Unanswered Calls Quotes

You never let things go unanswered for too long. Emails. Phone calls. Questions. As if you know the waiting is the hardest part for me.

It is the phenomenon somethings called "alienation from self." In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the specter of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that answering it becomes out of the question. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves - there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

And maybe in the end, the kindest possible thing you could do for yourself is to know that there is nothing that holds us back more than the important words that went unspoken, the deep instincts that went unfelt, the callings that went unanswered. Your life is reaching toward you, and maybe the kindest possible thing you could do is reach back.

He saw it for the first time: on the day he died he would be wearing unmatching socks, there would be unanswered e-mails, and in the hovel he called home there would still be shirts missing cuff buttons, a malfunctioning light in the hall, and unpaid bills, uncleared attics, dead flies, friends waiting for a reply and lovers he had not owned up to.

Angelina told Ahmed that there came a time when her grandmother began to call on God to end her life, as she could no longer cope with her pain. She strongly believed that God listens to people’s words and hearts. Her prayers, however, remained unanswered. Instead of death, she only received more pain and depression.

The old, endless, approachable and always answering Sorrow," says my father Lucifer. "For who calls on me never goes unanswered. Only prayers to God go without answers.

I am the man who comes and goes between the bar and the telephone booth. Or, rather:that man is called 'I' and you know nothing else about him, just as this station is called only 'station' and beyond it there exists nothing except the unanswered signal of a telephone ringing in a dark room of a distant city.

A person's true identity can often be difficult to discern, even to themselves, causing one to question their character, their calling, their very existence. For most, time gives clarity, but for others, these questions remained unanswered for an identity can not be fully defined when it is a guarded secret.

It is instinctive my recoiling. I imagine the confusion of some relatives, their disapproval even, when faced with my withdrawal; the calls I leave unanswered, the messages unread..

And whence is courage: the unanswered question, the resolute doubt,— dumbly calling, deafly listening—that in misfortune, even death, encourages others and in its defeat, stirs   the soul to be strong?

Of all the questions we leave unanswered the one that comes back to haunt us the most is: 'What if…' What if I'd married my college sweetheart What if I had the good sense not to? What if I had been born in this job market? What if... What if I'd planned a little less? What if I'd lived a little more? What if I'd chucked it all and started my own company? 'What ifs' are never idle fantasy. These are our hopes, dreams and desires. Logic and reason are the naphthalene balls we use to pack them away into a sandook called 'Someday'. But when that day comes we are too old, too poor, too tired or too lazy.

One of the world’s most fascinating mysteries is surely the Tamam Shud case. In December 1948, an unidentified man was found dead on a beach in Adelaide. The only clue to a possible identity was a tiny piece of paper found in a hidden pocket sewn into the trousers of the dead man with the words ‘Tamam Shud’ scribbled on it. The phrase is used on the last page of a collection of poems of Omar Khayyam called The Rubaiyat, a copy of which was found with a scribbled code in it, which was believed to have been written in there by the dead man. What does the code mean? What was it leading him to? Why and how did he die? All of these questions remain completely unanswered to this day and the case is as much of a mystery now as it was the very day the body was discovered.

Often in actual life, and not infrequently in the myths and popular tales, we encounter the dull case of the call unanswered; for it is always possible to turn the ear to other interests. Refusal of the summons converts the adventure into its negative. Walled in boredom, hard work, or "culture," the subject loses the power of significant affirmative action and becomes a victim to be saved. His flowering world becomes a wasteland of dry stones and his life feels meaningless—even though, like King Minos, he may through titanic effort succeed in building an empire of renown. Whatever house he builds, it will be a house of death: a labyrinth of cyclopean walls to hide from him his Minotaur.

My reflection is a blur; I can barely see, still that question unanswered, who is that person I call "me"?

The longer someone ignores an email before finally responding, the more relative social power that person has. Map these response times across an entire organization and you get a remarkably accurate chart of the actual social standing. The boss leaves emails unanswered for hours or days; those lower down respond within minutes. There’s an algorithm for this, a data mining method called “automated social hierarchy detection,” developed at Columbia University.8 When applied to the archive of email traffic at Enron Corporation before it folded, the method correctly identified the roles of top-level managers and their subordinates just by how long it took them to answer a given person’s emails. Intelligence agencies have been applying the same metric to suspected terrorist gangs, piecing together the chain of influence to spot the central figures.

I recognized that my parents were older, and that some of that was my fault. The unanswered messages. The phone call from Dr K, in the early, early morning. Weren't those the things that aged people, more than the fact of time?

When I asked the Reb, Why do bad things happen to good people?, he gave none of the standard answers. He quietly said, “No one knows.” I admired that. But when I asked if that ever shook his belief in God, he was firm. “I cannot waver,” he said. Well, you could, if you didn’t believe in something all-powerful. “An atheist,” he said. Yes. “And then I could explain why my prayers were not answered.” Right. He studied me carefully. He drew in his breath. “I had a doctor once who was an atheist. Did I ever tell you about him?” No. “This doctor, he liked to jab me and my beliefs. He used to schedule my appointments deliberately on Saturdays, so I would have to call the receptionist and explain why, because of my religion, that wouldn’t work.” Nice guy, I said. “Anyhow, one day, I read in the paper that his brother had died. So I made a condolence call.” After the way he treated you? “In this job,” the Reb said, “you don’t retaliate.” I laughed. “So I go to his house, and he sees me. I can tell he is upset. I tell him I am sorry for his loss. And he says, with an angry face, ‘I envy you.’ “‘Why do you envy me?’ I said. “‘Because when you lose someone you love, you can curse God. You can yell. You can blame him. You can demand to know why. But I don’t believe in God. I’m a doctor! And I couldn’t help my brother!’ “He was near tears. ‘Who do I blame?’ he kept asking me. ‘There is no God. I can only blame myself.’” The Reb’s face tightened, as if in pain. “That,” he said, softly, “is a terrible self-indictment.” Worse than an unanswered prayer? “Oh yes. It is far more comforting to think God listened and said no, than to think that nobody’s out there.

You. Man at the machine and man in the workshop. If tomorrow they tell you you are to make no more water-pipes and saucepans but are to make steel helmets and machine-guns, then there's only one thing to do: Say NO! You. Woman at the counter and woman in the office. If tomorrow they tell you you are to fill shells and assemble telescopic sights for snipers' rifles, then there's only one thing to do: Say NO! You. Research worker in the laboratory. If tomorrow they tell you you are to invent a new death for the old life, then there's only one thing to do: Say NO! You. Priest in the pulpit. If tomorrow they tell you you are to bless murder and declare war holy, then there's only one thing to do: Say NO! You. Pilot in your aeroplane. If tomorrow they tell you you are to carry bombs over the cities, then there's only one thing to do: Say NO! You. Man of the village and man of the town. If tomorrow they come and give you your call-up papers, then there's only one thing to do: Say NO! You. Mother in Normandy and mother in the Ukraine, mother in Vancouver and in London, you on the Hwangho and on the Mississippi, you in Naples and Hamburg and Cairo and Oslo - mothers in all parts of the earth, mothers of the world, if tomorrow they tell you you are to bear new soldiers for new battles, then there's only one thing to do: Say NO! For if you do not say NO - if YOU do not say no - mothers, then: then! In the bustling hazy harbour towns the big ships will fall silent as corpses against the dead deserted quay walls, their once shimmering bodies overgrown with seaweed and barnacles, smelling of graveyards and rotten fish. The trams will lie like senseless glass-eyed cages beside the twisted steel skeleton of wires and track. The sunny juicy vine will rot on decaying hillsides, rice will dry in the withered earth, potatoes will freeze in the unploughed land and cows will stick their death-still legs into the air like overturned chairs. In the fields beside rusted ploughs the corn will be flattened like a beaten army. Then the last human creature, with mangled entrails and infected lungs, will wander around, unanswered and lonely, under the poisonous glowing sun, among the immense mass graves and devastated cities. The last human creature, withered, mad, cursing, accusing - and the terrible accusation: WHY? will die unheard on the plains, drift through the ruins, seep into the rubble of churches, fall into pools of blood, unheard, unanswered, the last animal scream of the last human animal - All this will happen tomorrow, tomorrow, perhaps, perhaps even tonight, perhaps tonight, if - if - You do not say NO.

Maybe you should trust the missed connections, the calls gone unanswered, the opportunities that had every reason to work out but didn’t. Maybe you should trust in the small signs before they become big ones. Maybe you should trust those tiny contractions, the nights that exhaust you and the people who don’t see you and the places that make you feel that subtle uneasiness. Maybe you should learn to trust in what passes you by so you’ll begin to trust in what lands right in front of you. Maybe you should trust that in what isn’t working, because it might be trying to guide you to what will.

When he crossed the line into Shelby County, he removed his badge, tossing the five-point star inside the glove box. It slid against a half-empty pint of Wild Turkey he'd forgotten was in there, clinking softly, a siren call he left unanswered for the moment. He felt naked without his beloved badge but also strangely protected by the anonymity of its absence. Without the star, he would draw no undue attention, make no advertisement of his presence to any rank-and-file Brotherhood in the county, rabid dogs always on the hunt. And no word would get back to Houston, where he was stationed, that he was poking around something, unauthorized by his superiors, something he guessed he did hold an outsize interest in as a cop, as a Texan, and as a man. In fact as long as he wasn't wearing the Rangers star, they couldn't stop him from doing any damn thing. Without the badge, he was just a black man traveling the highway alone.

He had always assumed that a time would come in adulthood, a kind of plateau, when he would have learned all the tricks of managing, of simply being. All mail and e-mails answered, all papers in order, books alphabetically on the shelves, clothes and shoes in good repair in the wardrobes, and all his stuff where he could find it, with the past, including its letters and photographs, sorted into boxes and files, the private life settled and serene, accommodation and finances likewise. In all these years this settlement, the calm plateau, had never appeared, and yet he had continued to assume, without reflecting on the matter, that it was just around the next turn, when he would exert himself and reach it, that moment when his life became clear and his mind free, when his grown-up existence could properly begin. But not long after Catriona's birth, about the time he met Darlene, he thought he saw it for the first time: on the day he died he would be wearing unmatching socks, there would be unanswered e-mails, and in the hovel he called home there would still be shirts missing cuff buttons, a malfunctioning light in the hall, and unpaid bills, uncleared attics, dead flies, friends waiting for a reply, and lovers he had not owned up to. Oblivion, the last word in organization, would be his only consolation.

Why are we still here, struggling to go on? We are now face to face with the truly Ultimate Ambiguity which is the human spirit. This is the most fascinating ambiguity of all: that as each of us grows up, the mark of our maturity is that we accept our mortality; and yet we persist in our search for immortality. We may believe it's all transient, even that it's all over; yet we believe a future. We believe. We emerge from a cinema after three hours of the most abject degeneracy in a film such as “La Dolce Vita”, and we emerge on wings, from the sheer creativity of it; we can fly on, to a future. And the same is true after witnessing the hopelessness of “Godot” in the theater, or after the aggressive violence of “The Rite of Spring” in the concert hall. Or even after listening to the bittersweet young cynicism of an album called “Revolver”, we have wings to fly on. We have to believe in that kind of creativity. I know I do. If I didn't, why would I be bothering to give these lectures? Certainly not to make a gratuitous announcement of the Apocalypse. There must be something in us, and in me, that makes me want to continue; and to teach is to believe in continuing. To share with you critical feelings about the past, to try to describe and assess the present—these actions by their very nature imply a firm belief in a future.

We know that Earth’s magnetic field changes in power from time to time: during the age of the dinosaurs, it was up to three times as strong as now. We also know that it reverses itself every 500,000 years or so on average, though that average hides a huge degree of unpredictability. The last reversal was about 750,000 years ago. Sometimes it stays put for millions of years—37 million years appears to be the longest stretch—and at other times it has reversed after as little as 20,000 years. Altogether in the last 100 million years it has reversed itself about two hundred times, and we don’t have any real idea why. It has been called “the greatest unanswered question in the geological sciences.

It is the phenomenon sometimes called “alienation from self.” In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the specter of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that answering it becomes out of the question. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves – there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home

We are now face to face with the truly Ultimate Ambiguity which is the human spirit. This is the most fascinating ambiguity of all: that as each of us grows up, the mark of our maturity is that we accept our mortality; and yet we persist in our search for immortality. We may believe it's all transient, even that it's all over; yet we believe a future. We believe. We emerge from a cinema after three hours of the most abject degeneracy in a film such as ''La Dolce Vita,'' and we emerge on wings, from the sheer creativity of it; we can fly on, to a future. And the same is true after witnessing the hopelessness of ''Godot'' in the theater, or after the aggressive violence of ''The Rite of Spring'' in the concert hall. Or even after listening to the bittersweet young cynicism of an album called ''Revolver,'' we have wings to fly on.

One of the problems, ironically, can be prayer. In prayer, we set our hopes high and call it faith. We pray for the perfect spouse, healthy children, successful careers, and serene families. We don’t just wish for these things but actually train ourselves to expect them! We fear the worst if we should ever lower our sights. Yet this is false faith. The apostle Paul longed not just “to know Christ . . . [and] the power of his resurrection,” but also “the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings” (Phil. 3:10 NIV 1984). The Christian witness and our ultimate hope is not merely a miraculous succession of miraculous escapes from all human affliction. Rather it is the joy of a deepening relationship with the “man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering” (Isa. 53:3 NIV 1984) who loves us and lives in us. I’m not suggesting that we should pray for hard times but rather that when such times come, we should feel a little less outrage and a lot more hope because Jesus, who went through similar struggles, predicted that we would have them and promised to be with us in the midst of them.

I was blind. The room was gone. Everything was gone. I cried out in terror as I felt the Darkling’s fingers close around my bare wrist. Suddenly, my fear receded. It was still there, cringing like an animal inside me, but it had been pushed aside by something calm and sure and powerful, something vaguely familiar. I felt a call ring through me and, to my surprise, I felt something in me rise up to answer. I pushed it away, pushed it down. Somehow I knew that if that thing got free, it would destroy me. “Nothing there?” the Darkling murmured. I realized how very close he was to me in the dark. My panicked mind seized on his words. Nothing there. That’s right, nothing. Nothing at all. Now leave me be! And to my relief, that struggling thing inside me seemed to lie back down, leaving the Darkling’s call unanswered. “Not so fast,” he whispered. I felt something cold press against the inside of my forearm. In the same moment that I realized it was a knife, the blade cut into my skin. Pain and fear rushed through me. I cried out. The thing inside me roared to the surface, speeding toward the Darkling’s call. I couldn’t stop myself. I answered. The world exploded into blazing white light. The darkness shattered around us like glass.

For most people, having company for more than three of four days is a serious mistake, the equivalent to sawing a large hole in the roof and leaving all the doors and windows open in the middle of winter. Out of a desire to be helpful or the need to be kind, they let themselves in for prolonged spells of entertaining, forfeit their privacy and their easy understanding, knowing that the result will be an estrangement―however temporary―between husband and wife, and that nothing proportionate to this is to be gained by the giving up of beds, the endless succession of heavy meals, the afternoon drives. Either the human race is incurably hospitable or else people forget from one time to the next, as women forget the pains of labor, how weeks and months are lost that can never be recovered. The guest also loses―even the so-called easy guest who makes her own bed, helps with the dishes and doesn't require entertaining. She sees things no outsider should see, overhears whispered conversations about herself from two rooms away, finds old letters in books, and is sooner or later the cause of and witness to scenes that because of her presence do not clear the air. When she has left, she expects to go on being a part of the family she has stayed with so happily and for so long; she expects to be remembered; instead of which, her letters, full of intimate references and family jokes, go unanswered. She sends beautiful presents to the children at a time when she really cannot afford any extravagance and the presents also go unacknowledged. In the end her feelings are hurt, and she begins to doubt―quite unjustly―the genuineness of the family's attachment to her.

Eat, woman,” he bellowed, leaning over her, prepared to force the remainder of her meal into her opened mouth. “I would,” she said in a strained voice, “But there is a giant attached to my chin. Perhaps if he would be so gracious as to remove the cured pork from my pack, I would share it with him.” Rautu’s eyes blazed in senseless joy. He released his companion and hastened toward her effects, rummaging through them with great anticipation. He found a small brown parchment parcel and assumed that this was the source of his happiness. He sniffed the outside of the paper and hummed in delight for the exquisite scent. He tore open the barrier between him and his prize and he was compelled to smile when remarking the numerous slices of meat in his hands. He began eating them immediately, leaving no time between one slice and the next to savour that which he had longed to again taste. The superior fare of Frewyn had been the chief of his consolation during the war, and if he was to remain on the islands with all its splendor, all its comforting familiarity, all its temperate climate, and all its horrendous food, he would relish this last ember of bliss before being made to suffer a diet of steamed grains again. “I did say share,” the commander called out. “I am responsible for securing your life,” he replied with a full mouth and without turning around. “And I thanked you accordingly.” The commander’s remonstrations were unanswered, and she scoffed in aversion as she watched the voracious beast consume nearly all the provisions she had been saving for the return journey. “I know you shall not be satisfied until you have all the tribute in the world, but that pork does belong to me, Rau.” “You are not permitted to have meat while taking our medicines,” he said, dismissively. She peered at him in circumspection. “I don’t recall you mentioning that stipulation before. I find it convenient that you should care to do so now.” The giant paused, his cheeks filled with pork. “And?” he said, shoving another slice into his mouth. “And,” she laughed, “You’re going to allow me to starve on your inedible bread while you skulk off with something that was meant for both of us?” “Perhaps.” “Savior, indeed,” the commander fleered. “You have saved me from one means of death only to plunge me into another.

There are many who profess to be religious and speak of themselves as Christians, and, according to one such, “as accepting the scriptures only as sources of inspiration and moral truth,” and then ask in their smugness: “Do the revelations of God give us a handrail to the kingdom of God, as the Lord’s messenger told Lehi, or merely a compass?” Unfortunately, some are among us who claim to be Church members but are somewhat like the scoffers in Lehi’s vision—standing aloof and seemingly inclined to hold in derision the faithful who choose to accept Church authorities as God’s special witnesses of the gospel and his agents in directing the affairs of the Church. There are those in the Church who speak of themselves as liberals who, as one of our former presidents has said, “read by the lamp of their own conceit.” (Joseph F. Smith, Gospel Doctrine [Deseret Book Co., 1939], p. 373.) One time I asked one of our Church educational leaders how he would define a liberal in the Church. He answered in one sentence: “A liberal in the Church is merely one who does not have a testimony.” Dr. John A. Widtsoe, former member of the Quorum of the Twelve and an eminent educator, made a statement relative to this word liberal as it applied to those in the Church. This is what he said: “The self-called liberal [in the Church] is usually one who has broken with the fundamental principles or guiding philosophy of the group to which he belongs. . . . He claims membership in an organization but does not believe in its basic concepts; and sets out to reform it by changing its foundations. . . . “It is folly to speak of a liberal religion, if that religion claims that it rests upon unchanging truth.” And then Dr. Widtsoe concludes his statement with this: “It is well to beware of people who go about proclaiming that they are or their churches are liberal. The probabilities are that the structure of their faith is built on sand and will not withstand the storms of truth.” (“Evidences and Reconciliations,” Improvement Era, vol. 44 [1941], p. 609.) Here again, to use the figure of speech in Lehi’s vision, they are those who are blinded by the mists of darkness and as yet have not a firm grasp on the “iron rod.” Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, when there are questions which are unanswered because the Lord hasn’t seen fit to reveal the answers as yet, all such could say, as Abraham Lincoln is alleged to have said, “I accept all I read in the Bible that I can understand, and accept the rest on faith.” . . . Wouldn’t it be a great thing if all who are well schooled in secular learning could hold fast to the “iron rod,” or the word of God, which could lead them, through faith, to an understanding, rather than to have them stray away into strange paths of man-made theories and be plunged into the murky waters of disbelief and apostasy? . . . Cyprian, a defender of the faith in the Apostolic Period, testified, and I quote, “Into my heart, purified of all sin, there entered a light which came from on high, and then suddenly and in a marvelous manner, I saw certainty succeed doubt.” . . . The Lord issued a warning to those who would seek to destroy the faith of an individual or lead him away from the word of God or cause him to lose his grasp on the “iron rod,” wherein was safety by faith in a Divine Redeemer and his purposes concerning this earth and its peoples. The Master warned: “But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better … that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.” (Matt. 18:6.) The Master was impressing the fact that rather than ruin the soul of a true believer, it were better for a person to suffer an earthly death than to incur the penalty of jeopardizing his own eternal destiny.

His mother’s people were from Memphis but had scattered after the war. He paced around the office, ignoring the looks from the secretary, and decided it was probably his mother. She had been sent away months earlier and the family was reeling. He and Stella had not seen her and their letters went unanswered. Their father refused to discuss his wife’s treatment, and, well, there were a lot of unknowns. Would her condition improve? Would she come home? Would the family ever be a real family again? Joel and Stella had questions, but their father preferred to talk about other matters when he chose to talk at all. Likewise, Aunt Florry was of little help. She called at 11:00 a.m. on the dot. The secretary handed Joel the phone and stepped around a corner, though probably within earshot,

Why couldn’t I simply believe what I believed that day? My question remained unanswered. Maybe that’s why God gives us a day in Holy Week that I call “Silent Saturday,” between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.

Don’t call me ‘Helen,’” I said firmly, brushing Polydeuces’ question aside unanswered. “Helen of Sparta wouldn’t be on this ship. I’m Atalanta.” “I was wrong. You’re crazier than Herakles,” Castor said. I ignored his sarcasm. “When the Argo returns to Iolkos, do you want the crewmen scattering to their homes, bearing the tale of how Helen of Sparta threw away her proper role in life to go sailing halfway across the world? What will the lords of Mykenae, Thebes, Iolkos, and all the rest say about us then?” “That’s something you should have thought about before you sneaked away from Delphi,” Castor said. “Do you want to argue about how big the fire’s grown or do you want to put it out?” I countered, hands on hips. “Helen can’t be here; Atalanta can!” Polydeuces shook his head. “It won’t work. Castor and I aren’t the only crewmen who were part of the boar hunt. They saw Atalanta. They know she’s a woman, not a little girl.” “I am not a little girl anymore! Atalanta isn’t that much older than me. I’m as much a woman as she is, now.” “You’re still more convincing as a boy,” Castor muttered. I did my best to fry him with a single look.

You didn’t have to keep watch all night,” I said. “I wasn’t going to run away, you know.” “We don’t know,” Castor said. “We know nothing about you anymore, Helen. What in the name of all-seeing Apollo were you thinking, coming on this voyage, pretending to be a boy, doing something this--this--” He threw his hands up in frustration and blurted, “You must be as crazy as Herakles!” “Little sister, you could have died.” Polydeuces could hardly get the words out. “All of those days at sea, all the dangers, the raiders in Thrace, the bandits of the Clashing Rocks, even a simple misstep, like the one that killed poor Hylas--” His voice broke. He drew a ragged breath and added, “Why, Helen?” If I answered, would they understand? Their lives were always their own. They never had to fight for their liberty. When Jason came to Delphi seeking heroes, they joined his crew without asking anyone’s permission. No one demanded that they justify their choices. If you asked them why they had so much freedom, they’d react as if you wanted to know why the sky is blue. I’d be queen of Sparta one day. I’d marry because it would be my duty to have children and provide the land with its next ruler. If I was lucky, I’d choose my husband wisely and we’d love one another. But between You must do this because you’re a princess and You must never do that because you’re a girl, there was no time left for Do what you like, because you’re Helen. This quest, this adventure, might be my only chance to see what it meant to be myself. What would my brothers say if I told them that? “Don’t call me ‘Helen,’” I said firmly, brushing Polydeuces’ question aside unanswered. “Helen of Sparta wouldn’t be on this ship. I’m Atalanta.” “I was wrong. You’re crazier than Herakles,” Castor said.

I don’t want to spend the rest of my life thinking “Is this my great love story?” because I want more. I deserve more. I don’t want calls that go unanswered or texts that are never read. I don’t want to spend holidays, or any day, begging someone to choose me.

Godfrey?” She called. “Take my plaid and drape it around my husband.” “Your husband, Lady Cora?” “Yes. Come closer.” Godfrey looked pale as a wraith, as if the blood had been drained from him. He finally realized who had nearly died in the arena under his watch, and he meekly held up his hand and caught the plaid as she dropped it to him. Adaira watched as he shook out the wrinkles and draped the blue-and-violet-checkered wool over Jack’s shoulders. She laid her palm over her breast, where her heart beat like thunder, and spoke the ancient words over him. “I claim you, Jack Tamerlaine. From this day forth, you will be sheltered in my house, and will drink from my cup, and will find rest beneath my watch. If anyone lifts a sword against you, they will raise one against me. Such challenge will not go unanswered. You are mine to defend until the isle takes your bones or you desire it otherwise. Rise, and renew your heart.

Godfrey?” She called. “Take my plaid and drape it around my husband.” “Your husband, Lady Cora?” “Yes. Come closer.” Godfrey looked pale as a wraith, as if the blood had been drained from him. He finally realized who had nearly died in the arena under his watch, and he meekly held up his hand and caught the plaid as she dropped it to him. Adaira watched as he shook out the wrinkles and draped the blue-and-violet-checkered wool over Jack’s shoulders. She laid her palm over her breast, where her heart beat like thunder, and spoke the ancient words over him. “I claim you, Jack Tamerlaine. From this day forth, you will be sheltered in my house, and will drink from my cup, and will find rest beneath my watch. If anyone lifts a sword against you, they will raise one against me. Such challenge will not go unanswered. You are mine to defend until the isle takes your bones or you desire it otherwise. Rise, and renew your heart.

What the world calls a tormenting silence...in it is found, the abode of healing.... for the more you seek yourself...the more you find answers to your unanswered questions....

After a half dozen unanswered texts and calls to my mom, I stopped trying.

The distance between two hearts can be measured not in miles, but in the silence of unanswered calls. The true measure of separation between two hearts lies not in the physical distance, but in the depth of connection and the endurance of the heart's journey.” - NIRVANA: RAGA • DVESHA • MOHA

David knows the Lord will hear when I call to Him. i. All Christians should have the same assurance. They should be confident that God will hear their prayers. When prayer seems ineffective, it is worth it to take a spiritual inventory to see if there is a reason for unanswered prayer. The Bible tells us there are many reasons why prayer may not be answered. Not abiding in Jesus (John 15:7). Unbelief (Matthew 17:20-21). Failure to fast (Matthew 17:21). A Bad marriage relationship (1 Peter 3:7). Unconfessed sin (James 5:16). Lying and deceitfulness (Psalm 17:1). Lack of Bible reading and Bible teaching (Proverbs 28:9). Trusting in the length or form of prayer (Matthew 6:7).

I am the man who comes and goes between the bar and the telephone booth. Or, rather: that man is called “I” and you know nothing else about him, just as this station is called only “station” and beyond it there exists nothing except the unanswered signal of a telephone ringing in a dark room of a distant city.

We lay on our backs on hot sand and baked in the sun. Salt-crusted, preserved. Later, in the darkness of the green dome I felt his hand brush against my thigh, and with it the same electric pulse of need there had always been. Silence descended; everything stopped; I didn’t move, afraid to ignite a want that wouldn’t be satisfied, or lose a hope I’d held on to forever. He hesitated for a long moment, his hand stretching hot against my cold skin, a moment that hung between us in an unanswered question. Days passed. Clouds moved in from the south-west, white rolling cumuli disappearing inland. Winds changed direction: damp and light from the west; dry and cooling from the east; colder from the north-west, carrying hints of another season soon behind; then gently from the south, summer not quite yet spent. The heat reflected off the flat rocks, less jagged than those that surrounded them in the cove. We dried clothes on them, sat the stove flat on them to cook limpets, cracked an egg on them in the hope that it might fry, but when it didn’t, scraped it up and scrambled it, picking out bits of sand and grit. We lay on them, crisping to leathery brown. Bodies that fourteen months earlier were hunched and tired, soft and pale, were now lean and tanned, with a refound muscularity that we’d thought lost forever. Our hair was fried and falling out, our nails broken, clothes worn to a thread, but we were alive. Not just breathing through the thirty thousand or so days between life and death, but knowing each minute as it passed, swirling around in an exploration of time. The rock gave back the heat as it followed the arc of the sun, gulls called in differing tones as the tide left the shore and then returned, my hands wrinkled with age and my thighs changed to a new shape with passing miles, but when he pulled me to him and kissed me with an urgency that wasn’t in doubt, with a fervour that wouldn’t fail, time turned. I was ten million minutes and nineteen years ago, I was in the bus stop about to go back to his house, knowing his parents weren’t home, I was a mother of toddlers stealing moments in a walk-in wardrobe, we were us, every second of us, a long-marinated stew of life’s ingredients. We were everything we wanted to be and everything we didn’t. And we were free, free to be all those things, and stronger because of them. Skin on longed-for skin, life could wait, time could wait, death could wait. This second in the millions of seconds was the only one, the only one that we could live in. I was home, there was nothing left to search for, he was my home.

Until we mature enough to understand that God uses everything for good in our lives, we harbor resentment toward God over our appearance, background, unanswered prayers, past hurts, and other things we would change if we were God. People often blame God for hurts caused by others. This creates what William Backus calls “your hidden rift with God.

The classic statement of it was given by David Hume, in his Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion. “Epicurus’s old questions are yet unanswered. Is he willing to prevent evil but not able? Then he is impotent. Is he able but not willing? Then he is malevolent. Is he both able and willing? Whence then is evil?”152 This has also been called the argument against God from evil, or just the argument from evil.

As a child, I had not known the world anthropology or that there was a thing called Ivy League. I had not known that you could spend your days on planes, moving through the world, studying death, your whole life before this life an unanswered question...finally answered. I had seen death in Indonesia and Korea. Death in Mauritania and Mongolia. I had watched the people of Madagascar exhume the muslin-wrapped bones of their ancestors, spray them with perfume, and ask those who had already passed to the next place for their stories, prayers, blessings. I had been home a month watching my father die. Death didn't frighten me. Not now. Not anymore. But Brooklyn felt like a stone in my throat.

Like two old philosophers, Ashvin and James spoke of the ruin of their lives, their unfulfilled needs, their unanswered prayers and ultimately they were seduced by the phantom call to death by suicide its science, its poetry, its violence, its art.

Transparency and the rule of law will be the touchstones of this administration,” President Obama declared back in 2009. Rarely has there been a greater gap between what a politician said and what he did. Indeed, in the mold of Richard Nixon, the White House asserted dubious claims of executive privilege to avoid scrutiny in the Fast and Furious scandal. But Obama is publicly oblivious to the contradictions. At a media awards dinner in March 2016, President Obama scolded the press for enabling a candidate like Donald Trump and suggested it had a greater responsibility than to hand someone a microphone. But as far as Jake Tapper on CNN was concerned “the messenger was a curious one.” He succinctly reviewed the Obama administration’s deplorable record on transparency and openness and concluded: “Maybe, just maybe, your lecturing would be better delivered to your own administration.” Speaking with some passion, Tapper told his viewers: “Many believe that Obama’s call for us to probe and dig deeper and find out more has been made far more difficult by his administration than any in recent decades. A far cry from the assurances he offered when he first took office.” Tapper noted that Obama promised to run the “most transparent administration in history.” “Obama hasn’t delivered,” ProPublica reporter Justin Elliott wrote in the Washington Post in March 2016. “In fact, FOIA has been a disaster under his watch.” Elliott went on to write: Newly uncovered documents (made public only through a FOIA lawsuit) show the Obama administration aggressively lobbying against reforms proposed in Congress. The Associated Press found last year that the administration had set a record for censoring or denying access to information requested under FOIA, and that the backlog of unanswered requests across the government had risen by 55 percent, to more than 200,000. A recent analysis found the Obama administration set a record of failing nearly 130,000 times to respond to public records requests under the Freedom of Information Act.1 Tapper closed his broadcast by quoting former Washington Post executive editor Leonard Downie, who helped break the Watergate scandal and said in 2013 that Obama had the “most aggressive” administration toward the press since Richard Nixon.

Delay has to be—sometimes. Your lives are so linked up with those of others, so bound by circumstances that to let your desire have instant fulfillment might in many cases cause another, as earnest prayer, to go unanswered.

Does an arbitrary human convention, a mere custom, decree that man must guide his actions by a set of principles—or is there a fact of reality that demands it? Is ethics the province of whims: of personal emotions, social edicts and mystic revelations—or is it the province of reason? Is ethics a subjective luxury—or an objective necessity? In the sorry record of the history of mankind’s ethics—with a few rare, and unsuccessful, exceptions—moralists have regarded ethics as the province of whims, that is: of the irrational. Some of them did so explicitly, by intention—others implicitly, by default. A “whim” is a desire experienced by a person who does not know and does not care to discover its cause. No philosopher has given a rational, objectively demonstrable, scientific answer to the question of why man needs a code of values. So long as that question remained unanswered, no rational, scientific, objective code of ethics could be discovered or defined. The greatest of all philosophers, Aristotle, did not regard ethics as an exact science; he based his ethical system on observations of what the noble and wise men of his time chose to do, leaving unanswered the questions of: why they chose to do it and why he evaluated them as noble and wise. Most philosophers took the existence of ethics for granted, as the given, as a historical fact, and were not concerned with discovering its metaphysical cause or objective validation. Many of them attempted to break the traditional monopoly of mysticism in the field of ethics and, allegedly, to define a rational, scientific, nonreligious morality. But their attempts consisted of trying to justify them on social grounds, merely substituting society for God. The avowed mystics held the arbitrary, unaccountable “will of God” as the standard of the good and as the validation of their ethics. The neomystics replaced it with “the good of society,” thus collapsing into the circularity of a definition such as “the standard of the good is that which is good for society.” This meant, in logic—and, today, in worldwide practice—that “society” stands above any principles of ethics, since it is the source, standard and criterion of ethics, since “the good” is whatever it wills, whatever it happens to assert as its own welfare and pleasure. This meant that “society” may do anything it pleases, since “the good” is whatever it chooses to do because it chooses to do it. And—since there is no such entity as “society,” since society is only a number of individual men—this meant that some men (the majority or any gang that claims to be its spokesman) are ethically entitled to pursue any whims (or any atrocities) they desire to pursue, while other men are ethically obliged to spend their lives in the service of that gang’s desires. This could hardly be called rational, yet most philosophers have now decided to declare that reason has failed, that ethics is outside the power of reason, that no rational ethics can ever be defined, and that in the field of ethics—in the choice of his values, of his actions, of his pursuits, of his life’s goals—man must be guided by something other than reason. By what? Faith—instinct—intuition—revelation—feeling—taste—urge—wish—whim Today, as in the past, most philosophers agree that the ultimate standard of ethics is whim (they call it “arbitrary postulate” or “subjective choice” or “emotional commitment”)—and the battle is only over the question or whose whim: one’s own or society’s or the dictator’s or God’s. Whatever else they may disagree about, today’s moralists agree that ethics is a subjective issue and that the three things barred from its field are: reason—mind—reality. If you wonder why the world is now collapsing to a lower and ever lower rung of hell, this is the reason. If you want to save civilization, it is this premise of modern ethics—and of all ethical

~ Animo Venezuela! ~ "A voice can move a mountain, The word of God tells you, Whom use their voice malignant, Can curse that mountain too, The sickness of spread confusion, Divides in halves of truths, And voices ever so righteous, Infecting life at the roots, A voice can be a calling, Guiding you towards home, But as an unanswered echo, Every voice whispers alone, Let all those whispers build up, Until they become the voice that seeds, They will move their mountain, That voice has truth that leads, Now who will have the last say, History will make it clear, But history does not absolve those, Who use their voices to divide and spread fear.

He’d decided, abruptly, that electronic interaction was toxic, that it downgraded the significance of real human connection, that it resulted in what he called a “digital tapestry of unanswered prayers.

I don't want to spend the rest of my life thinking "Is this my great love story?" because I want more. I deserve more. I don't want calls that go unanswered or texts that are never read. I don't want to spend holidays, or any day, begging someone to choose me. I deserve someone who chooses me without question. Someone who loves me without doubt.

I don't want to spend the rest of my life thinking "Is this my great love story?" because I want more. I deserve more. I don't want calls that go unanswered or texts that are never read. I don't want to spend holidays, or any day, begging someone to choose me. I deserve someone who choose me without question. Someone who loves me without doubt.

And who exactly gave that description? What other proof did they have? How did they know you were even sleeping in that bed, since the cottage is not in your name but your wife's? How is this different from tactics used by the SS, the KGB, the Tonton Macoutes? And who is the real criminal, the real terrorist, and how will they be held accountable? To this day, the stench of these questions lingers, the stench of rotting meat unaddressed, unanswered.

talk about it. He went back to his office, musing on the fact that both he and Signorina Elettra worked for this unresponsive, negligent state. Because he’d been awake since two, Brunetti decided to treat himself well and walked down to Al Covo for lunch. On the way back, he gave thanks, as he always did, that the restaurant was only ten minutes from the Questura and never failed to send him back a new and happier man. Unfortunately, this new man was confronted with old problems: he called Professoressa Crosera’s telefonino but was told to leave a message; he called the hospital and received no information about Gasparini. He called Gasparini’s home number every hour, but the phone rang unanswered. Finally, at about five, he decided he had no choice but to pass by the hospital on his way home, and called Griffoni to tell her where he was going. He might as well have saved himself the effort: Professoressa Crosera was in her husband’s room, but when he went in and said good evening, she held her finger to her lips and pointed to her husband, lying now in a proper hospital bed. Brunetti indicated the door and the corridor beyond, but she shook her head and did not speak.

When the wind and sea are howling there is nothing more terrifying than the call that goes unanswered.

A meta-analysis of studies involving more than three hundred thousand participants found that overall dairy consumption was associated with significantly increased risk of Parkinson’s disease. They estimated that Parkinson’s risk may increase 17 percent for every daily cup of milk consumed.65 “Contamination of milk with neurotoxins may be of critical importance,” researchers offered by way of explanation.66 For example, neurotoxic chemicals like tetrahydroisoquinoline, a compound used to induce parkinsonism in primates in laboratory studies,67 appears to be found predominantly in cheese.68 The concentrations found were low, but the concern is that they may accumulate over a lifetime of consumption,69 resulting in the elevated levels found in the brains of Parkinson’s patients.70 There have been calls on the dairy industry to require screening of milk for such toxins,71 but they have so far gone unanswered.

Do not be discouraged by the fact that many of your prayers are yet unanswered. Time is a trainer, teaching you to wait upon Me, to trust Me in the dark. The more extreme your circumstances, the more likely you are to see My Power and Glory at work in the situation. Instead of letting difficulties draw you into worrying, try to view them as setting the scene for My glorious intervention. Keep your eyes and your mind wide open to all that I am doing in your life.

I could not know then that this was the last I would see of Tziri and Freidy for a long time. I could not know then that my many phone calls and letters would go unanswered, my messages unreturned. That for years, I would not know whether they even received my messages, or whether they were intercepted and discarded by those tasked with keeping their minds pure.

Dear Goodreads diary, Thanks for receiving me all this time with hands wide open… Thanks for being patient to listen to all my gibberish. Still, I gotta go now. I’ll be absent for some time… But I want to tell you one last story… 2 years ago, a little boy came to me and asked for my help. He was desperate and tired of his life. He asked for my friendship and I was reluctant to accept his offer. I’ve always denied his emails or text messages. I know that boys are BASTARDS, though he looked like a little bird, lost and without wings…The way he talks in missing and dreams, oh GOD I wanna forget about all… it disgusts me each time to remember that he didn’t respect that I’m a conservative girl and tried his ways on me even though I’ve always asked him to stop it…. I mean, I’m 5 years older than him…. His father got sick. They reaaaaaaaally needed help. Though I’ve always known he was a “bastard” like everybody else, I couldn’t possibly leave his mom’s calls unanswered when she always asked for my help. I’ve been through all they’ve been through. I couldn’t give up on them while I knew how much it means to stand for someone who’s been tested for his father. I’m an orphan. How could I possibly walk away? + Our dear Prophet (PBUH) would never treat a misdeed with a misdeed…I’m a girl who loves GOD…I wouldn’t be as mean as him… Still, each time he was acting like bastards act. That meanness I can read in his text messages. That DISRESPECT…. I knew he used every possible memory for his ulterior motives. I kept silent for two years…I knew he was making a show… I mean even if he wasn’t making it because he saw something in me (that everybody saw, not only him), he would be making a show for his friends … Still, I’m not the one who would leave a friend in the middle of the dark…at one point in time, I called him brother…. hhh…. Thought maybe if he knows that I’m his older sister, he’ll think that the way he talked or the things he asked are things you only ask from a girlfriend and not me… he persisted…. I tested him once and he like a fool fell into the trap… I knew I should walk away even if I’d hear that his father would die… I spent whole night throwing in my disbelief…. How could people be so tricky…I’m 5 years older…. Eventually, he made his show… Thank GOD, a colleague… a mouthy colleague… started talking about everyone at school including me and him…that was heaven’s door wide open for me. Though 14 years ago, my friends started talking about me and another boy, I wouldn’t leave him for the world because I knew he was a decent boy… This time, I dived in… One month later, he came into my class not caring what my colleagues would talk…That made me sure that he wants to carry his show over… You know diary, what kills a person the most is not death. Hurt can kill…deception can kill…not apologizing can kill… Bad memories can kill…and I didn’t want to leave him with bad memories…I sent my last text message, told him to fulfill all his dreams and said goodbye…. Still I’ve never felt relieved… I texted him again, faced him with the facts, he thought he fooled me again….I said sorry and goodbye… forever…I waited for some time and then I quit my job so they don’t understand a thing about my motives… I spent two amazing months home; that I would always remember because they’ve changed me a lot…They brought me back to life again…But when I came back, all the bad memories came back again… Dear diary, I know you’ve got tired of my complaints, but I have nobody else to talk to the way I talk to you… I need to forget all the bad memories he left me with… I know I CAN, but I need some time away from you…Even though he’s like a “tafcha” in my life now… still, I have to forgive him… I’m not someone who would spend her time hating people…People like me talk in books and ideas in their social networks… Wait for me diary…I’ll be back…

I watched Sloan die inside that night. They called it a catastrophic stroke. A blood clot moved from the wounds in his leg up to his brain. It had probably happened while Josh sat with him. It was silent and final, and there was nothing anyone could have done. Josh was right. Brandon was gone. Three days after the stroke, an ethics committee made up of Brandon’s doctors, an organization that coordinated organ donations, and a grief counselor called the family in for an 11:00 a.m. meeting at the hospital. I sat outside the conference room, bouncing my knee, waiting for Sloan to come out. I hadn’t left her side once since the stroke. Every night I slept in the chair next to her by Brandon’s bedside. Only now he wasn’t healing in his coma. He was brain-dead. Josh hadn’t been back to the hospital since Brandon’s diagnosis. He wouldn’t answer my calls. The shift was strange. Our text thread went from dozens of unanswered texts from him, begging me to talk to him, to dozens of unanswered texts from me, begging him to talk to me. I wanted to know he was okay. His silence told me he wasn’t. I wore his sweatshirt today. I’d never wear it when I knew he might see it. I didn’t want to encourage him. But based on his absence over the last three days, I didn’t think I had to worry. And I needed to feel him wrapped around my body today. I needed to smell him in the fabric. I just needed him.

If Tink felt the same fear, Janner couldn’t see it. After his call to Maraly went unanswered, Tink’s face had darkened. He ran beside Janner without taking his eyes from the muddy road. The rise and fall of the land gradually settled into a flat, grassy bottomland, a wild green in contrast to the muddy road and the gray-brown course of the river. After hours of running, helping Leeli to her feet, running again, slipping in the mud, and so on, Podo stopped so suddenly that Nia thudded into him.

My father's hand found the door locked. His calls to my mother went unanswered. He beat with his fists and called out her name, again and again, tears burning from his eyes. By the time I had come in the front door, the cake in my arms, he had broken his way in and discovered she was dead.

Many will be familiar, for example, with the story of Prometheus, the titan who stole fire from the gods to give to humans.21 Fewer know that, in doing so, he was fully aware in advance of the cruel punishment he would receive from Zeus: namely, being chained to a rock for all eternity with an eagle eating his liver (which regenerated overnight) each day. What remains unanswered in the myth, however, is why Prometheus would choose to sacrifice himself, knowing in advance, as he also did, all the horrors that humanity would unleash with his gift. Perhaps he chose as he did, and is called a hero rather than a villain, because humanity would unleash very good things as well.

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RECOVER YOUR MONEY FROM SCAMMERS WITH DIGITAL HACK RECOVERY Having been a lawyer practicing law in Dubai, I’ve always been cautious and methodical in both my professional and personal life. However, I recently found myself a victim of an online scam, which reminded me that anyone, regardless of profession, can fall prey to deception.It all began when a colleague at my law firm introduced me to an investment website claiming high returns in a short period. The site appeared legitimate, well-designed, with detailed information about the investment process, glowing testimonials, and impressive returns. He showed me screenshots of his own profits, which encouraged me to try it myself. Despite my usual caution, I decided to start small, investing AED 30,000 to test the platform.To my surprise, within 24 hours, my investment grew to AED 75,000. The site continued to display success stories from other users, further convincing me of its legitimacy. However, when I tried to withdraw my profits, I was met with silence. Emails and messages went unanswered, and the website’s fake testimonials kept appearing, but no one responded to my inquiries. It became clear that I had been scammed.Desperate to recover my money, I searched for solutions online and came across a company called Digital Hack Recovery, which specializes in recovering funds lost to online scams. My colleague, who had also invested and lost money, joined me in reaching out to them.From the moment we contacted Digital Hack Recovery, their team was professional, empathetic, and thorough. They quickly got to work on our cases and explained the recovery process step by step. Within a few days, they successfully traced and recovered the full amount—AED 30,000 each for both of us.The entire process was quick, efficient, and seamless, and we were both relieved to know we hadn’t lost our money permanently. Looking back, this experience taught us a valuable lesson about the dangers of online scams, even those that seem credible. As professionals, we thought we were too careful to fall for such traps, but the sophistication of these scams was shocking.We are incredibly grateful to Digital Hack Recovery for their expertise and support in recovering our funds. If you ever find yourself in a similar situation, I highly recommend contacting Digital Hack Recovery. They truly made all the difference. Talk to Digital Hack Recovery today via⁚ WhatsApp +19152151930 Website⁚ https : // digital hack recovery . com Email; digital hack recovery @ techie . com

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CRYPTOCURRENCY RECOVERY FIRM \ FOLKWIN EXPERT RECOVERY. I, Dr. Katherine Ingram, had always been committed to giving my best to my patients in Melbourne, Australia. But everything changed when I was suddenly hit with a medical malpractice lawsuit. The stress and anxiety that came with the legal battle left me feeling overwhelmed, and I was desperate for a solution. In my search for help, I found "MedLegal Solutions," a firm that promised a quick and easy resolution for just $27,000 AUD. They assured me they would handle everything swiftly, easing my burden. Desperate to resolve the situation, I handed over the money, trusting them to take care of the rest. However, as the weeks turned into months, I heard nothing. Calls went unanswered, emails went ignored, and I began to feel more and more helpless. It became clear that something was wrong, and I realized I had been deceived. The more I tried to contact them, the more I found myself being ignored. I soon understood that I was much deeper than I had initially feared. That’s when I turned to Folkwin Expert Recovery for help. From the moment I contacted them, they sprang into action. They immediately began investigating MedLegal Solutions and quickly uncovered a massive web of deceit. It turned out that MedLegal Solutions wasn’t just an incompetent firm; it was part of an elaborate scam. They were operating under multiple false identities across Sydney, Brisbane, and regional Victoria, targeting vulnerable individuals like myself. Folkwin Expert Recovery didn’t just uncover the fraud, they took it one step further. They worked tirelessly with authorities in Melbourne to track down and dismantle the fraudulent operation. They didn’t rest until MedLegal Solutions was shut down for good, ensuring that no one else would fall victim to their schemes. Thanks to their expert recovery efforts, I was able to recover every single cent of my $27,000.This entire ordeal was a wake-up call for me. It was a difficult and stressful time, but ultimately, I came out victorious. Thanks to Folkwin Expert Recovery, not only did I get my money back, but I also found peace knowing that MedLegal Solutions was no longer in business and that their fraudulent operation had been dismantled. It was a painful lesson, but in the end, my finances were intact, and I could move forward with a sense of closure. FOLKWIN EXPERT RECOVERY DETAILS\\ Telegram: @Folkwin_expert_recovery Or Email: Folkwinexpertrecovery(@)tech-center DOT com   Regards, Dr. Katherine Ingram.

It all started when I needed to rent a car for an upcoming trip. After browsing through various options online, I came across a company called Rental24. Their website looked professional, the prices seemed reasonable, and they were offering a fantastic car that seemed perfect for my month-long rental. The process appeared straightforward, and everything seemed legitimate. However, there was one condition they required a hefty deposit of $5000, which seemed a bit high, but I thought it was typical for premium rentals. Trusting the process, I went ahead and paid the deposit. I received an email confirmation and a rental agreement, and everything appeared to be in order. But as the days went on, the red flags started appearing. When I tried to reach out for more details and final confirmation, my emails were ignored, and my calls went unanswered. When I finally managed to get a response, it was vague and unhelpful. Then, without any warning, their website disappeared, and the phone number they had listed was disconnected. It became clear that I had been scammed. My $5000 was gone, and I had no car to show for it. I was devastated, unsure of where to turn next. After a few days of feeling lost, I began researching ways to recover my funds. That’s when I found RAPID DIGITAL RECOVERY. I read testimonials from others who had been scammed and successfully had their money recovered with the help of their team...Email: rapid digital recovery (@) execs. com .. I reached out to RAPID DIGITAL RECOVERY, shared the details of the scam, and explained what had happened. They took immediate action, investigating the company and tracking down the scammers responsible. The team at RAPID DIGITAL RECOVERY was incredibly professional, and they kept me informed at every stage. They worked tirelessly and, after some time, managed to locate the scammer behind Rental24 and recover my $5000.... Whatsapp: +1 4 14 80 71 4 85.. Thanks to RAPID DIGITAL RECOVERY’s expertise, I got my money back. They provided me with peace of mind during a stressful time and helped me avoid a financial disaster. If you’ve ever been a victim of an online scam, I highly recommend reaching out to them. Their support was invaluable, and they turned what seemed like an impossible situation into a success. Telegram: h t t p s: // t. me / Rapiddigitalrecovery1

As a truck driver in Manassas, I frequently rely on notarized documents for business transactions. Recently, I needed several documents notarized urgently and found an online provider offering services through a platform called Rednote. The website appeared professional, and they quoted me $7,800 USD for the notarization, which seemed fair given the amount of paperwork involved. I decided to proceed and made the payment via online transfer.However, after paying, I received no communication, and my attempts to contact the provider went unanswered. Days passed without any updates, and it soon became clear I had been scammed. The situation worsened when I noticed unusual activity in my accounts. My email was hacked, and I began receiving notifications about unauthorized login attempts and changes. Upon further investigation, I discovered the scammers had accessed my Binance crypto wallet. They stole a significant portion of my savings, including Bitcoin and other altcoins. Between the payment to the fraudulent notarization service and the stolen crypto assets, I lost over $7,800 USD.Desperate, I reached out to SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL, a professional service specializing in helping victims of online scams. I found them through their bio and provided all the details of my case, including the compromised email and crypto wallet. SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL acted swiftly, using digital forensics and legal processes to investigate the fraud. Their team worked tirelessly to trace the scammers' activities and identify the fraudulent payment channels. They also helped secure my email and crypto wallet to prevent further damage.After several days of investigation, SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL managed to recover a portion of my $7,800 USD and helped secure my stolen crypto assets. Although the experience was stressful, I was relieved to see some of my funds returned. The professionalism and dedication of SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL were invaluable, and they kept me updated throughout the process.This taught me the importance of carefully vetting online services, especially when dealing with sensitive information like notarized documents and cryptocurrency. I now take extra precautions with my email accounts and crypto wallets to protect against future scams. If you find yourself in a similar situation, I highly recommend contacting SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL for their expertise in tracking scammers and securing online accounts. REACH OUT TO SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL ON THEIR CONTACT INFO BELOW: Website: h t t p s : / / spartan tech group retrieval . o r g Telegram: + 1 ( 5 8 1 ) 2 8 6 - 8 0 9 2 WhatsApp: + 1 ( 9 7 1 ) 4 8 7 - 3 5 3 8

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After months of meticulous research, I cautiously invested $188,000 into a binary options platform that promised steady returns. At the time, I lived in California, where I’d worked tirelessly to build my life and savings. I monitored my account for weeks, reassured by the platform’s professional interface and seemingly legitimate operations. Encouraged by initial gains, I grew optimistic until the day I attempted my first withdrawal. The transaction stalled, and panic surged as I realized my funds were trapped. I immediately contacted customer support via every channel listed: emails went unanswered, calls rang endlessly, and live chat options mysteriously vanished. Days turned into weeks, my anxiety deepening with each ignored plea. Then, an unsettling email arrived: to “unlock” withdrawals, I was told to deposit an additional $50,000. The demand felt predatory, a glaring red flag. Refusing to comply, I confronted the grim truth—I’d been ensnared in an elaborate scam. The aftermath was crushing. Nights were sleepless, my mind racing with regret and anger. I replayed every decision, tormented by the loss of hard-earned savings meant to secure my family’s future. Friends urged me to accept the loss, but resignation felt like surrender. Months later, while scouring online forums for solutions, I stumbled upon a thread praising Tech Cyber Force Recovery. Skeptical yet desperate, I devoured countless testimonials stories mirroring my own, with endings I scarcely dared to believe. With trembling resolve, I reached out. Their team responded within hours, radiating empathy. They requested transaction records, communication logs, and platform details, guiding me through each step. Though doubts lingered, their transparency starkly contrasted with the shadowy operators who’d stolen my trust. Then, the impossible happened: 32 hours later, I received confirmation that my entire $188,000 had been recovered. Tears of relief blurred my screen as I verified the funds in my account. Tech Cyber Force Recovery hadn’t just restored my savings, they’d restored my faith in justice. This ordeal taught me harsh lessons about vigilance in the digital age. Yet it also revealed the power of resilience and the critical importance of seeking help. To anyone trapped in the nightmare of financial fraud, I urge you: act swiftly, document everything, and trust in experts like Tech Cyber Force Recovery. They are beacons of hope in an increasingly complex world, turning despair into redemption when it matters most. visit they teams WhatsApp +.1.5.6.1.7.2.6.3.6.9.7