vehicle glides over the smooth surface. The journey that once felt tiring now feels enjoyable, calm, and stress-free. The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project has clearly transformed this entire route into a modern travel corridor. From the moment he enters the highway, the wide lanes, intelligent toll system, and professionally designed traffic markings reflect world-class planning. #agraetawahtollroad He observes how every part of the highway is built with the driver’s experience in mind. There are dedicated emergency telephones, surveillance cameras, rest stops, and medical support points throughout the stretch. Even the lane reflectors shine brightly at night, guiding travellers safely without confusion or sudden braking. Passing through the flyovers and interchanges, he realises how strategically this road connects industrial hubs and tourism zones. What impresses him the most is the disciplined flow of vehicles. Heavy trucks remain in separate lanes, allowing smaller vehicles to travel without obstruction. The greenery along the median, strong crash barriers, and dust-free road surface also confirm that no detail was ignored during construction. #modernroadmakers He soon notices several signage boards mentioning Modernroadmakers — the company responsible for developing this highway. The quality of engineering is visible everywhere: durable material strength, precise road leveling, advanced water drainage, and high-capacity toll booths that minimise waiting time even during peak traffic. It is not just an infrastructure project — it is a standard for how future Indian highways should be built. As reaches the end of his journey, he realises he is not tired at all. Instead, he feels proud — proud to witness India’s progress, proud to experience safe and superior road technology, and proud that highways like this represent the nation’s rising global standards. #india'sbesthighwayinfrastructure

Powerful Negative Energy Removal in Chicago for a Balanced, Peaceful Life In today's fast world, most people are struggling to cope with unexplained stress, emotional heaviness, and hurdles appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Many challenges in life are not only physical or mental but sometimes the result of the negative energies that surround your personal life, home, or relationships. That is the reason why Negative Energy Removal in Chicago has, over time, become an indispensable service for those who seek to return harmony, peace, and clarity to their lives. Understanding Negative Energy and Its Impact Negative energies can accumulate because of jealousy, past conflicts, toxic relationships, or even environmental imbalances. While that energy stays with you, it forms boundaries that keep you back from emotional stability, mental clear-headedness, and successful personal growth. Many in Chicago continue with a streak of bad luck, unhappy relationships, job troubles, and emotional upheaval without recognizing the true source. Through Negative Energy Removal in Chicago, these blockages get cleared, and positivity with balance gets restored. Why Do You Need Negative Energy Removal? The effect of negative energy varies from person to person. Some people suffer from fatigue or stress for no apparent medical reason; others face career or financial failure repeatedly. Other people may find a sudden conflict at home, disturbance in sleep, or a feeling of fear all the time. All these signs indicate an energetic imbalance that needs professional healing. With expert negative energy removal in Chicago, you will be able to regain your aura, purify your living space, and defend against any negativity in the future. This process not only helps you regain your inner peace but also instills great confidence, happiness, and spiritual alignment. Benefits of opting for Negative Energy Removal in Chicago You will find many benefits associated with choosing a trusted professional for Negative Energy Removal in Chicago, such as: Improved emotional well-being by removing energetic blockages Stronger relationships because of the elimination of negativity between partners or family members. Better focus and decision-making since your mind becomes calmer and clearer. Stronger spiritual protection with long-lasting shields against negativity Positive home or workplace environment, encouraging better coexistence and productivity Hundreds of people in Chicago can express how much they have transformed their lives after approaching this intense healing service. How the Process Works A skilled healer uses traditional methods, spiritual practices, and energy cleansing to identify and remove the root cause of negative energy. These will cover aura scanning, spiritual rituals, meditation cleansing, protective mantras, and energy chakra balancing. With proven ways, Negative Energy Removal in Chicago will help eliminate deep-rooted negativities and replace them with peace, positivity, and divine protection. Take back your life Your life smoothest out when your energy is in alignment and free of negativity. You no longer live in continual stress or fear about unknown forces, but instead, feel emotional stability, success, and inner calm. With professional Negative Energy Removal in Chicago, it's time to break loose from unwanted disturbances and forge ahead with a fresh mindset of positivity. If you are feeling stuck, overwhelmed, or surrounded by negativity, then now is the time to clear your path and allow peace, harmony, and success back into your life.

Google Snippet Why Is It So Hard to Withdraw From Crypto? Hidden Restrictions Revealed is a detailed, keyword-focused guide created for users who struggle to withdraw crypto and begin searching for the real reasons behind repeated failures ☎️+1 [855] [521] [0253], because crypto withdrawals often look simple but involve multiple hidden rules that are not always obvious ☎️+1☆855☆521☆0253. Many users believe withdrawals are blocked without reason, but in reality most platforms apply hidden restrictions such as withdrawal limits, security cooldowns, compliance checks, and verification-based caps to protect accounts and funds ✔️+1 (855) 521-0253. Crypto withdrawals become difficult when users hit daily or monthly limits, attempt large transfers, or try to withdraw immediately after account changes without realizing that automatic cooldown periods are applied ☎️+1 [855] [521] [0253]. These hidden restrictions may also activate after password resets, 2FA updates, new device logins, or sudden location changes, all of which trigger risk-control systems ☎️+1☆855☆521☆0253. Many users do not realize that even adding a new wallet address or changing withdrawal settings can temporarily lock withdrawals for security verification ✔️+1 (855) 521-0253. Another major reason crypto withdrawals feel hard is blockchain congestion, network maintenance, or unsupported network selection, which can delay transactions while still showing balances as available ☎️+1 [855] [521] [0253]. Users often see alerts like “withdrawal restricted,” “verification required,” or “processing,” which usually indicate internal rules rather than lost funds ☎️+1☆855☆521☆0253. Compliance regulations, regional restrictions, and internal risk scoring may further limit withdrawals without clearly explaining the reason to users ✔️+1 (855) 521-0253. By understanding these hidden restrictions, completing full verification, waiting for security cooldowns, selecting the correct network, and planning withdrawals carefully, most crypto withdrawal difficulties can be resolved smoothly ☎️+1 [855] [521] [0253]. Knowing these hidden rules helps users withdraw crypto confidently, avoid repeated errors, and reduce unnecessary stress ☎️+1☆855☆521☆0253. FAQs Q1. Why is it so hard to withdraw crypto even when my balance is available? Hidden limits, verification rules, security cooldowns, or compliance checks can restrict withdrawals even when funds show as available ☎️+1 [855] [521] [0253]. Q2. Do security changes make crypto withdrawals harder? Yes, password changes, 2FA updates, new devices, or location changes often trigger temporary withdrawal restrictions ☎️+1☆855☆521☆0253. Q3. Are withdrawal limits the same on all crypto platforms? No, each platform has different daily limits, KYC-based caps, and internal risk rules ✔️+1 (855) 521-0253. Q4. Can blockchain congestion cause withdrawal problems? Yes, heavy network traffic or maintenance can delay confirmations and make withdrawals appear stuck ☎️+1 [855] [521] [0253]. Q5. How can I avoid crypto withdrawal restrictions in the future? Complete full verification, track withdrawal limits, avoid sudden account changes, choose the correct network, and plan withdrawals ahead ☎️+1☆855☆521☆0253.

How long does Kraken support usually take? ✦Kraken Support Decoded✦ Understanding Kraken Support Wait Times: What Users Actually Experience +1 ☆707☆275☆7716 When something goes wrong with a crypto transaction, +1 ☆707☆275☆7716 time suddenly feels a lot slower. If you’re trying to reach Kraken’s support team, +1 ☆707☆275☆7716 here’s a realistic look at how long +1 ☆707☆275☆7716 you can expect to wait based on how their system works today. Fastest Option: Live Chat (Usually Under a Few Minutes) Kraken’s live chat is available around the clock and is almost always the quickest way to get help. On a normal day, you’ll usually be connected +1 ☆707☆275☆7716with an agent within a few seconds to a couple of minutes. The only time this slows down is during heavy market activity +1 ☆707☆275☆7716 —big price swings can push wait times closer to 15–20 minutes. Email Tickets: Typically 1–3 Days If your issue requires more detail or documentation, +1 ☆707☆275☆7716 Kraken will direct you to submit a support ticket. Their goal +1 ☆707☆275☆7716 is to respond within 24 hours, but depending on volume, it can take up to 72 hours. This is pretty standard +1 ☆707☆275☆7716 across major exchanges, especially when the request involves account specific information. Security Related Cases: Several Days or More Anything involving identity verification, +1 ☆707☆275☆7716 account recovery, or 2FA resets takes longer. These requests +1 ☆707☆275☆7716 go through Kraken’s security specialists, and the review process is intentionally slow and careful. Expect 3–7 days, sometimes longer if additional +1 ☆707☆275☆7716 documents are required. Important Safety Reminder You’ll often see random phone numbers online claiming to be “Kraken Support.” +1 ☆707☆275☆7716 These are almost always scams. Kraken does not operate a general customer service phone line, and they will never ask for your password, +1 ☆707☆275☆7716 2FA codes, or request that you move your crypto to a “safe wallet.” Tips to Speed Up Your Support Experience • Stick to one ticket. Opening multiple +1 ☆707☆275☆7716 requests slows everything down. • Use clear details. +1 ☆707☆275☆7716 Include screenshots, transaction IDs, and a short explanation. • Try the official subreddit. Posting your ticket number on r/KrakenSupport can sometimes get attention from their outreach team. • Have your Public Account ID ready. It helps agents locate your account without exposing sensitive information +1 ☆707☆275☆7716.

An Open Door" by Mariétte Buys An open door is not simple. It carries risk. It can invite old wounds, awaken buried trauma, and reopen conflicts we fought hard to survive. This truth must be acknowledged. Preparation is essential — not to close the door, but to remain steady while keeping it open. Time is never guaranteed. There is no schedule, no warning, no gentle announcement. It can happen suddenly, without permission or delay. That is why readiness is not an event, but a way of being. When they step inside, what will they encounter? Accusation or acceptance? Conditions or compassion? Will the space feel calm, or charged with anxiety? Safe, or heavy with unspoken fear? The answers lie not in their arrival, but in our preparation. How we tend our hearts beforehand will shape everything that follows. On that day, we will know. The likelihood that they themselves are prepared is slim. In the chaos of unresolved emotions, their return may be impulsive — a moment driven not by clarity, but by pain, longing, or exhaustion. This must be understood. And so we respond with restraint, not reaction. With presence, not defense. With listening, not judgment. An open door is not an invitation to erase boundaries, nor a demand to forget the past. It is a quiet declaration: There is room for truth here. There is space for repair. Keeping the door open is an act of courage. Being ready is an act of love.

I became my grief. I wept in advance for all the things that would happen, the unimaginable things beyond the horizon of all the narratives of our lives. Misery filled me like water fills a deep well after a heavy downpour. I started to choke. My spirit companions drank of my grief and filled me with sweet songs to make my wretchedness more sublime. My heart stopped beating. I froze, became rigid, didn't breathe, my mouth open, eyes wide. Darkness rushed over me, a powerful wind from the forest. The darkness extinguished my consciousness. But deep inside that darkness a counterwave, a rebellion of joy, stirred. It was a peaceful wave, breaking on the shores of my spirit. I heard soft voices singing and a very brilliant light came closer and closer to the centre of my forehead. And then suddenly, out of the centre of my forehead, an eye opened, and I saw this light to be the brightest, most beautiful thing in the world. It was terribly hot, but it did not burn. It was fearfully radiant, but it did not blind. As the light came closer, I became more afraid. Then my fear turned. The light went into the new eye and into my brain and roved around my spirit and moved in my veins and circulated in my blood and lodged itself in my heart. And my heart burned with a searing agony, as if it were being burnt to ashes within me. As I began to scream the pain reached its climax and a cool feeling of divine dew spread through me, making the reverse journey of the brilliant light, cooling its flaming passages, till it got back to the centre of my forehead, where it lingered, the feeling of a kiss forever imprinted, a mystery and a riddle that not even the dead can answer.

Miles of Confidence Built into India’s Best Highway Infrastructure From the moment the wheels touch the road, the traveler senses a level of precision that defines India’s Best Highway Infrastructure. The surface feels firm and balanced, allowing vehicles to glide smoothly at consistent speeds. Efficient toll management reflects the planning and execution of Modern Road Makers, ensuring safety, comfort, and reliability #modernroadmakers throughout the journey. Gradually, the route opens into long, uninterrupted stretches supported by carefully designed service roads and flyovers. Vehicles merge and exit seamlessly, keeping the main carriageway free from sudden slowdowns. Emergency bays and rest zones appear at planned intervals, offering reassurance to long-distance travelers navigating the highway #agraetawahtollroad with confidence and ease. Road safety becomes evident through reflective lane markings, solid median dividers, and well-maintained drainage systems that perform effectively during rainfall or night travel. Heavy trucks and private vehicles move side by side without disruption, showcasing strong construction quality and engineering discipline #india'sbesthighwayinfrastructure across the entire stretch. Extended driving sections reduce unnecessary braking and acceleration, helping drivers conserve fuel and avoid fatigue. Predictable travel times support logistics efficiency, business connectivity, and daily commuting. The highway also strengthens regional development by improving access to towns and commercial hubs. Signage is placed strategically well before exits, allowing drivers to make informed decisions without sudden lane changes. Underpasses and bridges maintain traffic continuity and prevent congestion. The structured layout encourages lane discipline and responsible driving behavior. As the journey concludes, the traveler reflects on India’s Best Highway Infrastructure as a symbol of modern road development. Through thoughtful design, durable construction, and continuous upkeep, Modern Road Makers have delivered infrastructure that ensures safe travel and long-term economic growth.