Transformers Mirage Quotes

The city of San Francisco engulfed their view through the front windshield. The dazzling light of the late morning sun transformed every glass and metal surface into a silvery mirage.

Why a place that had once seemed like a haven for magic and wonder had transformed into a nightmare of pain and lies and disappearances.

A sunset, almost formidable in its splendor, would be lingering in the fully exposed sky. Among its imperceptibly changing amassments, one could pick out brightly stained structural details of celestial organisms, or glowing slits in dark banks, or flat, ethereal beaches that looked like mirages of desert islands. I did not know then (as I know perfectly well now) what to do with such things—how to get rid of them, how to transform them into something that can be turned over to the reader in printed characters to have him cope with the blessed shiver—and this inability enhanced my oppression.

we are continually chasing mirages, only to be disappointed when they do not give us the satisfaction for which we had hoped.

Life without strife is a rose without thorns. Alive as one is thriving today towards tomorrow, Nowhere is the past but simply a school of memory. Dreams, wishes, goals then becomes a wheel of “wills,” Spirit of a unique being on each soul breathing. Care to ponder some matter or another? Awareness sliding towards discovery gliding… Peace, contentment, fulfillment, Enwrapped like a mirage enchantment. Soaring freely, excitingly, happily home-love-bound! Over precious moments in a breathing of a soul, Flowing high emotions, feelings, hearts in bliss. All around any season of one's existence, one asks: “Anyone out there? A heart of a soul that didn’t harden? A touch of a soul that didn’t hurt? A life of a soul that didn't love?” Sands of time, rough, warm, indefinite, simply spreading, transforming, mounting. Oasis of a soul from a desert journey, flourishing with endless beauty and security. Utmost bliss, fulfillment and contentment, under covers a struggling, hopeful soul, Laboring service, living justice, loving peace and tranquillity passed on to humanity!�

You want to leave the moat, to go back to the room; you’re already turning and trying to find the door, covered with fake leather, in the steep wall of the moat, but the master succeeds in grabbing your hand and, looking straight in your eyes, says: Your assignment: describe the jaw of a crocodile, the tongue of a hummingbird, the steeple of the New Maiden Convent, a shoot of bird cherry, the bend of the Lethe, the tail of any village dog, a night of love, mirages over hot asphalt, the bright midday in Berezov, the face of a flibbertigibbet, the garden of hell, compare the termite colony to the forest anthill, the sad fate of leaves to the serenade of a Venetian gondolier, and transform a cicada into a butterfly, turn rain into hail, day into night, give us today our daily bread, make a sibilant out of a vowel, prevent the crash of the train whose engineer is asleep, repeat the thirteenth labor of Hercules, give a smoke to a passerby, explain youth and old age, sing a song about a bluebird bringing water in the morn, turn your face to the north, to the Novgorodian barbicans, and then describe how the doorman knows it is snowing outside, if he sits in the foyer all day, talks to the elevator operator, and does not look out the window because there is no window; yes, tell how exactly, and in addition, plant in your orchard a white rose of the winds, show it to the teacher Pavel and, if he likes it, give the white rose to the teacher Pavel, pin the flower to his cowboy shirt or to his dacha hat, bring joy to the man who departed to nowhere, make your old pedagogue—a joker, a clown, and a wind-chaser—happy.

I am called, and I personify, the Improbability of Love. I was painted to celebrate the wild cascades of amour, the rollicking, bucking, breaking and transformative passion that inevitably gives way to miserable, constricting, overbearing disappointment. At first my master imbued every tiny brushstroke with unbound ardour, untrammelled desire and unquenchable lust. During the painting of the work he had to accept that his feelings were a mirage, a chimera in his mind. This is the great tragedy of love - even if you are lucky enough to stumble on it, it never lasts.

as the jury from Simi Valley informed the world that the police in the Rodney King episode weren’t guilty of so much as hiding evidence, much less using “undue force.” The ten verdicts fell like empty zeros into the air, and I felt like a person who’d mistaken a mirage for an oasis, as if each of the counts had been cruelly transformed into “Greetings from the Land That Time Forgot!” “Oh,” Renzo said, “oh, oh, oh! Were those people blind or what? I’m stunned. What is undue force, then?

As Mohammed bin Naif told Robert Lacey, “We try to transform each detainee from a young man who wants to die into a young man who wants to live.

Intolerance was also there from the outset. Any Muslim who heard the Wahhabis’ call or dawah and did not join them was an infidel whose property was forfeit. This conviction that any opponent was an infidel or kaffir united, inspired, and disciplined the Wahhabis. From the outset, military conquest was part of their ideology, as commonplace raiding for loot was transformed into a holy war for religious reform.

King Abdulaziz ruled for fifty-one years and saw his realm transformed from a remote, desert chieftaincy into a founding member of the United Nations. Yet he created no governing institutions beyond himself.

The 1973 oil embargo transformed Saudi Arabia from a hesitant, marginal player on the world stage into a financial superpower. Slowly but inexorably, the Arab world’s center of gravity shifted from the banks of the Nile to the sands of the Nejd, as Saudi Arabia became the International Monetary Fund’s only Arab board member as well as the only Arab member of the G20 international forum for the governments of the world’s largest economies.

King Faisal’s Islamic initiative was a success. He transformed the status of Jerusalem from an Arab–Israeli issue into a pan-Islamic one. More importantly, he created an Islamic Block, based in Saudi Arabia and operating through the Organization of Islamic Cooperation (OIC) and the Muslim World League, which consistently supported Saudi foreign policy objectives. In 2005, the OIC adopted King Abdullah’s proposal for peace with Israel as the policy of fifty-six Muslim countries. In 2020, the organization has permanent delegations to the United Nations and the European Union. Although Jerusalem remained the OIC’s primary focus, Muslim foreign ministers have presented unified positions at the UN on issues ranging from Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait to the Charlie Hebdo cartoons and the Syrian Civil War.

Mohammed bin Salman’s plan should probably have been called Vision 2050. That would have represented a more realistic, if a less-motivating, time frame for transforming the Saudi economy from one based almost entirely on oil-funded transfer payments into one based partially on productive enterprise. Even by 2050, the existing plan will not turn Saudi Arabia into South Korea.

You and patterns Patterns, shapes and visions, all assume one form, That of her smiles, her deep eyes and her beauty warm, Moments, all moments passing by, and the very ability to experience time, Without her seems to be a profane act of mind, that becomes its inadvertent crime, Days, months, years and decades, chase a century still unrealised, But in all these variants of time, in every moment you reside disguised, As a feeling that leaps from every moment of time and imprisons me, So I lie stranded in a moment, and I cannot do anything, though I know it is not where it is meant to be, Hopes arise from somewhere in my mind, and become feelings felt a long time ago, And my heart follows the mind into emotional territories, where it should not go, And then all patterns, all shapes, and every vision assumes one shape, That of you, your beauty, and then this visual mirage covers me like a drape, Like a never ending veil of mist flowing over the surface of water, Concealing everything that lies between them, and the gently flowing waves in romantic splashes utter, Feelings they feel, and it is then feelings speak in a language that one can hear, And like these waves, my love Irma, my heart beats too; similar echoes of my passions bear, Then shapes fade away, patterns disappear, and only the vision remains, Now my heart does not control my mind, and my mind no longer my heart restrains, So I live inside a vision and you live all around me, And the mind doesn't care what the heart feels, because my heart has grown into a tree, That branches out everywhere, it has transformed into the tree of everything, But it still remains the tree that only bears one fruit and thrives on one thing, That of your memories and your visions, in all colours, It is then, my wandering heart ends its wayward tours, And I grow as a feeling over this vision of yours, Because now the vision is completely and exclusively ours!

It is a mirage. Nothing will fix a mirage because it is not real. The only solution is to see it as a mirage. Our life is spent trying to fix what isn’t broken. This is the big cosmic irony. Nothing you do ever solves the problem, because there isn’t one! YOU ARE ALREADY WHOLE. YOU WERE NEVER NOT WHOLE. You only forgot that you were whole and still are whole. If you are already whole, adding more will not make you any more whole.

Emeline...?" Her mother's voice was no longer a rasp, but a soft, quivering thing. Emeline spun to find the Vile behind her, glimmering like a mirage. The air shone, delicate as a cobweb, then changed. Like a butterfly abandoning its chrysalis, the Vile before her fell away, until a monster stood before Emeline no longer. In the monster's place was a middle-aged woman, beautiful as the moon. Her raven-dark hair fell in waves around her shoulders, her eyes were the bright blue of robins' eggs, and down her body spilled a silk dress the color of storm clouds. Emeline let out a shaky breath. "Mama?" Rose Lark dropped the knife and the sharpening stone. They hit the soft earth with a thud. The roots of the cavern immediately grew over them, pulling both blade and stone deep into the earth where they couldn't be retrieved. Staring at her daughter, Rose took a hesitant step before lifting shaky fingers to Emeline's face. "I'm so sorry," she whispered as tears trembled down her pale cheeks. Emeline shook her head furiously, reaching for her. "It wasn't your fault." She wrapped her arms around her mother's frail shoulders, pulling her close. Her hair smelled sweet, like rosewater. Her thin body shook like a sapling in a gale. Weeping, Rose held her daughter tightly, as if, this time, she didn't intend to let go.

So let us be bold in our efforts and even bolder in our vision. Let us tell the story of an America becoming - of a nation breaking free from the limits of its own arrested development and transforming into the place we were told about in school but which never really existed as such. Just because that place has been a cruel and taunting mirage for so long does not mean we cannot mold it into a reality. As the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) - one of the premier civil rights groups of our nation's history - used to say, Come, let us build a new world together.

After he pursued so ardently only the atmosphere of the dream, and by pres­tidigitations, transformed everything into a mirage, then he lamented the absence of warmth and humanity. The further he cut himself from the ugly, the sordid, the animal, from sickness which he overlooked, from poverty which he disregarded, from his body which he maltreated, from human ties he would not submit to, from protection which he dis­dained, the more anguish he felt.