Tornado Love Quotes

When they're together, it's like putting a hurricane and a tornado in the same room - you can feel the tension. I didn't believe in the cliche of soul mates until I saw them together.

Some people are born with tornadoes in their lives, but constellations in their eyes. Other people are born with stars at their feet, but their souls are lost at sea.

She was chaos and beauty intertwined. A tornado of roses from divine.

I’m sorry, Shepley,” I called after him. He froze and wheeled around, with the face of a man that had reached his limit. “I wish you and Travis would just get your shit together! You’re a goddamn tornado! When you’re happy, it’s love and peace and butterflies. When you’re pissed, you take the whole fucking world down with you!

Bring the pure wine of love and freedom. But sir, a tornado is coming. More wine, we'll teach this storm A thing or two about whirling.

I wish you and Travis would just get your shit together! You're a goddamn tornado! When you're happy, it's love and peace and butterflies. When you're pissed, you take the whole fucking world down with you!

The absence of violence is not love.

Well, who doesn't love a good mpreg?" "A what?" "Sim gets man-pregnant? Gives birth to twins during a tornado?" "I'll pretend I never heard that." "Here, I'll read you the wedding one -" "NO.

They spark. When they’re together, it’s like putting a hurricane and a tornado in the same room – you can feel the tension. I didn’t believe in the cliche of soul mates until I saw them together.

I walk like I have tornadoes for legs. Let us make love like Kansas.

Yes It could happen any time, tornado, earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen. Or sunshine, love, salvation. It could, you know. That's why we wake and look out - no guarantees in this life. But some bonuses, like morning, like right now, like noon, like evening.

In the spring of her twenty-second year, Sumire fell in love for the first time in her life. An intense love, a veritable tornado sweeping across the plains—flattening everything in its path, tossing things up in the air, ripping them to shreds, crushing them to bits. The tornado’s intensity doesn’t abate for a second as it blasts across the ocean, laying waste to Angkor Wat, incinerating an Indian jungle, tigers and everything, transforming itself into a Persian desert sandstorm, burying an exotic fortress city under a sea of sand. In short, a love of truly monumental proportions. The person she fell in love with happened to be 17 years older than Sumire. And was married. And, I should add, was a woman. This is where it all began, and where it all ended. Almost.

Maybe love, too, is beautiful because it has a wildness that cannot be tamed. I don't know. All I know is that passion can take you up like a house of cards in a tornado, leaving destruction in its wake. Or it can let you alone because you've built a stone wall against it, set out the armed guards to keep it from touching you. The real trick is not to let it in, but to hold on. To understand that the heart is as wide and vast as the universe, but that we come to know it best from here, this place is gravity and stability, where out feet can still touch ground.

Love can transform us. It can be a healing force or a disaster, a tidal wave, a tornado. It can burn and scar us or heal our scars. It can be the ghost that haunts us, or the best friend who reads our every thought. Love may arrive like an angel of mercy, a fairy with raven wings or a hairy beast that will tear us apart limb from limb, kill and savor us down to the bones.

Go after her. Fuck, don’t sit there and wait for her to call, go after her because that’s what you should do if you love someone, don’t wait for them to give you a sign cause it might never come, don’t let people happen to you, don’t let me happen to you, or her, she’s not a fucking television show or tornado. There are people I might have loved had they gotten on the airplane or run down the street after me or called me up drunk at four in the morning because they need to tell me right now and because they cannot regret this and I always thought I’d be the only one doing crazy things for people who would never give enough of a fuck to do it back or to act like idiots or be entirely vulnerable and honest and making someone fall in love with you is easy and flying 3000 miles on four days notice because you can’t just sit there and do nothing and breathe into telephones is not everyone’s idea of love but it is the way I can recognize it because that is what I do. Go scream it and be with her in meaningful ways because that is beautiful and that is generous and that is what loving someone is, that is raw and that is unguarded, and that is all that is worth anything, really.

You can't change people with love. It doesn't work that way.

You can be doing great for months, maybe even years, and then boom, something happens, something triggers an episode. Then your life spirals into one big tornado of emotions that has swept you up right out from under yourself, and you lose control of everything, and you just spin around and around inside a dark, twisty, cloud, while everything flies out of control.

He wants to take it back instantly. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, staring at this tornado of a boy with deep shadows and dark curls and holds his fucking hand like a child, unable to pry himself away

What is the world? What is it for? It is an art. It is the best of all possible art, a finite picture of the infinite. Assess it like prose, like poetry, like architecture, sculpture, painting, dance, delta blues, opera, tragedy, comedy, romance, epic. Assess it like you would a Faberge egg, like a gunfight, like a musical, like a snowflake, like a death, a birth, a triumph, a love story, a tornado, a smile, a heartbreak, a sweater, a hunger pain, a desire, a fufillment, a desert, a waterfall, a song, a race, a frog, a play, a song, a marriage, a consummation, a thirst quenched. Assess it like that. And when you're done, find an ant and have him assess the cathedrals of Europe.

Roses are red, Foxes are clever. I like your butt, let me touch it forever. -Redneck Love Poem

Grandfather used to call the rain 'the erotic ritual between heaven and Earth.' The rain represented the seeds sown in the Earth’s womb by heaven, her roaring husband, to further life. Rainy encounters between heaven and Earth were sexual love on a cosmic scale. All of nature became involved. Clouds, heaven’s body, were titillated by the storm. In turn, heaven caressed the Earth with heavy winds, which rushed toward their erotic climax, the tornado. The grasses that pop out of the Earth’s warm center shortly after the rain are called the numberless children of Earth who will serve humankind’s need for nourishment. The rainy season is the season of life. Yes, it had rained the night before.

Go after her. Fuck, don’t sit there and wait for her to call, go after her because that’s what you should do if you love someone, don’t wait for them to give you a sign cause it might never come, don’t let people happen to you, don’t let me happen to you, or her, she’s not a fucking television show or tornado. There are people I might have loved had they gotten on the airplane or run down the street after me or called me up drunk at four in the morning because they need to tell me right now and because they cannot regret this and I always thought I’d be the only one doing crazy things for people who would never give enough of a fuck to do it back or to act like idiots or be entirely vulnerable and honest and making someone fall in love with you is easy and flying 3000 miles on four days notice because you can’t just sit there and do nothing and breathe into telephones is not everyone’s idea of love but it is the way I can recognize it because that is what I do. Go scream it and be with her in meaningful ways because that is beautiful and that is generous and that is what loving someone is, that is raw and that is unguarded, and that is all that is worth anything, really.

loving you was like throwing a lasso around a tornado i tried to hold on to you took a ride on a tilt-a-whirl that sits on top of the world i thought i could show you i've always been afraid of flying but you can't blame a girl for trying

He was a tornado, changing every second, beautiful and dangerous and unpredictable. But she loved storms. Always had.

Tearing through the room like an F5 tornado of hyperactive joy was Taylor Hawkins, my brother from another mother, my best friend, a man for whom I would take a bullet. Upon first meeting, our bond was immediate, and we grew closer with every day, every song, every note that we ever played together. I am not afraid to say that our chance meeting was a kind of love at first sight, igniting a musical “twin flame” that still burns to this day. Together, we have become an unstoppable duo, onstage and off, in pursuit of any and all adventure we can find. We are absolutely meant to be, and I am grateful that we found each other in this lifetime.

I love the moments that absolutely dwarf you. That show you where you fit and how small you are. That remind you that we are all specks of dust caught up in a tornado and we never even know we are spinning.

My love is a dandelion in a tornado, and hers is a lit birthday candle in a hurricane. That's why my Duck Soup has that slight taste of WindFlower.

Girls come like a breeze and leave like a tornado. But we emerge stronger and wiser.

I love the coffee for staining your teeth, and warming your palms in the morning. I would protect you till the end of time. I would lie down, in the middle of tornado, and cover you.

I used to think love was two people sucking on the same straw to see whose thirst was stronger, but then I whiffed the crushed walnuts of your nape, traced jackals in the snow-covered tombstones of your teeth. I used to think love was a non-stop saxophone solo in the lungs, till I hung with you like a pair of sneakers from a phone line, and you promised to always smell the rose in my kerosene. I used to think love was terminal pelvic ballet, till you let me jog beside while you pedaled all over hell on the menstrual bicycle, your tongue ripping through my prairie like a tornado of paper cuts. I used to think love was an old man smashing a mirror over his knee, till you helped me carry the barbell of my spirit back up the stairs after my car pirouetted in the desert. You are my history book. I used to not believe in fairy tales till I played the dunce in sheep’s clothing and felt how perfectly your foot fit in the glass slipper of my ass. But then duty wrapped its phone cord around my ankle and yanked me across the continent. And now there are three thousand miles between the u and s in esophagus. And being without you is like standing at a cement-filled wall with a roll of Yugoslavian nickels and making a wish. Some days I miss you so much I’d jump off the roof of your office building just to catch a glimpse of you on the way down. I wish we could trade left eyeballs, so we could always see what the other sees. But you’re here, I’m there, and we have only words, a nightly phone call - one chance to mix feelings into syllables and pour into the receiver, hope they don’t disassemble in that calculus of wire. And lately - with this whole war thing - the language machine supporting it - I feel betrayed by the alphabet, like they’re injecting strychnine into my vowels, infecting my consonants, naming attack helicopters after shattered Indian tribes: Apache, Blackhawk; and West Bank colonizers are settlers, so Sharon is Davey Crockett, and Arafat: Geronimo, and it’s the Wild West all over again. And I imagine Picasso looking in a mirror, decorating his face in war paint, washing his brushes in venom. And I think of Jenin in all that rubble, and I feel like a Cyclops with two eyes, like an anorexic with three mouths, like a scuba diver in quicksand, like a shark with plastic vampire teeth, like I’m the executioner’s fingernail trying to reason with the hand. And I don’t know how to speak love when the heart is a busted cup filling with spit and paste, and the only sexual fantasy I have is busting into the Pentagon with a bazooka-sized pen and blowing open the minds of generals. And I comfort myself with the thought that we’ll name our first child Jenin, and her middle name will be Terezin, and we’ll teach her how to glow in the dark, and how to swallow firecrackers, and to never neglect the first straw; because no one ever talks about the first straw, it’s always the last straw that gets all the attention, but by then it’s way too late.

She's watching me: strands of hair stand between me and a full view of her face. She's beautiful, but in a shameful way. One I'm not sure I'm supposed to appreciate. Everything about her is captivating, like the aftermath of a storm. People aren't supposed to get pleasure out of the destruction Mother Nature is capable of, but we want to stare anyway. Charlie is the devastation left in the wake of a tornado.

You don’t have to move mountains. Simply fall in love with life. Be a tornado of happiness, gratitude, and acceptance. You will change the world just by being a warm, kind-hearted human being. —Anita Krizzan

Just listen, okay?" He grabs my shoulders before I can move past him, and I know, I know that something huge is happening, the kind of thing that takes worlds apart and remakes them. Hurricanes and tornadoes and boys with blue eyes.

If you want to be reminded of the love of the Lord, Mom always said, just watch the sunrise. And if you want to be reminded of the wrath of the Lord, Dad said, watch a tornado.

Dolly says love is like a butterfly, soft and gentle as a sigh, but from what I’ve seen of love, I think it’s more like a tornado, shocking and violent and so powerful it can rip your soul out of your mouth…

I opened my mouth to exclaim about the puppies. They were beauty and joy and innocence made of flesh and fur, in an ugly time when fear and sadness and mistrust hung over the world like a sickly green tornado sky.

Need an adrenaline junkie someone who is fearless enough to chase a tornado & fall for disaster willing to hold on when I recklessly strike, like lightning. After my catastrophic personality's storm, they will whisper -"I love thunder.

My mind was a constant tornado of thoughts, worries and confused-as-fuck feelings.

Nurtured by negative circumstances, braiding raging tornadoes in her hair, she held her head high, wearing her weathered poetry with pride.

If you were mine, I’d make love to you every chance I got, so whenever we were apart, you’d still feel me inside you.

After that, the sky rained down a storm of fists. Then the tornado of kicks came in. All in all, Wick wasn't in love with the change in weather.

I love you, storm girl,” I said. “I’d love to live in Mirror Lake with you. I’d love to work on the Spiral Project with you. I’d love to chase storms, outrun tornados, fix trucks, drive all over the country. Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it. As long as I’m with you.

A little sacrifice, he thought, just a little sacrifice. For this will calm her, a hug, a kiss, calm caresses. She doesn’t want anything more. And even if she did, what of it? For a little sacrifice, a very little sacrifice, is beautiful and worth… Were she to want more… It would calm her. A quiet, calm, gentle act of love. And I… Why, it doesn’t matter, because Essi smells of verbena, not lilac and gooseberry, doesn’t have cool, electrifying skin. Essi’s hair is not a black tornado of gleaming curls, Essi’s eyes are gorgeous, soft, warm and cornflower blue; they don’t blaze with a cold, unemotional, deep violet. Essi will fall asleep afterwards, turn her head away, open her mouth slightly, Essi will not smile in triumph. For Essi… Essi is not Yennefer.

I’ll never let you go is scrawled three inches long down the side of my ribcage. The skin is still an angry red color, puffy and irritated looking. My gaze drifts up to Colin’s in the mirror. I suck in a sharp breath as I’m caught up in a tornado of emotion. He has the same thing on his arm. They are simple, black ink only, but the meaning of the words are anything but.

I want to be the man who sends you off to sleep feeling safe and loved, Jewel. Wake up feeling safe and loved. But I can’t do that unless you let me know where the hurt is,” he said, brushing his hand down the side of my face. “So that I can fix you.

Before I’d signed on with Caldswell, my life had followed a pattern: obey orders, climb the ladder, keep my eyes on the prize. It was a good gig, dangerous and exciting with glory as my reward. Most of all, though, it was simple. A path of my own choosing where I did what I loved, knew where I fit, and understood where I was going. Now, though, I felt like a dollhouse in a tornado.

The light was as intense as a love affair. I was blinded, delighted, not just because it was warm and wonderful, but because nature measures nothing. Nobody needs this much sunlight. Nobody needs droughts, volcanoes, monsoons, tornadoes either, but we get them, because our world is as extravagant as a world can be. We are the ones obsessed by measurement. The world just pours it out.

The gospel tells me I can’t fix myself. The gospel tells me I can’t protect myself. But the gospel tells me I can rest, knowing that Jesus walked into this broken, sad, scary place to rescue me and love me and cast out my fear. And He did and He does and He will.

It is a very long story, and I promise I’ll spill all later. Condensed version: my mom is a Brannick, I am the unholy love child of a Brannick and a demon, and the bar for family dysfunction is now set super high.” Jenna, to her credit, knew when to just roll with it. “Okay, then.” “The more pressing question right now is, why are we back at Hex Hall?” Jenna looked around, taking in the unnatural fog, the dilapidated (well, more dilapidated) feel of the house. “Something tells me it’s not for a class ruinion.” “Did you get pulled through some kind of magic tornado, too?” I asked her. “No, I flew in here as a bat. It’s a new thing I learned from Byron.” “Ha ha,” I said, swatting at her arm.

You were the colors to my monochrome life. My morning light and my midnight dream. Flawed, yet whole. You used to think that you weren’t enough – but you were enough for me. You were my first everything. My fire. My tornado. You were the eye of my storm. The moment I saw you, I knew you were going to destroy my life. But I let it happen. There was just something magical and outlandish about playing with fire that I couldn’t resist. I wanted to be as close as I could to the idea of destroying myself. It didn’t happen out of the blue. Day by day – moment by moment, I started to lose myself. With every kiss, you took away a part of me. Until one day, I woke up and I wasn’t myself anymore. I never thought that a disaster could be so damn beautiful. I don’t regret it. But I regret waking up next to an empty bed and how unceremoniously you left when the damage was done. I saw your picture today, holding someone else’s hand. And it made me realize that some disasters don’t make a sound. Not every destruction stands still. Some of them might walk right past you.

I walk like I have tornadoes for legs. Let us make love like Kansas.


My love, do not leave me, for without you I am but a leaf tossed in a tornado ... and, if ever you should leave me, I'll forever be lost in the darkness.

A tornado cluster of fucks rolled into one huge clusterfuck.

Relationships fail because of trust issues, commitment issues and communication issues. Without communication there is no relationship. Without respect there is no LOVE. Without trust there is no reason to continue. Stay grounded to the one you love. Respect him or her to the utmost. Respect the relationship. If the relationship is healthy, then keep on keeping on and never let a Hurricane, Tornado, or Tsunami tear your house down. Life's to short for broken hearts. Life's to short for betrayal or back stabbing. Life's to short to live with the thoughts of "What if's". Life's to short to waste a perfectly good heart. Adhere to the truth, if not Karma has no deadline. She could strike whenever you're in a relationship or married, then you look back on years ago wondering "What if...

Trust me, in these moments - when you decide whether you can take anything else or if you have given up hope on your future, and you’re so upset that you can barely breathe, because everyone you’ve hurt and everything you’ve done wrong is swarming around in your mind - you’re sucked right back into that tornado. You don’t know how big the tornado will be until it’s already here, and you’re spiraling in it, watching it destroy everything around you - except it’s not a tornado. It’s you. You’re the tornado. You think you are causing pain to others, but most of all, you are in pain yourself, so you see no other way out. You can’t live this way anymore. And you think everyone would be better off without you.

My fears, my failures, my phases, real and imagined and everything in between, do not get to say who I am. They can’t. Because Jesus already did. He rose from the dead with new names for me. Forgiven. Approved. Loved. Daughter. Heir. Friend.

His room was a sickly dual-tone of crimson and charcoal, like an Untitled Rothko, the colours bleeding into each other horribly and then rather serenely. The overall effect was overwhelmingly unapologetic but it grew on you like a wart on your nose you didn't realise it was a part of your identity until one day it simply was. His room was his identity. Fiercely bold, avant-garde but never monotonous. He was red, he was black, he was bored, and he was fire. At least to me he seemed like fire. A tornado of fire that burned all in its wake leaving only the wretched brightness of annihilation. His room was where he charmed and disarmed us. We were his playthings. Nobody plays with fire and leaves unscarred. The fire soon seeps into chard and soot. The colours of his soul, his aura, and probably his heart if he didn't stop smoking.

There had to be an origin for ruin. I was suddenly jealous of that tornado, the way it tangoed on the page, the way her hand ran down its length like a spine. The photo was taken from the perspective of someone who loved it, and I wanted to be captured that way, to be chased from my body.

And now because you are converged, you rise. Through the eye of the narrowest tangle of root, shoot, and branch, past the tallest emerald treetops, up and up, gathering strength. A curlicue of mystery, a calligram of power, you wrap yourself around yourself and tornado to the Saigol mansion, quaking that mausoleum of a hatchery in your wake.

Trust me, in these moments - when you decide whether you can take anything else or if you have given up hope on your future, and you’re so upset that you can barely breathe, because everyone you’ve hurt and everything you’ve done wrong is swarming around in your mind - you’re sucked right back into that tornado. You don’t know how big the tornado will be until it’s already here, and you’re spiralling in it, watching it destroy everything around you - except it’s not a tornado. It’s you. You’re the tornado. You think you are causing pain to others, but most of all, you are in pain yourself, so you see no other way out. You can’t live this way anymore. And you think everyone would be better off without you.

Eena turned aside, breathing shallowly as her mind raced with questions. She was glad he couldn’t read the confusion that swooped her up like a passing tornado. Was it even possible to genuinely love more than one man? Yes. Oh, yes. She knew it because her heart irrefutably felt it. She loved Derian; it was true. She wasn’t trying to convince herself of it, no matter what Edgar said. She yearned deeply for her captain. But she loved Ian too. She always had. Only she purposefully, appropriately, had set those feelings aside when he made the decision to pursue Angelle. But Angelle was gone now. No, Eena thought to herself, this changes nothing. She scolded her heart for longing for something spent and ended, for even considering the possibility. Her with Ian? No, no, it had to remain in the past.

An intense love, a veritable tornado sweeping across the plains—flattening everything in its path, tossing things up in the air, ripping them to shreds, crushing them to bits. The tornado’s intensity doesn’t abate for a second as it blasts across the ocean, laying waste to Angkor Wat, incinerating an Indian jungle, tigers and everything, transforming itself into a Persian desert sandstorm, burying an exotic fortress city under a sea of sand. In short, a love of truly monumental proportions.

There was pain, yes, but I figured out how not to feel it. Instead, I thought about Celestial and me and how maybe we just thought we could weather this calamity. We believed we could talk this out, reasoning our way through this. But someone was going to pay for what happened to Roy, just as Roy paid for what happened to that woman. Someone always pays. Bullet don’t have nobody’s name on it, that’s what people say. I think the same is true for vengeance. Maybe even for love. It’s out there, random and deadly, like a tornado.

It was the Age of Anything-Can-Happen, he reminded himself. He had heard many people say that on TV and on the outré video clips floating in cyberspace, which added a further, new-technology depth to his addiction. There were no rules any more. And in the Age of Anything-Can-Happen, well, anything could happen. Old friends could become new enemies and traditional enemies could be your new besties or even lovers. It was no longer possible to predict the weather, or the likelihood of war, or the outcome of elections. A woman might fall in love with a piglet, or a man start living with an owl. A beauty might fall asleep and, when kissed, wake up speaking a different language and in that new language reveal a completely altered character. A flood might drown your city. A tornado might carry your house to a faraway land where, upon landing, it would squash a witch. Criminals could become kings and kings be unmasked as criminals. A man might discover that the woman he lived with was his father’s illegitimate child. A whole nation might jump off a cliff like swarming lemmings. Men who played presidents on TV could become presidents. The water might run out. A woman might bear a baby who was found to be a revenant god. Words could lose their meanings and acquire new ones. The world might end, as at least one prominent scientist- entrepreneur had begun repeatedly to predict. An evil scent would hang over the ending. And a TV star might miraculously return the love of a foolish old coot, giving him an unlikely romantic triumph which would redeem a long, small life, bestowing upon it, at the last, the radiance of majesty.

...[M]ost of us have figured out that we have to do what's in front of us and keep doing it. We clean up beaches after oil spills. We rebuild whole towns after hurricanes and tornadoes. We return calls and library books. We get people water. Some of us even pray. Every time we choose the good action or response, the decent, the valuable, it builds, incrementally, to renewal, resurrection, the place of newness, freedom, justice. The equation is: life, death, resurrection, hope. The horror is real, and so you make casseroles for your neighbor, organize an overseas clothing drive, and do your laundry. You can also offer to do other people's laundry if they have recently had any random babies or surgeries. We live stitch by stitch, when we're lucky. If you fixate on the big picture, the whole shebang, the overview, you miss the stitching. And maybe the stitching is crude, or it is unraveling, but if it were precise, we'd pretend that life was just fine and running like a Swiss watch. That's not helpful if on the inside our understanding is that life is more often a cuckoo clock with rusty gears.

Nella primavera del suo ventiduesimo anno, Sumire si innamorò per la prima volta nella vita. Fu un amore travolgente come un tornado che avanza inarrestabile su una grande pianura. Spazzò via ogni cosa, trascinando in un vortice, lacerando e facendo a pezzi tutto ciò che trovò sulla sua strada, e dietro non si lasciò nulla. Poi, senza aver perso nemmeno un grado della sua forza, attraversò il Pacifico, distrusse senza pietà Angkor Wat e incendiò una foresta indiana con le sue sfortunate tigri. In Persia si trasformò in una tempesta del deserto e seppellì sotto la sabbia un’esotica città-fortezza.

breath, life after seven decades plus three years is a lot of breathing. seventy three years on this earth is a lot of taking in and giving out, is a life of coming from somewhere and for many a bunch of going nowhere. how do we celebrate a poet who has created music with words for over fifty years, who has showered magic on her people, who has redefined poetry into a black world exactness thereby giving the universe an insight into darkroads? just say she interprets beauty and wants to give life, say she is patient with phoniness and doesn’t mind people calling her gwen or sister. say she sees the genius in our children, is visionary about possibilities, sees as clearly as ray charles and stevie wonder, hears like determined elephants looking for food. say that her touch is fine wood, her memory is like an african roadmap detailing adventure and clarity, yet returning to chicago’s south evans to record the journey. say her voice is majestic and magnetic as she speaks in poetry, rhythms, song and spirited trumpets, say she is dark skinned, melanin rich, small-boned, hurricane-willed, with a mind like a tornado redefining the landscape. life after seven decades plus three years is a lot of breathing. gwendolyn, gwen, sister g has not disappointed our expectations. in the middle of her eldership she brings us vigorous language, memory, illumination. she brings breath. (Quality: Gwendolyn Brooks at 73)

Your charming charm is a super sexy mega power that is simply impossible to overcome. Sweetest gourmet, I adore your gorgeous body, when I see you, only one word sounds in my head: yum, I will give myself completely to you. I will always love only you unconsciously, unconsciously, your gently erotic image sat in the depths of my mind completely. From your amazingly contagious beauty, your mouth opens and speechless is lost. Dizzyingly, stunningly beautiful, you are like a giant tornado, from which everything attracts you. And the heart and soul yearn all the time only for you. It doesn't matter if you love me or not, the main thing is that I still love you, and in my subconscious mind, I will only love you forever. Your luxurious appearance of the highest quality, this is a workshop, the filigree work of Mother Nature, this is just a masterpiece that constitutes a unique example of true beauty, you have no equal, you are a girl of high caliber. You are absolutely beautiful to such an extent, so beautiful, so exotic, erotic, and your image sounds poetic like very beautiful music of love, that I’m just afraid and shy to come to you, I’m afraid to talk to you, as if standing next to a goddess, or with a super mega star, a world scale model that even aliens probably know. My heart beats more often, I can’t talk normally, from excitement, goosebumps all over my body, and it just shakes. All these are symptoms of true love for you, well, simply: oh), wow). To be your boyfriend and husband is the greatest honor in the world, he knelt before you with flowers in his hands. Your appearance is perfect just like Barbie. You are so beautiful that only you want to have sex forever, countless, infinite number of times. You are unattainable, you are like a star whose light of the soul, like a searchlight, illuminates me in the deep darkness of solitude. In love with you thorough. You are simply amazingly beautiful. You are the best of the best. Goddess of all goddesses, empress of all empresses, queen of all queens. More beautiful you just can not imagine a girl. Sexier than you just can not be anything. Beautiful soul just is not found. There was nothing more perfect than you and never will be, simply because I think so. Laponka, I'm your faithful fan, you are my only idol, idol, icon of beauty. It doesn't matter who you are, I will accept you any. Because in any case I am eager to be only with you. You have a sexy smile, and your sensual look is just awesome. And from your voice and look a pleasant shiver all over your body. You are special, the best that is in all worlds, universes and dimensions. You're just a sight for sore eyes. To you I feel the most powerful, love and sexual inclination. You're cooler than any Viagra and afrodosiak. From your beauty just cling to the constraints and embarrassment.

Faust has spent his youth and manhood, not as others do, in the sunny crowded paths of profit, or among the rosy bowers of pleasure, but darkly and alone in the search of Truth; is it fit that Truth should now hide herself, and his sleepless pilgrimage towards Knowledge and Vision end in the pale shadow of Doubt? To his dream of a glorious higher happiness, all earthly happiness has been sacrificed; friendship, love, the social rewards of ambition were cheerfully cast aside, for his eye and his heart were bent on a region of clear and supreme good ; and now, in its stead, he finds isolation, silence, and despair. What solace remains ? Virtue once promised to be her own reward ; but because she does not pay him in the current coin of worldly enjoyment, he reckons her too a delusion; and, like Brutus, reproaches as a shadow what he once worshipped as a substance. Whither shall he now tend 1 For his loadstars have gone out one by one ; and as the darkness fell, the strong steady wind has changed into a fierce and aimless tornado. Faust calls himself a monster, " without object, yet without rest.

The biggest canvas is wider than my arm span. It’s bursting with so much color it looks like a graffiti artist got too excited with a spray can. But it’s my story, told in brushstrokes and acrylic paint. There's Jamie and me as children, hiding in trees and searching for ladybugs. There's me alone, searching for stars in the dark. There's my mom, the queen of the starfish, existing in a tornado of glitter that poisons anything else it touches. There are my brothers and me, living on opposite sides of a triangle, experiencing the same things but never together. There's my dad, never knowing or doing as much as he should but trying to fix the poison all the same. There's Hiroshi, painting my hands so I can paint my voice. There's me split in half—Japanese and white—stitching myself together again because I am whole only when I’ve embraced the true beauty of my heritage. And there's Jamie and me in June, the sun on our faces and the sand at our feet, finding each other again after all those years. Our lives trail around us, sometimes broken and sometimes beautiful, but all puzzled and tangled up into the lump that is us. We fit together not because we need each other, but because we choose each other. Our friendship was always our choice. Love was a natural progression. Jamie stares at the painting for so long that I think the room actually starts to get darker. When he turns to face me, he looks relieved. Calm. Jamie turns back to the painting. We don’t need words. We just know. Our fingers find each other’s.

Robinson's discussion with God: "Tell me what it's like." "What what's like?" "To be God." "Like, how do you mean?" "Like, how does it make you feel to know you've created the planet earth and all its inhabitants. Do you feel proud? Sad? Embarrassed? Humbled? Mortified?" "The truth? I feel imposed upon. I feel like an exhausted father whose needy children never grew up. Do you know what I'd like to see? Honest to me, this would make me the happiest guy on earth. I'd like to see everyone just take responsibility for themselves. Stop seeking my favor with your expensive churches, synagogues, mosques and temples. And quit wasting your time expecting me to solve all your problems. Am I the numbskull who created all your stupid problems? No, all I ever did was plant a handful of seeds. I'm not the one who cheats, lies, plunders, steals, hoodwinks, bribes, and scratches and claws his backward way through the unfaithful to his loving spouse or who is disrespectful to his parents. And I'm not the one who rapes and pollutes oceans, mountains, valleys, rivers, lakes, deserts, and mesas. I'm not the one who's slaughtering all the whales in the seas, and I'm certainly not the one who's spreading AIDS, shooting innocent people with handguns and assault rifles, or overpopulating the planet. I'm not even responsible for acts of God. So what of the forest fires, earthquakes, hurricanes and tornados? You can thank dear Mother Nature for these so-called acts of me. All these disaster are completely out of my hands. Don't you see? I'm just me, God, and no more or less. Yes, I'm willing to give advice here and there, but even then , you will discover than my advice is no better than the advice you'd give yourself. And why? Because I am you. I was never anything else. I never claimed to be anything else, So, you get down on your knees and say you have faith in me? Try having some faith in yourself and leave me the hell out of it. I'm a busy man. There are books I would like to read, music I'd like to listen to, art I would like to see, and some good shows on TV I really don't want to miss.

February 2009 January 4. January 4. January 4. I rubbed the paper on my red calendar. I cried into the little box, into the last day we had sex. I was a tornado. I puked hurricanes. I was Jodi Arias. There were no more tears for him. Swirling eddies of vodka, pills, fattening food, and tears. Vortexes corralled other vortexes. They joined forces with the eyes of other storms far out into the Gulf, and Atlantic, and castrated my heart first, then everything below the neck. Fuck the heart; my brain was mauled into mush. He didn’t have a heart—and possibly, neither did I. The heart had nothing to do with a whirlpool of circles and left and rights I navigated.

This tornado loves you

The smell the tornado left in its wake combined pine, sulfur, and natural gas with the sickly sweet smell of death. It was a nauseating, desperate smell that clung to his nostrils and turned his stomach in every disaster zone he would ever visit. After one tornado, a man looked at him with ancient eyes and described the smell in words he would never forget: It comes from the pit of hell.

Imagine this garden; one you’ve planted from seed, cultivated with love. When the seeds break the ground, they seek sunshine, warmth, and nutrients. The seeds have no control over the weather. They are as dependent on it as we are on our minds. You may have control over the location of your garden, the frequency with which you tend to it, and the amount of care you give it, but you can’t control the weather. It may be sunny one day, rainy the next. You prop the vines in the hopes they will flourish once the rain passes. And they may, until the next rain comes. The weather changes, sometimes without warning. Sometimes you can see it coming, much like the triggers a depressed person avoids, and you try to protect the plants before the storm. The intensity of the labor can get frustrating, especially if there is no relief in sight. One day, a tornado or hurricane passes through. Even though you see it on the horizon, you can’t stop it and you may not be able to seek shelter soon enough. The plants are torn from their roots, the garden completely destroyed. You may have thought you could protect it yourself, that the storm wouldn’t be that bad, or you simply didn’t know how or were afraid to ask for help. Your neighbors and family couldn’t help or didn’t know you needed help. The garden is gone. This is the way of depression; if you don’t have it, it’s very difficult to understand this cycle.

Primer of Love [Lesson 42] Our love is like the misty rain that falls softly -- but floods the river. ~ African Proverb Lesson 42) Your love comes like a person losing his mind; it comes gradually at first and then, suddenly! Love sneaks upon you subtlely but all of a sudden you're flooded with this unexpected emotion. When love finally comes it is a tsunami. When love leaves it's more like a tornado as she takes your house away in the divorce settlement.

In the wake of an earthquake, a bombing, or a major storm, most people are altruistic, urgently engaged in caring for themselves and those around them, strangers and neighbors as well as friends and loved ones. The image of the selfish, panicky, or regressively savage human being in times of disaster has little truth to it. Decades of meticulous sociological research on behavior in disasters, from the bombings of World War II to floods, tornadoes, earthquakes, and storms across

Even in the face of blazing wildfire, move ahead with the love of the people. In spite of cataclysmic tornadoes, march ahead refusing to step back.

Even in the face of blazing wildfire, move ahead with the love of the people. In spite of cataclysmic tornadoes, march ahead refusing to step back. Bullets may bring hell down on you - all the artilleries in the world may be charged at you - but never forget o mighty being of conscience, you are the one and only hope for the upliftment of the people.

There were no rules any more. And in the Age of Anything-Can-Happen, well, anything could happen. Old friends could become new enemies and traditional enemies could be your new besties or even lovers. It was no longer possible to predict the weather, or the likelihood of war, or the outcome of elections. A woman might fall in love with a piglet, or a man start living with an owl. A beauty might fall asleep and, when kissed, wake up speaking a different language and in that new language reveal a completely altered character. A flood might drown your city. A tornado might carry your house to a faraway land where, upon landing, it would squash a witch. Criminals could become kings and kings be unmasked as criminals. A man might discover that the woman he lived with was his father’s illegitimate child. A whole nation might jump off a cliff like swarming lemmings. Men who played presidents on TV could become presidents. The water might run out. A woman might bear a baby who was found to be a revenant god. Words could lose their meanings and acquire new ones. The world might end, as at least one prominent scientist-entrepreneur had begun repeatedly to predict. An evil scent would hang over the ending. And a TV star might miraculously return the love of a foolish old coot, giving him an unlikely romantic triumph which would redeem a long, small life, bestowing upon it, at the last, the radiance of majesty.

Rupi Miller-Hollis flew into my life like a tornado and she destroyed me. Like, in a good way. She’s the only woman in the world who gets me. She gets me, dude. She understands that life is about going after what you want and not giving a shit what other people think of you.

It must be the eye of the tornado.

Ten best quotes of the book, “Miracles Through My Eyes” "Miracles Through My Eyes " by Dinesh Sahay Author- Mentor {This book was published on 23rd October in 2019) 1. “God is always there to fulfil each demand, prayer or wish provided you have intent; unshaken trust in Him, determination and action on the ground, and when this entire manifest in one’s life, then it becomes a miracle of life. Nothing moves without His grace. It comes when you are on the right path without selfish motives but will never happen when done for selfish and destructive motives”. 2. “All diseases are self-creation and they come due to some cause and it transforms into a disease by virtue of wrong thinking, wrong actions which are against nature, the universe and God. When you disobey the rules set by God. All misfortunes, accidents, deceases, and even death are the creation of negative, bad thoughts, spoken words and actions of man himself, at some stage of his life. All good events in life are also the creation of man through his good and positive thoughts at various stages of his life”. 3. “The biggest investments lie not in the savings and creation of wealth with selfish motives. Though you may find success this prosperity shall not be long lasting and at a later stage, the money and wealth may be lost slowly in many unfortunate ways”. 4. “If you want to have a successful life with ease and at the same time want abundance and wealth then my friend, you must care for others. You must start your all efforts to help by means of tithing, charity, service to mankind in any form, and help poor, helpless, needy and underprivileged.” 5. “The largest investment for a person (which is time tested by many rich personalities) shall be to give 10% of your monthly income for the charitable cause each month if you are a salaried class, and if you are a businessman or a company, then you must contribute 10% annually for charitable cause”. 6. “Nature is giving signals to the mankind that they are moving near to destruction of this earth as it’s a cause and effect of man-made destruction of earth and with all sins, hate, untruthfulness and violence it carried throughout the centuries and acted against the principals of the universe and nature. Those connected to the divine may escape from the clutches of death and destruction of the earth. We have witnessed many major catastrophes in the form of Tsunami’s, earthquakes, Tornado’s, Global warming and volcanic eruptions and the world is moving towards it further major happenings in times to come”. 7. “Let us pray for peace and harmony for all humanity and make this world a better place to live by our actions of love, compassion, truthfulness, non-violence, end of terrorism and peace on earth with no wars with any country. Let there will be single governance in the world, the governance of one religion, the religion of love, peace, prosperity and healthy living to all”. 8.” Forgive all the people who often unreasonable, self-centred or accuse you of selfish and forget the all that is said about you. It is your own inner reflection which you see in the outer world. 9. “Thought has a tremendous vibratory force which moves with limitless speed and, makes all creations in man’s life. Each thought vibrates to the frequency with which it was created by a person, whether that was good or bad, travels accordingly through the conscious and subconscious mind in space and the universe. It vibrates with time and energy to produces manifestation in the spiritual and materialistic world of man or woman or matter (thing), in form of events, happenings and creativity”.

Goddess of: • the dissolution of outworn structures • radical rebirth • dynamic power of change • the process of childbirth • death • the fury of battle • release of constriction and stuckness • radical purification and detoxification—both physical and internal • righteous anger • wildness and radical audacity • liberation through “dying” to the egoic self • absolute voidness beyond all forms • fierce love and ecstasy Recognize Kali in: • lightning storms • volcanic eruptions, tornados, and tsunamis • battlefields • wild outbursts of ecstasy • the act of pushing the child out of the womb (literally and figuratively, as in a dramatic creative process) • radical creative freedom • purification experiences • sudden changes in life, especially those that involve disruption

Wreak Havoc- Skylar Grey A Little Party Never Killed Nobody- Fergie Gangsta- Kehlani You Don’t Own Me- Grace Bonnie and Clyde- Kellie Pickler Kill of the Night- Gin Wigmore I Feel a Sin Comin’ On- Pistol Annies Raise Hell- Dorothy Renegade Runaway- Carrie Underwood Black Widow- Iggy Azalea Hard Out Here- Lily Allen Fix- Chris Lane Make Me Wanna Die- Pretty Reckless Natalie- Bruno Mars Grenade- Bruno Mars Criminal- Fiona Apple Hunter- Ella Fence Gunpowder & Lead- Miranda Lambert Addicted to Love- Florence & The Machine Titanium- David Guetta & Sia Talking Body- Tove Lo Tornado- Little Big Town Fastest Girl in Town- Miranda Lambert Just Tonight- The Pretty Reckless Ready Set Roll- Chase Rice Till I Collapse- Eminem Remember the Name- Fort Minor Kill!Kill!Kill!- The Pierces Hard- Rihanna Cherry Bomb- The Runaways Bad Romance- Lady Gaga Gasoline & Matches- Julie Roberts Loca- Shakira My Medicine- The Pretty Reckless Fake It- Seether Psycho- Puddle of Mud All or Nothing- Theory of a Deadman Next to You- Buckcherry Better Dig Two- The Band Perry

When he smiled his teeth looked like a picket fence that a tornado had wrecked.

Love. It was one word. But it was more powerful than hurricane, tornado or earthquake. It was life-shattering and life-defining.

Thunderstorms, Hurricanes, Tornadoes, And then you, A catastrophe I could call my own!

A little sacrifice, he thought, just a little sacrifice. For this will calm her, a hug, a kiss, calm caresses. She doesn’t want anything more. And even if she did, what of it? For a little sacrifice, a very little sacrifice, is beautiful and worth… Were she to want more… It would calm her. A quiet, calm, gentle act of love. And I… Why, it doesn’t matter, because Essi smells of verbena, not lilac and gooseberry, doesn’t have cool, electrifying skin. Essi’s hair is not a black tornado of gleaming curls, Essi’s eyes are gorgeous, soft, warm and cornflower blue; they don’t blaze with a cold, unemotional, deep violet. Essi will fall asleep afterwards, turn her head away, open her mouth slightly, Essi will not smile in triumph. For Essi… Essi is not Yennefer. And that is why I cannot. I cannot find that little sacrifice inside myself.

I love the gym, loved running it, loved having you there with me all the time. I love Peter being there. But it’s just a business, Len. It’s four walls and some concrete that could disappear in a day, in a flood, in a hurricane or a tornado. It’s a part of me, you, and Peter, but it’s not everything.” He reached up to wipe under his eye with the side of his index finger. “Some people are lucky to find one person in the world to love. Some people are even luckier to find more than one person to love and be loved back. Some don’t find anyone. If you find someone, you don’t let them run away. We love them the way we need to love them. The way they need to be loved. And we don’t give up on that. We don’t throw that kind of thing away or push it to a better time, because there is no better time. If you love that kid the way you say you do, you don’t give that up. You fight for it, you stick with it, and you go for it. You keep it.

Wake Up From Death (The Sonnet) Wake up from death and return to life, For as living dead we’ve been crawling for long. Wake up from sanity and return to insanity, For we've been insane in sanity for long. Wake up from possibility, return to impossibility, For we've been slave to the possible for long. Wake up from reality and return to absurdity, Habits of past have kept us hypnotized for long. Wake up form truth and return to love, For we’ve always confused assumptions with truth. Wake up form ideology and return to the soil, Integration means inclusion, not ideological coup. Enough with nonchalance in the name of practicality! Let us now rise as tornado and wipe out all apathy.

Hearing his voice undid me. Silky smooth, a rumble in the darkness. It coated me, washing over me until I was drowning in it. It was a plea, a prayer, and a question, all wrapped into one. Emotion surged through me like a tornado, and suddenly I was compelled by the need to touch him, to know that he was real.

True love doesn’t allow you to give up, child. You may feel like you’ve barely survived a tornado, all battered and bruised with your world in shambles around you, but you dig deep for that inner strength. You rebuild a love stronger than the one that was there before.

Then I remembered: sitting still in the middle of a fire or a tornado or an earthquake or a tidal wave, sitting still. This provides the opportunity to experience once again the living quality of our life’s energy—earth, air, fire, and water.

Everyone knows the great energies running amok cast terrible shadows, that each of the so-called senseless acts has its thread looping back through the world and into a human heart. And meanwhile the gold-trimmed thunder wanders the sky; the river may be filling the cellars of the sleeping town. Cyclone, fire, and their merry cousins bring us to grief — but these are the hours with the old wooden-god faces; we lift them to our shoulders like so many black coffins, we continue walking into the future. I don't mean there are no bodies in the river, or bones broken by the wind. I mean everyone who has heard the lethal train-roar of the tornado swears there was no mention ever of any person, or reason — I mean the waters rise without any plot upon history, or even geography. Whatever power of the earth rampages, we turn to it dazed but anonymous eyes; whatever the name of the catastrophe, it is never the opposite of love.

Change is the Universe’s way of cracking open our hearts so something new and unexpected can burst forth despite all of our efforts to resist. It is a wake-up call. It shows up as the death of a loved one or the loss of your job. It happens when you go through a breakup or you lose everything you own in a fire or a flood or a tornado. It rears its head when you get a diagnosis you never saw coming. It happens to everyone eventually and no one is immune.

Someone always pays. Bullet don’t have nobody’s name on it, that’s what people say. I think the same is true for vengeance. Maybe even for love. It’s out there, random and deadly, like a tornado.

Tornadoes devastate and leave a mess behind, just like your ending, so the instant that 'Psychlone' sees you rebuilding, she's going to spin completely out of control, every time. You can't get sucked into the same vortex twice if you eject the monster from being it's own victim; but until then, I'd pull in your rocking chairs, lock down your trash cans and recycling bins, and take your potted azaleas inside... ... if I were you.

October 14, 1954 in Washington, D.C. seemed like a day like any other, until we were dismissed from school early because the teacher said there was a bad storm coming. The sky was turning quite dark as we hurried home. “Grandma, why did the teacher tell us to go straight home?” Grandma was trying to remain her calm self, but I know how much storms terrified her. Argentina has the most severe lightning and tornadoes in the world. She was leaning against the kitchen counter in the corner to steady herself. She always said she would love to go hide in a closet during thunderstorms. “It’s a hurricane they’ve named Hazel. Your mom will be home soon, I hope. She is out getting more food and supplies like candles and batteries in case we lose power and have no light. We’re so lucky to have a gas stove so we can still cook.” Dad came home early from his job with the Department of Agriculture in Beltsville, Maryland and Mom made it home just before the winds started. Dad chided Mom, and lessened the tension with, “Now don’t be getting any notion of taking a bath, Eva Beat-rice, there is no time for that!” Dad liked to change the pronunciation of her middle name, Beatrice, to Beatrice when he was teasing her. Mom always ran the water and took a bath during every storm. Dad always said, “Someday you’ll be flying through the air in the bathtub and they’ll find you blocks away!

Was wollte der Kerl von mir? Vor einigen tagen hatte er sich noch keinen Deut für mich interessiert, und nun viel es mir schwer, mich von ihm fernzuhalten. Und obwohl ich mich ein bisschen über ihn ärgerte, konnte ich nicht verhindern, dass die Schmetterlinge in meinem Bauch einen kleinen Tornado aufwirbelten.