Sunset Lover Quotes

You are enough to drive a saint to madness or a king to his knees.

She was a ray of sunshine, a warm summer rain, a bright fire on a cold winter’s day, and now she could be dead because she had tried to save the man she loved.

Tea is just an excuse. i am drinking this sunset, this evening. and you.

Even being alone it's better than sitting next to your lover and feeling lonely. - Celine

My name’s Lassiter, and I’ll tell you all you need to know about me. I’m an angel first and a sinner second, and I’m not here for long. I’ll never hurt you, but I’m prepared to make you pretty goddamn uncomfortable if I have to, to get my job done. I like sunsets and long walks on the beach, but my perfect female no longer exists. Oh, and my favorite hobby is annoying the shit out of people. Guess I’m just bred to want to get a rise out of folks—probably the whole resurrection thing.

We are uncomfortable because everything in our life keeps changing -- our inner moods, our bodies, our work, the people we love, the world we live in. We can't hold on to anything -- a beautiful sunset, a sweet taste, an intimate moment with a lover, our very existence as the body/mind we call self -- because all things come and go. Lacking any permanent satisfaction, we continuously need another injection of fuel, stimulation, reassurance from loved ones, medicine, exercise, and meditation. We are continually driven to become something more, to experience something else.

Oh honey, someday a real man is going to make you see stars and you won't even be looking at the sky." Excerpt from Grace Willow's Last Minute Bride

Even being alone it's better than sitting next to your lover and feeling lonely.

I close my eyes to indulge and reminisce of a sunset that never existed.

He smiled then, and that smile was like the sunset, stretching from one end of her existence to the other, lighting her way not by sight, but with a slow kindle inside she knew would never leave her bereft for the sun's warmth.

Late October Carefully the leaves of autumn sprinkle down the tinny sound of little dyings and skies sated of ruddy sunsets of roseate dawns roil ceaselessly in cobweb greys and turn to black for comfort. Only lovers see the fall a signal end to endings a gruffish gesture alerting those who will not be alarmed that we begin to stop in order to begin again.

The sun taught me how to love, by shining on everybody.

Fate was a reality, but it wasn’t a beautiful or angelic thing. It was a heart-wrenching nightmare. And we’d fallen blindly into it. We had no escape. It was happening, and it was up to me to guarantee our survival of it. (Eric)

You are enough to drive a saint to madness or a king to his knees Excerpt from To Kiss a King by Grace Willows Coming this summer to Amazon Kindle and paperback.

Song of myself Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth! Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! Earth of departed sunset--earth of the mountains misty-topt! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-swooping elbow'd earth--rich apple-blossom'd earth! Smile, for your lover comes.

The sun leaves often and I watch like a lover who's not yet vulnerable enough to ask it to stay a little longer.

I wanted to protect her, and, if I couldn’t do that, I’d at least be there for her. (Eric)

Dusk had fallen, While the sky was gray, Red flowers bloomed, And the yellow fade away, Night was to fall, But the sun had to stay, Moon of fourteen, For the lover had to pray, Life gave up hope, Yet the heart had to say, Lover wrote a letter, But the pigeon lost it's way.

I want to share every sunrise and every sunset and every second in between with you. I want your laughter and your breath and your blood and your bones. You’re the one thing that centres my soul. I may circle the whole world, but you’ll always be home, Beetroot.

She goes down like the sunset & brings the sweetest night creatures howling out of me.

The moon is too old, the flower is too old;even the sunset is not enough. The only relevant metaphor for you is your mirror image.

Spring had come once more to Green Gables-the beautiful, capricious Canadian spring, lingering along through April and may in a succession of sweet, fresh, chilly days, with pink sunsets and miracles of resurrection and growth. The maples in Lover's Lane were red-budded and little curly ferns pushed up around the Dryad's Bubble. Away in the barrens, behind Mr. Silas Sloane's place, the mayflowers blossomed out, pink and white stars of sweetness under their brown leaves. All the school girls and boys had one golden afternoon gathering them, coming home in the clear, echoing twilight with arms and baskets full of flowery spoil.

A Ripple Song Once a ripple came to land In the sunset burning- Lapped against a maiden's hand, By the ford returning. Dainty foot and gentle breast- Here, across, be glad and rest. "Maiden, wait," the ripple saith "Wait awhile, for I am Death!" 'Where my lover calls I go- Shame it were to treat him coldly- 'Twas a fish that circled so, Turning over boldly.' Dainty foot and tender heart, Wait the loaded ferry-cart. "Wait, ah, wait!" the ripple saith; "Maiden, wait, for I am Death!" 'When my lover calls I haste- Dame Disdain was never wedded!' Ripple-ripple round her waist, Clear the current eddied. Foolish heart and faithful hand, Little feet that touched no land. Far away the ripple sped, Ripple-ripple-running red!

When the sun goes down, the moon becomes the king of the sky.

Out on the water, we live not by the calendar prescribed by society—the one marked in weeks, months, years—but by sunsets and sunrises, the passing of storms, the changing of tides. Time as dictated by Nature herself.

ah yes I know them well who was the first person in the universe before there was anybody that made it all who ah that they dont know neither do I so there you are they might as well try to stop the sun from rising tomorrow the sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seedcake out of my mouth and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said I was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only looked out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didnt know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father and old captain Groves and the sailors playing all birds fly and I say stoop and washing up dishes they called it on the pier and the sentry in front of the governors house with the thing round his white helmet poor devil half roasted and the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their tall combs and the auctions in the morning the Greeks and the jews and the Arabs and the devil knows who else from all the ends of Europe and Duke street and the fowl market all clucking outside Larby Sharons and the poor donkeys slipping half asleep and the vague fellows in the cloaks asleep in the shade on the steps and the big wheels of the carts of the bulls and the old castle thousands of years old yes and those handsome Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to sit down in their little bit of a shop and Ronda with the old windows of the posadas glancing eyes a lattice hid for her lover to kiss the iron and the wineshops half open at night and the castanets and the night we missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman going about serene with his lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and the pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

Here, on this deck, I’d kissed my husband at sunrise and made impossible promises over sunsets. Here, we’d made little paper boats of our dreams and set them adrift on love’s vast shore. So, here, I turned in our lover’s arms and told him I loved him.

The Bridge of Sighs, he thought, recalling one of his favorite boyhood movies, A Little Romance, which was based on the legend that if two young lovers kissed beneath this bridge at sunset while the bells of St. Mark’s were ringing, they would love each other forever. The

All love is alike, knowing no season, sun, or clime, but that damn sun does represent lovers’ ever-changing time. Why does it rise to show lovers nothing lasts? Does it not see those lovers and think, ‘I can eclipse and darken them with a wink. I could kill all love by rising and sending them to their forlorn pasts. I can make them for each other pine, and wait and wait as I rise and set. HA! Buffoons, they are all mine. And every time I shine they owe me a debt.

... the glow of a sunset more lasting, more roseate. more human - filling, perhaps, with romantic wonder the thoughts of some solitary lover, wandering in the street below and brought to a standstill before the mystery of the human presence which those lighted windows at once revealed and screened from sight...

I am his lover. They had made no promises, no vows; this was an interlude which might end with the next sunset or ebb with the changing tide. Yet she knew, with a certainty that belongs only to the young, that this was for always. Whether she had a year, or a week, or just a few hours, she would make it last forever.

Most girls want the world, i just want you and a sunset.

I didn’t even have a name for her, shade or human, but I didn’t need one to know her. (Eric)

Do you remember how the sun, set On the occasion, we last conversed? First, it hid behind some lousy clouds As I was uttering my dying words Then, out it came with a shiny glare As I grasped the truth of your beauty ‘Twas nothing but my own reflection To my surprise and curiosity. Now the sun’s told our tale to this town And I heard how it had made you smile So if the thought of me drew a smile Then, I have mastered true lover’s guile

Violently beautiful sunsets could reduce her to tears. She was virtually incapacitated by fireflies. She was sublimely abnormal, and very frequently unnerving, but she was his psalm. What a live-in lover offers you, ultimately, is the unprecedented revelation of not being alone.

No, no, no! The best way to win a boy's heart is to brew a love potion out of rainbows and sunsets that make two lovers sprout wings and fly to a magical castle in the sky, where they get married and eat clouds with spoons, and use stars as ice cubes in their moonlight punch, forever and ever and ever!

In the silence of the ticking of the clock’s minute hand, I found you. In the echoes of the reverberations of time, I found you. In the tender silence of the long summer night, I found you. In the fragrance of the rose petals, I found you. In the orange of the sunset, I found you. In the blue of the morning sky, I found you. In the echoes of the mountains, I found you. In the green of the valleys, I found you. In the chaos of this world, I found you. In the turbulence of the oceans, I found you. In the shrill cries of the grasshopper at night, I found you. In the gossamer sublimity of the silken cobweb, I found you.

Love Notes From Something I Never Told You- # Sometimes I wonder if you and I are the same person. We are a little broken, quite messed up and in love with the idea of love. # Just because of something which happened in the past, do not stop believing in love, do not stop looking for love, do not stop loving. # We were a little more than friends and a little less than lovers. # He gazed into her dark eyes. His soul had finally found the place it needed to rest in. # True love never dies. It sleeps Silently in aching hearts and wakes up on lonely nights. # When I am gone, don't look for me. A part of me will always be with you; you carry my heart in your heart. # Our love filled a space in my heart, space which I did not know even existed. # Your love was like a serene sunset. I was mesmerized beyond words by it before it left me alone in the darkness. # I dream about you way too often for us to be- Just friends. # Looking at you, I think I can write a Love Story. # Little did I know that my feelings for you were seeds when I buried them deep in my heart to forget you- they grew into love. # For long I have not been able to find myself, I am still lost in you.

There was a crime. But there were also the lovers. Lovers and their happy ends have been on my mind all night long. As into the sunset we sail. An unhappy inversion. It occurs to me that I have not travelled so far after all, since I wrote my little play. Or rather, I've made a huge digression and doubled back to my starting place. It is only in my last version that my lovers end well, standing side by side on a South London pavement as I walk away.

Go away,” she said voicelessly. Aureliano, smiled, picked her up by the waist with both hands like a pot of begonias, and dropped her on her back on the bed. With a brutal tug he pulled off her bathrobe before she had time to resist and he loomed over an abyss of newly washed nudity whose skin color, lines of fuzz, and hidden moles had all been imagined in the shadows of the other rooms. Amaranta Úrsula defended herself sincerely with the astuteness of a wise woman, weaseling her slippery, flexible, and fragrant weasel’s body as she tried to knee him in the kidneys and scorpion his face with her nails, but without either of them giving a gasp that might not have been taken for that”“breathing of a person watching the meager April sunset through the open window. It was a fierce fight, a battle to the death, but it seemed to be without violence because it consisted of distorted attacks and ghostly evasions, slow, cautious, solemn, so that during it all there was time for the petunias to bloom and for Gaston to forget about his aviator’s dream in the next room, as if they were two enemy lovers seeking reconciliation at the bottom of an aquarium. In the heat of that savage and ceremonious struggle, Amaranta Úrsula understood that her meticulous silence was so irrational that it could awaken the suspicions of her nearby husband much more than the sound of warfare that they were trying to avoid. Then she began to laugh with her lips tight together, without giving up the fight, but defending herself with false bites and deweaseling her body little by little until they both were conscious of being adversaries and accomplices at the same time and the affray degenerated into a conventional gambol and the attacks became”“caresses. Suddenly, almost playfully, like one more bit of mischief, Amaranta Úrsula dropped her defense, and when she tried to recover, frightened by what she herself had made possible, it was too late. A great commotion immobilized her in her center of gravity, planted her in her place, and her defensive will was demolished by the irresistible anxiety to discover what the orange whistles and the invisible globes on the other side of death were like. She barely had time to reach out her hand and grope for the towel to put a gag between her teeth so that she would not let out the cat howls that were already tearing at her insides.

My name’s Lassiter, and I’ll tell you all you need to know about me. I’m an angel first and a sinner second, and I’m not here for long. I’ll never hurt you, but I’m prepared to make you pretty goddamn uncomfortable if I have to, to get my job done. I like sunsets and long walks on the beach, but my perfect female no longer exists. Oh, and my favorite hobby is annoying the shit out of people. Guess I’m just bred to want to get a rise out of folks—probably the whole resurrection thing.” No

HEART ACTION Take any situation that comes and find the goodness in it. Look at a trial as a chance to draw closer to God. Look at a struggling relationship as a chance to be faithful and forgiving. Then look at the sunset and praise God for the beauty He made, which is, for us, a constant reminder of His love and presence. Tea is wealth itself, Because there is nothing that cannot be lost, No problem that will not disappear, No burden that will not float away, Between the first sip and the last. THE MINISTER OF LEAVES

He saw her once, and in the glance, A moment’s glance of meeting eyes, His heart stood still in sudden trance: He trembled with a sweet surprise— All in the waning light she stood, The star of perfect womanhood. That summer-eve his heart was light: With lighter step he trod the ground: And life was fairer in his sight, And music was in every sound: He blessed the world where there could be So beautiful a thing as she. There once again, as evening fell And stars were peering overhead, Two lovers met to bid farewell: The western sun gleamed faint and red,

Even though this duel has broken no rules, it’s not ben clean,” she said. “You began a brawl. Society will murmur its disapproval even before Ronan and Jess destroy your reputation.” “Society will disapprove of me?” Irex sneered. “Your reputation is not so lily white. Slave-lover.” Kestrel wobbled on her feet. It took her a moment to speak, and when she did, she wasn’t sure that what she said was true. “Whatever people say about me, my father will be your enemy.” Irex’s face was still sharp with hate, but he said, “Very well. You can live.” His voice became hesitant. “Did you tell the general about Faris?” Kestrel thought of her letter to her father. It had been simple. I have challenged Lord Irex to a duel, it had said. It will take place on his grounds today, two hours before sunset. Please come. “No. That would have defeated my purpose.” Irex gave Kestrel a look, one that she had seen before on the faces of her opponents in Bite and Sting. “Purpose?” he said warily. Kestrel felt triumph surge through her, stronger even than the pain in her knee. “I want my father to believe that I’ve legitimately won this duel. You are about to lose. You’ll throw the match, and give me a clear victory.” She smiled. “I want first blood, Irex. My father is watching. Make this look good.

The age was the Elizabethan; their morals were not ours; nor their poets; nor their climate; nor their vegetables even. Everything was different. The weather itself, the heat and cold of summer and winter, was, we may believe, of another temper altogether. The brilliant amorous day was divided as sheerly from the night as land from water. Sunsets were redder and more intense; dawns were whiter and more auroral. Of our crepuscular half-lights and lingering twilights they knew nothing. The rain fell vehemently, or not at all. The sun blazed or there was darkness. Translating this to the spiritual regions as their wont is, the poets sang beautifully how roses fade and petals fall. The moment is brief they sang; the moment is over; one long night is then to be slept by all. As for using the artifices of the greenhouse or conservatory to prolong or preserve these fresh pinks and roses, that was not their way. The withered intricacies and ambiguities of our more gradual and doubtful age were unknown to them. Violence was all. The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice. Girls were roses, and their seasons were short as the flowers. Plucked they must be before nightfall; for the day was brief and the day was all.

Even if we don't have a special person in our lives we still all love a lot. We love feelings, tastes, sights and sounds. We love the villages, countryside, sprawling cities and towns, We love a sunrise and a sunset, a full moon, a starry night, a cloudy day, the wind on our face and through our hair, we love the rain. From the hot sun on our back on a mid summers day to the first crisp frost of winter. We love a book, or a movie, a song or symphony. Thoseuunafraid of love will be rewarded and see romance in all manner of places. Love is truly all around, not merely the exclusive feeling between lovers and families, or even between friends. We love a lot and we should always be able to love freely and without fear. To love with all our hearts ability.

Now let me tell you something. I have seen a thousand sunsets and sunrises, on land where it floods forest and mountains with honey coloured light, at sea where it rises and sets like a blood orange in a multicoloured nest of cloud, slipping in and out of the vast ocean. I have seen a thousand moons: harvest moons like gold coins, winter moons as white as ice chips, new moons like baby swans’ feathers. I have seen seas as smooth as if painted, coloured like shot silk or blue as a kingfisher or transparent as glass or black and crumpled with foam, moving ponderously and murderously. I have felt winds straight from the South Pole, bleak and wailing like a lost child; winds as tender and warm as a lover’s breath; winds that carried the astringent smell of salt and the death of seaweeds; winds that carried the moist rich smell of a forest floor, the smell of a million flowers. Fierce winds that churned and moved the sea like yeast, or winds that made the waters lap at the shore like a kitten. I have known silence: the cold, earthy silence at the bottom of a newly dug well; the implacable stony silence of a deep cave; the hot, drugged midday silence when everything is hypnotised and stilled into silence by the eye of the sun; the silence when great music ends. I have heard summer cicadas cry so that the sound seems stitched into your bones. I have heard tree frogs in an orchestration as complicated as Bach singing in a forest lit by a million emerald fireflies. I have heard the Keas calling over grey glaciers that groaned to themselves like old people as they inched their way to the sea. I have heard the hoarse street vendor cries of the mating Fur seals as they sang to their sleek golden wives, the crisp staccato admonishment of the Rattlesnake, the cobweb squeak of the Bat and the belling roar of the Red deer knee-deep in purple heather. I have heard Wolves baying at a winter’s moon, Red howlers making the forest vibrate with their roaring cries. I have heard the squeak, purr and grunt of a hundred multi-coloured reef fishes. I have seen hummingbirds flashing like opals round a tree of scarlet blooms, humming like a top. I have seen flying fish, skittering like quicksilver across the blue waves, drawing silver lines on the surface with their tails. I have seen Spoonbills flying home to roost like a scarlet banner across the sky. I have seen Whales, black as tar, cushioned on a cornflower blue sea, creating a Versailles of fountain with their breath. I have watched butterflies emerge and sit, trembling, while the sun irons their wings smooth. I have watched Tigers, like flames, mating in the long grass. I have been dive-bombed by an angry Raven, black and glossy as the Devil’s hoof. I have lain in water warm as milk, soft as silk, while around me played a host of Dolphins. I have met a thousand animals and seen a thousand wonderful things. But— All this I did without you. This was my loss. All this I want to do with you. This will be my gain. All this I would gladly have forgone for the sake of one minute of your company, for your laugh, your voice, your eyes, hair, lips, body, and above all for your sweet, ever-surprising mind which is an enchanting quarry in which it is my privilege to delve.

I imagine you not telling me to whisper. I imagine you not saying oh don't say this literally. You want me to evoke as opposed to mere describing. You want me to be an invisible scribe that an octoepoose was hiding. I'm not sure if my facial features are an autograph that your Picasso smile is signing. Infamous for the mirror I shook when my sock puppets were pining? I am not just a fish that you gave wings to! I don't simply flop in the air whenever you brush some mannequinn's hair. There is a reason for the bad timing. Exquisite imbalances. A child enjoying the pink sky. I won't say that is my clue! Playing The Beatles on a kazoo is beautiful oooh ooooh Your laughter is a woman with alot of eyeballs on her stomach that pretends that she doesn't see the colors of all them songs. In the pre dawn hours we dance with delusions and illusions. The eternal seamstress does not care for Frakenstein's dress(she still loves our unique caress ) She loves and laughs despite some so-called scientist. Where is that emperor and his nakedness! Darling, our atoms need never split. We compliment in so many ways that all our night's and days have become one swirling sunrise/sunset that only true lovers can scoff at(those who shhhhh) The flower is not passive or apologetic. It blooms through the fractured net. Floating magnetic(eep eeep) You are not just some seductress. You are the leader of an elite group of intergalactic seductress impersonators who reveal corruption but then choose to love. We embrace conclusions that make the puddle heart awake with ethereal drum beat gongs. You think of a heroic poodle in the dark. We both know that the trapeze artist that followed us was not a cliche. He smelled differently. He had never met a floating lady that showed him how to appreciate a symphony without taking away his love for a good rock n roll melody. I am not sure I can only whisper of such realities. I am not sure I can only whisper of such realities.-

The sun was going down. Every open evening, the hills of Derbyshire were blazed over with red sunset. Mrs. Morel watched the sun sink from the glistening sky, leaving a soft flower-blue overhead, while the western space went red, as if all the fire had swum down there, leaving the bell cast flawless blue. The mountain-ash berries across the field stood fierily out from the dark leaves, for a moment. A few shocks of corn in a corner of the fallow stood up as if alive; she imagined them bowing; perhaps her son would be a Joseph. In the east, a mirrored sunset floated pink opposite the west’s scarlet. The big haystacks on the hillside, that butted into the glare, went cold. With Mrs. Morel it was one of those still moments when the small frets vanish, and the beauty of things stands out, and she had the peace and the strength to see herself. Now and again, a swallow cut close to her. Now and again, Annie came up with a handful of alder-currants. The baby was restless on his mother's knee, clambering with his hands at the light.

To me he seems now all sacred, his locks are inaccessible, and, Lucy, I feel a sort of fear, when I look at his firm, marble chin, at his straight Greek features. Women are called beautiful, Lucy; he is not like a woman, therefore I suppose he is not beautiful, but what is he, then? Do other people see him with my eyes? Do you admire him?” “I’ll tell you what I do, Paulina,” was once my answer to her many questions. “I never see him. I looked at him twice or thrice about a year ago, before he recognised me, and then I shut my eyes; and if he were to cross their balls twelve times between each day’s sunset and sunrise, except from memory, I should hardly know what shape had gone by.” “Lucy, what do you mean?” said she, under her breath. “I mean that I value vision, and dread being struck stone blind.” It was best to answer her strongly at once, and to silence for ever the tender, passionate confidences which left her lips sweet honey, and sometimes dropped in my ear—molten lead. To me, she commented no more on her lover’s beauty.

She gazed at the man across from her. Her lover. His powerful shoulders worked beneath his shirt as he pulled on the oars. The display of strength and agility, set to a steady rhythm…memories of their lovemaking assailed her with quiet force. In some other place, under some other circumstance, they might have been a courting couple. Rowing across a placid lake, caressed by a glowing sunset. From a distance, this could have been the picture of romance. But the reality was confusion, and resentment, and pain. Did she feel sorry for misleading him? Sophia considered. She was not sure she could. By his own admission, he would not have made love to her had she not. And she could not regret that exquisite pleasure; nor could she regret sharing it with him. She looked at the handsome, strong, charismatic, passionate, exhausted man across from her. Selfish and wicked though she might be, she could not feel sorry that he was now bound to her-that for good or ill, he had not left her behind. Sophia was, however, unequivocally sorry for one thing. “Gray,” she said, “I’m so sorry I’ve hurt you.” His eyes flashed, and there was a slight hitch in his stroke.

Does it undermine my image as a warrior to be with you?' 'No. Does it undermine Feyre's when she's seen with Rhys?' Her stomach tightened. Her heartbeat pulsed in her arms, her gut. 'It's different for them,' she made herself say as they reached the end of the bridge and turned to walk along the quay flanking the river. Cassian asked carefully. 'Why?' Nesta kept her focus on the glittering river, vibrant with the hues of sunset. 'Because they're mates.' At his utter silence, she knew what he'd say. Halted again, bracing herself for it. Cassian's face was a void. Completely empty as he said, 'And we're not?' Nesta said nothing. He huffed a laugh. 'Because they're mates and you don't want us to be.' 'That word means nothing to me, Cassian,' she said, voice thick as she tried to keep the people who strode past from overhearing. 'It means something to all of you, but for most of my life, husband and wife was as good as it got. Mate is just a word.' 'That's bullshit.' When she only began walking along the river again, he asked. 'Why are you frightened?' 'I'm not frightened.' 'What spooked you? Just being seen publicly with me like this?' Yes. Having him kiss her and realising that soon she'd have to return to the world humming around them, and leave the House, and she didn't know what she would do then. What it would mean for them. If she would plunge back into that dark place she'd occupied before. Drag him down with her. 'Nesta. Talk to me.' She met his stare, but wouldn't open her mouth. Cassian's eyes blazed. 'Say it.' She refused. 'Say it, Nesta.' 'I don't know what you're talking about.' 'Ask me why I vanished for nearly a week after Solstice. Why I suddenly had to do an inspection right after a holiday.' Nesta kept her mouth shut. 'It was because I woke up the next morning and all I wanted to do was fuck you for a week straight. And I knew what that meant, what had happened, even though you didn't, and I didn't want to scare you. You weren't ready for the truth- not yet.' Her mouth went dry. 'Say it,' Cassian snarled. People gave them a wide berth. Some outright turned back toward the direction they'd come from. 'No.' His face shuttered with rage even as his voice became calm. 'Say it.' She couldn't. Not before he'd ordered her to, and certainly not now. She couldn't let him win like that. 'Say what I guessed from the moment we met,' he breathed. 'What I knew the first time I kissed you. What became unbreakable between us on Solstice night.' She wouldn't. 'I am your mate, for fuck's sake!' Cassian shouted, loud enough for people across the river to hear. 'You are my mate! Why are you still fighting it?' She let the truth, voiced at last, wash over her. 'You promised me forever on Solstice,' he said, voice breaking. 'Why is one word somehow throwing you off that?' 'Because with that one word, the last scrap of my humanity goes away!' She didn't care who saw them, who heard. 'With that one stupid word, I am no longer human in any way. I'm one of you!' He blinked. 'I thought you wanted to be one of us.' 'I don't know what I want. I didn't have a choice.' 'Well, I didn't have a choice in being shackled to you, either.' The declaration slammed into her. Shackled. He sucked in a breath. 'That was an incredibly poor choice of words.' 'But the truth, right?' 'No, I was angry- it's not true.' 'Why? Your friends saw me for what I was. What I am. The mating bond made you stupidly blind to it. How many times did they warn you away from me, Cassian?' She barked a cold laugh. Shackled. Words beckoned, sharp as knives, begging for her to grab one and plunge it into his chest. Make him hurt as much as that one would hurt her. Make him bleed. But if she did that, if she ripped into him... She couldn't. Wouldn't let herself do it.

Moreover, Nancy Sinatra was afflicted, as the overwhelming majority of Americans were, with monolingualism. Lana’s richer, more textured version of “Bang Bang” layered English with French and Vietnamese. Bang bang, je ne l’oublierai pas went the last line of the French version, which was echoed by Pham Duy’s Vietnamese version, We will never forget. In the pantheon of classic pop songs from Saigon, this tricolor rendition was one of the most memorable, masterfully weaving together love and violence in the enigmatic story of two lovers who, regardless of having known each other since childhood, or because of knowing each other since childhood, shoot each other down. Bang bang was the sound of memory’s pistol firing into our heads, for we could not forget love, we could not forget war, we could not forget lovers, we could not forget enemies, we could not forget home, and we could not forget Saigon. We could not forget the caramel flavor of iced coffee with coarse sugar; the bowls of noodle soup eaten while squatting on the sidewalk; the strumming of a friend’s guitar while we swayed on hammocks under coconut trees; the football matches played barefoot and shirtless in alleys, squares, parks, and meadows; the pearl chokers of morning mist draped around the mountains; the labial moistness of oysters shucked on a gritty beach; the whisper of a dewy lover saying the most seductive words in our language, anh oi; the rattle of rice being threshed; the workingmen who slept in their cyclos on the streets, kept warm only by the memories of their families; the refugees who slept on every sidewalk of every city; the slow burning of patient mosquito coils; the sweetness and firmness of a mango plucked fresh from its tree; the girls who refused to talk to us and who we only pined for more; the men who had died or disappeared; the streets and homes blown away by bombshells; the streams where we swam naked and laughing; the secret grove where we spied on the nymphs who bathed and splashed with the innocence of the birds; the shadows cast by candlelight on the walls of wattled huts; the atonal tinkle of cowbells on mud roads and country paths; the barking of a hungry dog in an abandoned village; the appetizing reek of the fresh durian one wept to eat; the sight and sound of orphans howling by the dead bodies of their mothers and fathers; the stickiness of one’s shirt by afternoon, the stickiness of one’s lover by the end of lovemaking, the stickiness of our situations; the frantic squealing of pigs running for their lives as villagers gave chase; the hills afire with sunset; the crowned head of dawn rising from the sheets of the sea; the hot grasp of our mother’s hand; and while the list could go on and on and on, the point was simply this: the most important thing we could never forget was that we could never forget.

Ideally my penultimate day would be spent attending a giant beach party thrown in my honor. Everyone would gather around me at sunset, and the golden light would make my skin and hair beautiful as I told hilarious stories and gave away my extensive collection of moon art to my ex-lovers. I and all of my still-alive friends (which, let’s face it, will mostly be women) would sing and dance late into the night. My sons would be grown and happy. I would be frail but adorable. I would still have my own teeth, and I would be tended to by handsome and kind gay men who pruned me like a bonsai tree. Once the party ended, everyone would fall asleep except for me. I would spend the rest of the night watching the stars under a nice blanket my granddaughter made with her Knit-Bot 5000. As the sun began to rise, an unexpected guest would wake and put the coffee on. My last words would be something banal and beautiful. “Are you warm enough?” my guest would ask. “Just right,” I would answer. My funeral would be huge but incredibly intimate. I would instruct people to throw firecrackers on my funeral pyre and play Purple Rain on a loop.

Cemetery Nights V Wheel of memory, wheel of forgetting, bitter taste in the mouth--those who have been dead longest group together in the center of the graveyard facing inward. The sooner they become dust the better. They pick at their flesh and watch it crumble, they chip at their bones and watch them dissolve. Do they have memories? Just shadows in the mind like a hand passing between a candle and a wall. Those who have been dead a lesser time stand closer to the fence, but already they have started turning away. Maybe they still have some sadness. And what are their thoughts? Colors mostly, sunset, sunrise, a burning house, someone waving from the flames. Those who have recently died line up against the fence facing outward, watching the mailman, deliverymen, the children returning from school, listening to the church bells dealing out the hours of the living day. So arranged, the dead form a great spoked wheel-- such is the fiery wheel that rolls through heaven. For the rats, nothing is more ridiculous than the recently dead as they press against the railing with their arms stuck between the bars. Occassionally, one sees a friend, even a loved one. Then what a shouting takes place as the dead tries to catch the eye of the living. One actually sees his wife waiting for a bus and reaches out so close that he nearly touches her yellow hair. During life they were great lovers. Maybe he should throw a finger at her, something to attract her attention. Like a scarecrow in a stiff wind, the dead husband waves his arms. Is she aware of anything? Perhaps a slight breeze on an otherwise still day, perhaps a smell of earth. And what does she remember? Sometimes, when she sits in his favorite chair or drinks a wine that he liked, she will recall his face but much faded, like a favorite dress washed too often. And her husband, what does he think? As a piece of crumpled paper burns within a fire, so the thought of her burns within his brain. And where is she going? These days she has taken a new lover and she's going to his apartment. Even as she waits, she sees herself sitting on his bed as he unfastens the buttons of her blouse. He will cup her breasts in his hands. A sudden breeze will invade the room, making the dust motes dance and sparkle as if each bright spot were a single sharp eyed intelligence, as if the vast legion of the dead had come with their unbearable jumble of envy and regret to watch the man as he drops his head presses his mouth to the erect nipple.

I own this city. I walk with its rhythms, run with its breath, speak its language. Los Angeles is my lover. It knows I'm a survivor. It knows what I've done and has found no reason to forgive me, because there has never been a sin. I am brave and strong. I have a good sense of humor. I am loyal and friendly. I have friends around every corner. Celebrities and homeless people, priests and con men. The Mexican dudes playing dice in the loading dock, the guys with the boom box outside the abandoned buildings. The businessmen and actors, the models and personal trainers. The hookers on Sunset know my name, and I know theirs. We all live here. This is our Los Angeles.

Traits of a Rising Woman 1. Supportive and loyal 2. Doesn’t take things personally 3. Empathetic yet assertive 4. Guided by intuition 5. Roams wild within nature 6. Lover of full moons and sunsets 7. Protective of her wildling cubs 8. Unable to be manipulated or controlled 9. Build’s others up 10. Knows her worth

Out of the Works No Good Comes From The simple equation you found in my notebook frightened you but I could have explained it: After all bright colors of sunset and leaves are added together lovers are subtracted children multiplied, are divided, taken away. The remainder is small enough To stay in this room forever Gray-shadowing restless Trapped on a gray grass plain, I did not plan to tell you Better to lose colors gradually First the blue of the eyes Then the red of blood Its salt taste fading… Wherever you’re heading tonight You think you’re leaving me An the equation of this gray room. Hold her close Pray These are lies I am telling you. …You’ll drive on Putting distance and time between us- The snow in the high Sierras The dawn along the Pacific Dreaming you’ve left this narrow room. But tonight I have traced all escape routes With my finger across the tv weather map. Your ocean dawn is only the gray light In the corner of this room Your mountain snowstorm Flies against the glass screen Until we both are buried.

There is a better life to live full of joy and love, Outside of this small meaning of life that control us night and day and takes from us our life time , i became no-existent to this world , i already exist in the real world , where i can see the sunrise , the flowers dancing with the wind , the birds singing , the beauty of nature reflecting in my eyes , the sunset...when the sunset goes... i have already the light of the moon arriving with the magic bright of the stars, whispering that the night have secrets to tell me , my mind are the new book , and i am the title , the stars are letters of poetry where i can wright the moment as i feel, the light of moon will show me the path where the love and the lovers become one , the place where my soul can lay down and fulfill my deepest desires , this is who i am , the seeker of the beauty that surrond me , with the magic of the planet earth that provide me every days , " i know myself

There is another extreme to be wary of, I remind myself. Behind my desk I have a good library and a philosophy degree on the wall. I appreciate solid research and reasoned conclusions, but I get impatient when academicians limit the boundaries of truth within the five senses and the bicameral brain. At that point I put aside the book and step outside. There, with the warm colors of a sunset or the pastels of a rainbow, I breathe in the clear air and sense again my own Self. A bird chirps, a squirrel scurries up a tree. This divine Essence is greater than my body and utilizes more senses than my physical limitations. Scientists know that colors vibrate at a particular frequency, but there is much more going on; sentient beings delight in the pulsating rhythmic waves and lovers swoon in romantic locales. My own inner barometer senses a higher Order. A hawk or eagle catches my eye. It majestically circles above me, high in the blue sky, then it shoots off towards the west, where rain clouds gather. The sun is setting, light beams through, and a rainbow forms. Thank you Hawk. I get a thrill, my hair stands on end. Something else is here. Signs in the sky. Auspicious. Yes. The mysteries are still here, and we are being called.

Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day; And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair― He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair; He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she, with lips all cold and white, Struggling to keep back the murmur, 'Curfew must not ring tonight!' 'Sexton,' Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, With its walls tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls dark, damp and cold ― 'I've a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. Cromwell will not come till sunset;' and her lips grew strangely white, As she spoke in husky whispers, 'Curfew must not ring tonight!

For one thing, they share a willingness to consider New York from a cinematic distance, overlooking the city’s many irritants except insofar as they add grit and drama to their personal story. In day-to-day terms, this manifests as complaining vigorously about subway hardships and bedbug plagues, and then posting Instagram photos of the skyline at sunset. A not insignificant number of the New York lovers I know—especially the twenty-somethings—are actually pretty unhappy day-to-day.

For one thing, they share a willingness to consider New York from a cinematic distance, overlooking the city’s many irritants except insofar as they add grit and drama to their personal story. In day-to-day terms, this manifests as complaining vigorously about subway hardships and bedbug plagues, and then posting Instagram photos of the skyline at sunset. A not insignificant number of the New York lovers I know—especially the twenty-somethings—are actually pretty unhappy day-to-day. I picture the prom king’s date sitting near him at a party, ignored but still kind of proud to be in the room and on his arm—and incredibly offended at the suggestion that she should break up with him for someone who dotes on her more. Oh, how California dotes! Sun yourself. Take the car. Let your guard down. Breathe deeply, and you’ll smell the jasmine and dusty sage. Show up twenty minutes late. (Just text “Sorry—traffic.”) Explore the weirder corners of your spirituality. Describe yourself, without sarcasm, as a writer slash creative entrepreneur. Work from home. Spread out. Wear the comfortable pants. When I describe this sunshine-and-avocado-filled existence to some New Yorkers, they acknowledge that they really like California, too, but could never move here because they’d get too “soft.

i think you have to chase it. that thing that tells you... keep. going. that there are wilder sunsets and more colors to know. that there are still answers for what's pulling at you. that the emptiness and heartbreak aren't where love will leave you because somewhere there is a lover who will kiss you like you have poetry and addiction on your lips and who needs your touch and taste like mercy on their soul. and there are all those virgin, unfelt things in you; still untouched and tender and unfolding. so you have to keep searching. for all that soul stuff. until your intangible aches are in the flesh, and that fire within you is spilling all around you... i think you have to keep going.

You win some, you lose some. You try and sometimes fail. You grind, grin, and win. You love and remember loss. Everyday is a new day. Every moment another chance. Every road a new sight. All that matters is that you keep going. Stay as present as you can. Spend your time well. Choose your emotions as much as you can. But above all, choose love as much as you can. Forgive sincerely. Laugh fully. Hug closely. Kiss deeply. Leave nothing unsaid. Look straight into stars and sunsets and tears. Hold on. Hold each other. Hold close to all that matters to your heart. To dreams and smiles and people. The rodeo is life. You’re the rider. Saddle up, ride hard, and hold on tight. But whatever you do. Just keep on riding.

But I know how much you love it when I write about you,” he teases, squeezing my fingers. “So this is my heart given to you in the words I wrote.” His smile fades until his mouth rests in a sober line. “My heart given to you completely,” he adds so softy, I’m not sure the congregation hears before he launches into what he has prepared. “It’s called ‘Still.’” You ask me today if I love you, if I take you as my own to have and to hold, and my heart replies yes. Always, evermore, even after. Still. Not just today before a crowd, but when we are alone, you and I, through years, through pain, My heart will answer again and again, still. Ask me in a million seconds, ask me in a billion years, Do you love me? And I will say still. Ask me when we toil, when we rest, when we fuss and fight. With the taste of anger burning my lips, I will say still. Ask me when your belly is full like the moon, and our love has stretched your body with my child, leaving your skin, once flawless, now silvered, traced, scarred, I will worship you. My eyes will never stray. My heart will never wander, gladly leashed to you all my days. I am fixed on you. Our love is a great river, the Amazon, the Nile, the river Euphrates, and my heart is a violent churning in my chest, swimming upstream, defying every odd, accepting any dare To reach you. To rush you, to hold you, to keep you. You ask me if I love you? God, yes. My lover, you are the single star in a universe void before you came. And when the years have passed, and we have watched a thousand sunsets, and we are bent, our bodies crooked with age ask me again. In the twilight, in the shadow of the life we have shared, ask me if I love you, and my heart will answer before my lips can part. My love, my life, my heart never left your hands. Always, evermore, even after. Still.

i think you have to chase it. that thing that tells you… keep. going. that there are wilder sunsets and more colors to know. that there are still answers for what's pulling at you. that the emptiness and heartbreak aren't where love will leave you because somewhere there is a lover who will kiss you like you have poetry and addiction on your lips and needs your touch and taste like mercy on their soul. and there are all those virgin, unfelt things in you, still untouched and tender and unfolding. so you have to keep searching. for all that soul stuff. until your intangible aches are in the flesh and that fire in you is spilling all around you… i think you have to keep going.

I leave you free to be yourself: to think your thoughts, indulge your tastes, follow your inclinations, behave in ways that you decide are to your liking.” And you will notice something else: The person automatically ceases to be especial and important to you. And he/she becomes important the way a sunset or a symphony is lovely in itself, the way a tree is especial in itself and not for the fruit or the shade that it can offer you. Your beloved will then belong not to you but to everyone or to no one like the sunrise and the tree. Test it by saying those words again: “I leave you free to be yourself …” In saying those words you have set yourself free. You are now ready to love. For when you cling, what you offer the other is not love but a chain by which both you and your beloved are bound. Love can only exist in freedom. The true lover seeks the good of his beloved which requires especially the liberation of the beloved from the lover.

I loved this girl in a way I couldn’t wrap my head around. More than a friend. More than a lover. Reese Murphy was…everything. And she was going to be mine in every way.

Why are you sitting on the same side of the booth as me?” I said under my breath. “Because we’re lovers, Miney.” He chuckled as his lips grazed my ear again. “Carl and I never sat on the same side of a booth.” “Exactly. I’m a much better boyfriend than he is. I don’t like any distance between me and my woman.” “He’s not even here. Tone it down,” I said over my laughter. “This is a small town. Everyone talks. I can’t have people thinking I’m a selfish lover.

I prefer salty over sweet. I prefer sunsets over sunrises, but only because I love to watch the constellations begin to burn. My favorite season is autumn, because my mum and I both believed that’s the only time when magic can be tasted in the air. I am a devout tea lover and can drink my weight in it.

Don’t you fucking dare. The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once, surrounding me in a quiet, steely embrace that smelled of winter nights and evenings by the hearth. He was the shadows beneath the moon on the coldest of nights, and the comforting embrace of a lover after sunset. Get up, my star. Get. Up.

Derek Walcott wrote in his 1992 Nobel Lecture about the enthusiasm of the tourist: What is hidden cannot be loved. The traveller cannot love, since love is stasis and travel is motion. If he returns to what he loved in a landscape and stays there, he is no longer a traveller but in stasis and concentration, the lover of that particular part of earth, a native. So many people say they ‘love the Caribbean’, meaning that someday they plan to return for a visit but could never live there, the usual benign insult of the traveller, the tourist. These travellers, at their kindest, were devoted to the same patronage, the islands passing in profile, their vegetal luxury, their backwardness and poverty . . . What is the earthly paradise for our visitors? Two weeks without rain and a mahogany tan, and, at sunset, local troubadours in straw hats and floral shirts beating ‘Yellow Bird’ and ‘Banana Boat Song’ to death. There is a territory wider than this – wider than the limits made by the map of an island – which is the illimitable sea and what it remembers. All of the Antilles, every island, is an effort of memory; every mind, every racial biography culminating in amnesia and fog. Pieces of sunlight through the fog and sudden rainbows, arcs-en-ciel.24

Hand that stretched I had never seen him there before, On the street where I tread every day to settle life’s daily score, There on the edges of pavement at its most conspicuous location, He knelt there with no sense of self promotion, With one hand held out from his thinning and tattered blanket, And he held it there in this position from the sunrise to the sunset, And everyone who passed by flung something towards him, Few tossed money, few tossed a thing or two, but most of them offered him looks grim, It was at these moments his hand retreated a bit, But then it reclaimed its stance that the man had for many years now deemed fit, And people looked at him, a few looked at the hand, Many, just like me, paused for a moment and thought of the causes for his life being so bland, Who could tell, no one, none of us, for only the hand knew of the strain, Of being stretched forever on the pillars of disdain and a lot of pain, Beside the man, next to the pavement, flowed a river, That stretched endlessly like his hand as if trying to reach out to its discreet lover, Because it flowed slowly, with no visible waves, no movement at all, But in reality it flowed deep into the veins of journey encompassing seasons all, The journey called life that just like kneeling man’s hand stretches endlessly, Through which we seek life, that evades us all tirelessly, Because finding it will be like the river meeting its lover, And then both the river and the hand would sink to a point lower, From where nothing can be retrieved once lost, Because there everything is a creation of the past, To be continued........

Hand that stretched I had never seen him there before, On the street where I tread every day to settle life’s daily score, There on the edges of pavement at its most conspicuous location, He knelt there with no sense of self promotion, With one hand held out from his thinning and tattered blanket, And he held it there in this position from the sunrise to the sunset, And everyone who passed by flung something towards him, Few tossed money, few tossed a thing or two, but most of them offered him looks grim, It was at these moments his hand retreated a bit, But then it reclaimed its stance that the man had for many years now deemed fit, And people looked at him, a few looked at the hand, Many, just like me, paused for a moment and thought of the causes of his life so bland, Who could tell, no one, none of us, for only the hand knew of the strain, Of being stretched forever on the pillars of disdain and a lot of pain, Beside the man, next to the pavement, flowed a river, That stretched endlessly like his hand as if trying to reach out to its discreet lover, Because it flowed slowly, with no visible waves, no movement at all, But in reality it flowed deep into the veins of journey encompassing seasons all, The journey called life that just like kneeling man’s hand stretches endlessly, Through which we seek life, that evades us all tirelessly, Because finding it will be like the river meeting its lover, And then both the river and the hand would sink to a point lower, From where nothing can be retrieved once lost, Because there everything is a creation of the past, The river that flows no more, the hand that is tired of stretching forever, And then life would experience nothing exciting and nothing newer, Since the river would end its journey, as the hand would stretch no more, It is then everything may appear to be like before, but then there will be no one left to settle life’s daily score, So, I have not tossed anything into the stretched hand of this man, Because I know he is neither a beggar nor a destitute, he is life dressed as a man, To be continued.....

Love is not a verb. It is simply any experience that produces an awareness of the ever-present radiance of the Divine. Any experience; a sunset, a puppy, or the embrace of a lover's arms.

Moreover, Nancy Sinatra was afflicted, as the overwhelming majority of Americans were, with monolingualism. Lana’s richer, more textured version of “Bang Bang” layered English with French and Vietnamese. Bang bang, je ne l’oublierai pas went the last line of the French version, which was echoed by Pham Duy’s Vietnamese version, We will never forget. In the pantheon of classic pop songs from Saigon, this tricolor rendition was one of the most memorable, masterfully weaving together love and violence in the enigmatic story of two lovers who, regardless of having known each other since childhood, or because of knowing each other since childhood, shoot each other down. Bang bang was the sound of memory’s pistol firing into our heads, for we could not forget love, we could not forget war, we could not forget lovers, we could not forget enemies, we could not forget home, and we could not forget Saigon. We could not forget the caramel flavor of iced coffee with coarse sugar; the bowls of noodle soup eaten while squatting on the sidewalk; the strumming of a friend’s guitar while we swayed on hammocks under coconut trees; the football matches played barefoot and shirtless in alleys, squares, parks, and meadows; the pearl chokers of morning mist draped around the mountains; the labial moistness of oysters shucked on a gritty beach; the whisper of a dewy lover saying the most seductive words in our language, anh oi; the rattle of rice being threshed; the workingmen who slept in their cyclos on the streets, kept warm only by the memories of their families; the refugees who slept on every sidewalk of every city; the slow burning of patient mosquito coils; the sweetness and firmness of a mango plucked fresh from its tree; the girls who refused to talk to us and who we only pined for more; the men who had died or disappeared; the streets and homes blown away by bombshells; the streams where we swam naked and laughing; the secret grove where we spied on the nymphs who bathed and splashed with the innocence of the birds; the shadows cast by candlelight on the walls of wattled huts; the atonal tinkle of cowbells on mud roads and country paths; the barking of a hungry dog in an abandoned village; the appetizing reek of the fresh durian one wept to eat; the sight and sound of orphans howling by the dead bodies of their mothers and fathers; the stickiness of one’s shirt by afternoon, the stickiness of one’s lover by the end of lovemaking, the stickiness of our situations; the frantic squealing of pigs running for their lives as villagers gave chase; the hills afire with sunset; the crowned head of dawn rising from the sheets of the sea; the hot grasp of our mother’s hand; and while the list could go on and on and on, the point was simply this: the most important thing we could never forget was that we could never forget. When Lana was finished, the audience clapped, whistled, and stomped, but I sat silent and stunned as she bowed and gracefully withdrew, so disarmed I could not even applaud.

how many more sunsets do i have to miss how many more lovers should i betray to get a foothold in this life?

Sunset behind, Rain ahead, Rainbow above, Ahh, what a beautiful evening! Is there anything in this world that can beat the beauty of Nature?

DESERT SAFARI DUBAI IN SUMMER Desert Safari Dubai is a popular, highly visited, and exciting area for knocking the thrills. It offers a variety of activities and games full of fun and memorable adventures. If you are looking for the best desert safari Dubai experience with thrill, a lot of fun, and ultimate outdoor entertainment, you have come to the right place. Desert Safari Dubai is all this and much more. You might think that Dubai as a desert country will be scorching warm and hot, but when you actually visit you’ll be surprised to discover the climate and weather not just pleasant, but cozy, even during summertime. If you’re visiting Dubai in the summer months (i.e.. the months of July through September) then you should take the evening desert safari. Our highly-trained and experienced driver will pick you up from your hotel and drop you into the vast desert and are joined by other tourists in a small number of jeeps that are 4X4. After traveling for a long distance, the jeeps pull over for a break to refuel and for desert activities such as quad biking. After a refreshing ride, the desert safari will take passengers on an exciting dune bashing crisscross, and when you arrive at the camp in the desert take part in fun activities such as camel rides, and sand-boarding, taking a picture with a falcon. It is also possible to enjoy traditional rituals such as having a Mehndi tattoo or puffing on a Shisha and being enthralled by the belly dancing and the Tanura dance, all taking in the traditional Arabian food. The battle between the massive red dunes and the rolling Land Cruiser is only experienced and appreciated when you are there and taking care of your precious life. The guide on safari keeps you on the edge, yet you’re safe. The thrilling safari will have its supporters screaming and shouting for the next exciting adventure. Experience the desert safari with friends or family members in Dubai’s sprawling and captivating desert. Sand, sun, as well as 4×4, bring thrilling adventures for the entire family and friends. Desert Safari Dubai is something you cannot miss or forget. You will also enjoy the Desert Safari Dubai, which is a never-ending experience. So join us today! We’ll provide you with many deals so you can take advantage of them when they definitely work for you. You can dine in Morning Desert Safari according to your schedule. Evening Desert Safari Deals are perfect for those who love sunsets and enjoy relaxing at dusk. The Overnight Desert Safari is another exciting activity that we offer for night camping lovers. Enjoy the incredible Overnight Desert Safari with morning and evening combo for a lifetime memorable adventure.

World! Oceans! Wind! Sunset! Sunrise! I have seen all the colours of life. Drops falling from leaves in early morning, And beautiful flowers bloom breaking virginity, Silence almost like darkness, And that milky light of moon, Robust monsoon fighting big trees, All these are dear to my heart! Poor life of insects, Birds chirping like Goddess singing melody, And at last if you have a lover beside? Friends! Then desires also become noble!

Her childhood friend was kneeling in front of her, lying on the couch, gazing intently into her eyes. Right in her eyes! Ellen felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment again.

I own this city. I walk with its rhythms, run with it's breath, speak its language. Los Angeles is my lover. It knows I'm a survivor. It knows what I've done and has found no reason to forgive me, because there has never been a sin. I am brave and strong. I have a good sense of humor. I am loyal and friendly. I have friends around every corner. Celebrities and homeless people, priests and con men. The Mexican dudes playing dice in the loading dock, the guys with the boom box outside the abandoned buildings. The businessmen and actors, the models and personal trainers. The hookers on Sunset know my name, and I know theirs. We all live here. This is our Los Angeles.

Bang bang was the sound of memory’s pistol firing into our heads, for we could not forget love, we could not forget war, we could not forget lovers, we could not forget enemies, we could not forget home, and we could not forget Saigon. We could not forget the caramel flavor of iced coffee with coarse sugar; the bowls of noodle soup eaten while squatting on the sidewalk; the strumming of a friend’s guitar while we swayed on hammocks under coconut trees; the football matches played barefoot and shirtless in alleys, squares, parks, and meadows; the pearl chokers of morning mist draped around the mountains; the labial moistness of oysters shucked on a gritty beach; the whisper of a dewy lover saying the most seductive words in our language, anh oi; the rattle of rice being threshed; the workingmen who slept in their cyclos on the streets, kept warm only by the memories of their families; the refugees who slept on every sidewalk of every city; the slow burning of patient mosquito coils; the sweetness and firmness of a mango plucked fresh from its tree; the girls who refused to talk to us and who we only pined for more; the men who had died or disappeared; the streets and homes blown away by bombshells; the streams where we swam naked and laughing; the secret grove where we spied on the nymphs who bathed and splashed with the innocence of the birds; the shadows cast by candlelight on the walls of wattled huts; the atonal tinkle of cowbells on mud roads and country paths; the barking of a hungry dog in an abandoned village; the appetizing reek of the fresh durian one wept to eat; the sight and sound of orphans howling by the dead bodies of their mothers and fathers; the stickiness of one’s shirt by afternoon, the stickiness of one’s lover by the end of lovemaking, the stickiness of our situations; the frantic squealing of pigs running for their lives as villagers gave chase; the hills afire with sunset; the crowned head of dawn rising from the sheets of the sea; the hot grasp of our mother’s hand; and while the list could go on and on and on, the point was simply this: the most important thing we could never forget was that we could never forget.

prefer salty over sweet. I prefer sunsets over sunrises, but only because I love to watch the constellations begin to burn. My favorite season is autumn, because my mum and I both believed that’s the only time when magic can be tasted in the air. I am a devout tea lover and can drink my weight in it.