Triangle Of Sadness Quotes

This little thing” —he made a triangle in the air, pointing between Kopano, Kaidan, and me— “isn't gonna fly. Don't worry yourselves about Anna anymore. You hear?” They both gave single nods. “Then get on out of here. And keep your heads in the game.” Before my father could apologize or give me another sad look, I wrapped my arms around him... He ran a hand down my hair. “Does she (Patti) know about those two boys fighting over you?” “They weren't fighting over me...

I am out of the saga, he thought. He had a heavy sense of being left in total isolation; everyone had withdrawn from him and the person who could most have helped him was pre-empted by another.

There isn’t anything about me that is analogous to the Bermuda Triangle’s “rogue wave” phenomenon (at least I hope there isn’t). I don’t capsize sailors, much less entire ships. I keep myself to myself, you know? In fact, I think that’s probably what the Bermuda Triangle is up to. It doesn’t mean to do any harm, and it’s actually pretty nice once you get to know it. It’s just that Bermuda doesn’t know how to handle itself when somebody sails into its territory, because that hardly ever happens. It hasn’t had much chance to practice, and it’s used to things going a certain way. So if a sailor DOES come around, it gets a little nervous, freaks the fuck out, and creates hurricane-like devastation in every direction around it. And then it gets embarrassed and sad and calls its friends.

Over a span of twenty years, Shakespeare churned out an impressively whopping thirty-eight plays, 154 love sonnets, and two epic narrative poems. While most people associate him with his plays, it was his sonnets that likely earned him admiration among his contemporaries. Yes, that’s right: In his lifetime, Shakespeare garnered more acclaim for his sonnets than he did for his plays. In England during the 1590s, writing plays was considered a bit hackish—a way to pay the bills—and not an intellectual pursuit. Writing sonnets was all the rage— and a way to gain literary prestige. These poems weren’t published for the plebeian public, but were written down and shared among the literati—and aristocrats looking for some intellectual cachet by becoming patrons to brilliant but perhaps financially strapped writers. So, while Shakespeare likely wrote nearly all of his love sonnets in the early to mid 1590s, they weren’t officially collected and published until 1609, well after the fad had passed. W. H. Auden said of Shakespeare’s sonnets: “They are the work of someone whose ear is unerring.” In today’s less poetry-friendly world, appreciation of these sonnets tends, sadly, to be relegated to classrooms, Valentine’s Day, and anniversaries. Which is too bad, because—though they do indeed rhyme—they are far superior to the ditties found in ninety-nine-cent greeting cards. In fact, they cover the whole gamut of love—the good, the bad, the erotic, and the ugly, including love triangles, being dumped, and jealousy. There is also speculation as to how autobiographical the sonnets are. The truth is that we know so little about Shakespeare’s private life.

I thought you'd come back I thought you'd stop me marrying him I didn't think you'd let me do it

So what else did you find?” she asked and he smiled sadly, looking back to the book. “Well, once I gave up on examining this page, I decided to go back to the spell King has been using for their sacrifices.” He flipped through the pages then paused on one with the image of the four Elemental triangles surrounded by symbols which were impossible to read. “The answer to undoing King’s power is here.” Orion pointed to a piece of text at the bottom of the page which had always been undecipherable regardless of the spyglass. “But…” He sighed. “It requires a sacrifice to read it.” “No one’s giving blood,” I said immediately. That thing could take a piece of someone’s soul if we gave it the chance, and I was not risking that with anyone in this room. “No, it’s not blood it wants,” Orion said, but his eyes were still dark. “It’s the pain of a woman suffering under the power of the four Elements. I used a couple of dark spells to reveal that much, but I couldn’t go any further.” “That’s horrifically specific,” Leon muttered. “I’ll do it,” Elise said simply, getting to her feet. “No,” I snapped the same time as Leon and Dante did. “It’s not an option,” Elise snarled. “I’ll do anything to defeat King, and I’ve faced far worse pain in my life. This will be a small sacrifice to make.” She looked me in the eyes, willing me to back down, but how could I? I couldn’t cast my power against her. I wouldn’t.

Six. Sex. Star. David. Saturn. Planet. Rings. Eye. Hexagon. Triangles. Eye. On The Sky. Evil. Pushing Buttons. Sins. Influence. People. Lunatics. Psychopaths. Bad vibes. Frequencies. Praying. For. Easy. Prey. Summoning: Spirits. Tempting. Your female. “Like The Snake.” Sadly, they do “like” the snake and the buttons, too. “Like buttons.” “Life.” “Like.” The psychopath (Adam, Sabrina, Martina…) is obsessed with power, controlling other people in order to achieve their goals. They thrive on control, making others jump and "winning," whether it's world domination or obtaining a ride to the coffeeshop, or just a free lunch. Psychopaths see their condition as a blessing, considering it an advantage in this “eye for an eye” and “kill or be killed” and “dog eat dog” world. In their, sadly: Natural Eyes. They lack remorse or empathy and are incapable of feeling guilt. We are the ones more civilized. They remained more natural. Closer to nature. Only we call them: Evil Eye Cult. They must be calling themselves: The Saturn, The Satan, The Nature Cult or Satan’s Eye (Saturn) Cult. Some of us are in between. Two worlds. Kind of sensing them. Sometimes. Surviving. Too. They aren’t true hunters or predators. They are worse. “They are sucking. Blood.” Bloodthirsty people.

Natural forms,” wrote Djerzinski, “are human forms. Triangles, interweavings, branchings, appear in our minds. We recognize them and admire them; we live among them. We grow among our creations — human creations, which we can communicate to men — and among them we die. In the midst of space, human space, we make our measurements, and with these measurements we create space, the space between our instruments. "Uneducated man,” Djerzinksi went on, “is terrified of the idea of space; he imagines it to be vast, dark and yawning. He imagines beings in the elementary form of spheres, isolated in space, curled up in space, crushed by the eternal presence of three dimensions. Terrified of the idea of space, human beings curl up; they feel cold, they feel afraid. At best, they move in space and greet one another sadly. And yet this space is within them, it is nothing but their mental creation. "In this space of which they are so afraid, human beings learn how to live and to die; in their mental space, separation, distance and suffering are born. There is little to add to this: the lover hears his beloved’s voice over mountains and oceans; over mountains and oceans a mother hears the cry of her child. Love binds, and it binds forever. Good binds, while evil unravels. Separation is another word for evil; it is also another word for deceit. All that exists is a magnificent interweaving, vast and reciprocal.