Upi Quotes

The desert, when the sun comes up...I couldn't tell where heaven stopped and the Earth began.

It's not my fate to give up--I know it can't be.

Eros once again limb-loosener whirls me sweetbitter, impossible to fight off, creature stealing up...I don't know what I should do: two states of mind in me...

Here's some more stuff we're going to need." 1 pair coveralls 1 extension ladder (30 foot) 1 glass cutter 1 artist's portfolio (large) 1 water pistol 1 bottle india ink 1 portable trampoline (collapsible) 1 bicycle w/basket 4 pizza boxes Jonah whistled. "I hope you've got some crazy evil-genius strategy, 'cause–straight up–I don't get it.

The paradox about waking up—I mean the ordinary kind of waking up that occurred to you and me this morning—is that you can’t make it happen, yet it’s inevitable. The same holds true spiritually. You can’t wish, pray, beg, force, or meditate yourself awake.

One morning, very early, when the sun was up,I rose and found the shiny dew on every buttercup

He never really existed at all, except in my imagination, she thought wearily. I loved something that I made up...I made a pretty suit of clothes and fell in love with it. And when Ashley came riding along, so handsome, so different, I put that suit on him and made him wear it whether it fitted him or not. And I wouldn't see what he really was. I kept on loving the pretty clothes-and not him at all.

I was a good kid, but I've had one Achilles' heel that's stayed with me through the years: talking. I simply could not shut the fuck up-I still can't and that small issue has gotten me in all sorts of trouble.

Still have your passport?" I feel my coat once more. "Got it." "Good." And then his hand is inside my pocket.My heart spazzes,but he doesn't notice.He pulls out my passport and flicks it open. WAIT.WHY DOES HE HAVE MY PASSPORT? His eyebrows shoot up.I try to snatch it back,but he holds it out of my reach. "Why are your eyes crossed?" He laughs. "Have you had some kind of ocular surgery I don't know about?" "Give it back?" Another grab and miss, and I change tactics and lunge for his coat instead. I snag his passport. "NO!" I open it up,and it's...baby St. Clair. "Dude.How old is this picture?" He slings my passport at me and snatches his back. "I was in middle school.

She would never want me. I’m a fucking retard.” I hit the side of my head with the heel of my palm as my eyes blurred again. “I don’t think right in here. I’m fucked up—I don’t get people, they don’t get me. And I ain’t ever gonna be able to read people. Why would someone as perfect as her want someone as fucked up as me? Someone who isn’t right in the head?

burro, burrow: A /burro/ is an ass. A /burrow/ is a hole in the ground. As a journalist you are expected to know the difference.

At this stage of the game, I don’t have the time for patience and tolerance. Ten years ago, even five years ago, I would have listened to people ask their questions, explained to them, mollified them. No more. That time is past. Now, as Norman Mailer said in Naked and the Dead, ‘I hate everything which is not in myself.’ If it doesn’t have a direct bearing on what I’m advocating, if it doesn’t augment or stimulate my life and thinking, I don’t want to hear it. It has to add something to my life. There’s no more time for explaining and being ecumenical anymore. No more time. That’s a characteristic I share with the new generation of Satanists, which might best be termed, and has labeled itself in many ways, an ‘Apocalypse culture.’ Not that they believe in the biblical Apocalypse—the ultimate war between good and evil. Quite the contrary. But that there is an urgency, a need to get on with things and stop wailing and if it ends tomorrow, at least we’ll know we’ve lived today. It’s a ‘fiddle while Rome burns’ philosophy. It’s the Satanic philosophy. If the generation born in the 50’s grew up in the shadow of The Bomb and had to assimilate the possibility of imminent self destruction of the entire planet at any time, those born in the 60’s have had to reconcile the inevitability of our own destruction, not through the bomb but through mindless, uncontrolled overpopulation. And somehow resolve in themselves, looking at what history has taught us, that no amount of yelling, protesting, placard waving, marching, wailing—or even more constructive avenues like running for government office or trying to write books to wake people up—is going to do a damn bit of good. The majority of humans have an inborn death wish—they want to destroy themselves and everything beautiful. To finally realize that we’re living in a world after the zenith of creativity, and that we can see so clearly the mechanics of our own destruction, is a terrible realization. Most people can’t face it. They’d rather retreat to the comfort of New Age mysticism. That’s all right. All we want, those few of us who have the strength to realize what’s going on, is the freedom to create and entertain and share with each other, to preserve and cherish what we can while we can, and to build our own little citadels away from the insensitivity of the rest of the world.

Pres, I know you’re going to say this is dumb, and I know you won’t understand. Which is why I asked Bee and Ryan for help. Don’t get me wrong, I like fighting with you, but there are some things you just can’t argue. This is one, and I hope you’ll come to accept that. I have to leave Pine Grove. I have to leave Alabama, and I have to leave you. After tonight, that’s all completely clear to me. This whole situation is effed up…and it’s clear to me now that the only way to un-eff it up…is to take myself out of the equation. Without me, you, Bee, and Ryan can just be you, Bee, and Ryan. Not Paladins or Mages. People. With your own lives. It’s like you said at that time at Cotillion practice, you want to be a good woman who chooses the right thing for everybody. Well, so do I. (Minus the woman part, obviously.) Have a good life, Pres. I love you. Always. D

I'll be sure to pass your comments along to the manager-after I fire him for letting you in." "Don't be cranky,Josh." She slanted her most persuasive smile his way, only slightly annoyed when she saw it didn't make a dent. "I'm sorry I woke you up.I wasn't thinking about the time." "Not thinking is one of your most highly honed skills." "I'm not going to fight with you, and I'm not going to apologize for not sleeping with you just because your ego's bruised." His smile was thin and sharp as a scalpel. "Duchess, if I'd gotten your clothes off,you not only wouldn't have to apologize,you'd be thanking me." "Oh,I see I'm mistaken.Your ego's not bruised, it's just painfully swollen.

You once said you would like to sit beside me while I write. Listen, in that case I could not write (I can’t do much, anyway), but in that case I could not write at all. For writing means revealing oneself to excess; that utmost of selfrevelation and surrender, in which a human being, when involved with others, would feel he was losing himself, and from which, therefore, he will always shrink as long as he is in his right mind—for everyone wants to live as long as he is alive —even that degree of selfrevelation and surrender is not enough for writing. Writing that springs from the surface of existence— when there is no other way and the deeper wells have dried up—is nothing, and collapses the moment a truer emotion makes that surface shake. This is why one can never be alone enough when one writes, why there can never be enough silence around one when one writes, why even night is not night enough. This is why there is never enough time at one’s disposal, for the roads are long and it is easy to go astray, there are even times when one becomes afraid and has the desire—even without any constraint or enticement—to run back (a desire always severely punished later on), how much more so if one were suddenly to receive a kiss from the most beloved lips! I have often thought that the best mode of life for me would be to sit in the innermost room of a spacious locked cellar with my writing things and a lamp. Food would be brought and always put down far away from my room, outside the cellar’s outermost door. The walk to my food, in my dressing gown, through the vaulted cellars, would be my only exercise. I would then return to my table, eat slowly and with deliberation, then start writing again at once. And how I would write! From what depths I would drag it up! Without effort! For extreme concentration knows no effort. The trouble is that I might not be able to keep it up for long, and at the first failure—which perhaps even in these circumstances could not be avoided—would be bound to end in a grandiose fit of madness.

Narcissists are manipulative and masterful at twisting the situation and working the rules to get what they want. Even more frustrating, they will turn things around in such a way that you may ultimately give them what they want and exhaust yourself in the process. Early in a relationship, the manipulation is most often emotional (“I had a tough childhood, so sometimes I say things I do not mean” or “I am under a lot of stress, so I blew up—I didn’t really mean it”) and financial (masterfully getting you to take on disproportionately more financial responsibility, finding yourself spending money you do not have to keep your relationship going and your partner happy.

Then he did the thing I couldn’t manage. The kid leaned in and hugged me. A real hug, committed. I stiffened up—I couldn’t help it—but he was clearly a dog person, so I didn’t pull away.

Which reminds me of something that happened at the 1979 World Fantasy Convention. A UPI reporter asked me the eternal question: ‘Why do people read this horror stuff?’ My reply was essentially Harlan’s; you try to catch the madness in a bell-jar so you can cope with it a little better. People who read horror fiction are warped, I told the reporter; but if you don’t have a few warps in your record, you’re going to find it impossible to cope with life in the last quarter of the twentieth century. The headline on the UPI squib that came down the wire and into newspapers coast to coast was predictable enough, I suppose, and exactly what I deserved for presuming to speak metaphorically to a newspaperman: KING SAYS HIS FANS ARE WARPED. Open mouth; insert foot; close mouth.

Stripped to its essence, combat is a series of quick decisions and rather precise actions carried out in concert with ten or twelve other men. In that sense it’s much more like football than, say, like a gang fight. The unit that choreographs their actions best usually wins. They might take casualties, but they win. That choreography—you lay down fire while I run forward, then I cover you while you move your team up—is so powerful that it can overcome enormous tactical deficits. There is choreography for storming Omaha Beach, for taking out a pillbox bunker, and for surviving an L-shaped ambush at night on the Gatigal. The choreography always requires that each man make decisions based not on what’s best for him, but on what’s best for the group. If everyone does that, most of the group survives. If no one does, most of the group dies. That, in essence, is combat.

Meg cut up some celery and mixed it in with the tuna. After a moment's hesitation she opened the refrigerator door and brought out a jar of little sweet pickles.-Though why I'm doing it for her I don't know, she thought, as she cut them up.-I don't trust her one bit.

Anna’s attention was focused on a single patient. Ariadne Bridgestock lay quietly against the white pillows. Her eyes were shut, and her rich brown skin was ashen, stretching tightly over the branching black veins beneath her skin. Anna slipped in between the screens surrounding Ariadne’s cot, and Cordelia followed, feeling slightly awkward. Was she intruding? But Anna looked up, as if to assure herself that Cordelia was there, before she knelt down at the side of Ariadne’s bed, laying her walking stick on the floor. Anna’s bowed shoulders looked strangely vulnerable. One of her hands dangled at her side: she reached out the other, fingers moving slowly across the white linen sheets, until she was almost touching Ariadne’s hand. She did not take it. At the last moment, Anna’s fingers curled and dropped to rest, beside Ariadne but not quite touching. In a low and steady voice, Anna said, “Ariadne. When you wake up—and you will wake up—I want you to remember this. It was never a sign of your worth that Charles Fairchild wanted to marry you. It is a measure of his lack of worth that he chose to break it off in such a manner.” “He broke it off?” Cordelia whispered. She was stunned. The breaking off of a promised engagement was a serious matter, undertaken usually only when one of the parties in question had committed some kind of serious crime or been caught in an affair. For Charles to break his promise to Ariadne while she lay unconscious was appalling. People would assume he had found out something dreadful about Ariadne. When she awoke, she might be ruined. Anna did not reply to Cordelia. She only raised her head and looked at Ariadne’s face, a long look like a touch. “Please don’t die,” she said, in a low voice, and rose to her feet. Catching up her walking stick, she strode from the infirmary, leaving Cordelia staring after her in surprise.

I've come to realize that you never know who your enemies are..then comes a storm to shake things up...I guess it's in the whirlwinds of the storm the dirt is separated from the water...so God can skim the dirt off the top. Your enemies reveal themselves..just be still in the storm!

In the future, etiquette will become more and more important. That doesn't mean knowing which fork to pick up—I mean basic consideration for the rights of other animals (human beings included) and the willingness, whenever practical, to tolerate the other guy's idiosyncracies. We live in a world where people preach at you constantly (like now, even)—telling you not to be fat, you can't smoke, you can't eat butter, sugar will kill you, everything is bad for you—especially sex. Every natural human urge has been thwarted in one way or another, so that some cocksucker gets to make a dollar off your guilt. Certain people buy into this because they don't want to rock the boat. Unfortunately, adaptation of this sort requires that the adaptee willingly destroys his own personality.

I’d never seen a guy in a kilt before but I had to admit I really liked it. My gaze traveled up his bare calves and over his back. His muscles flexed as he bent to arrange the twigs and limbs for the fire. The kilt covered his legs at one moment, then revealed them anew as he stood up…I suddenly remembered the saying that Scots don’t wear anything under their kilts and pushed back a crazy impulse to see for myself.

and I satisfied the two thirsts one cannot long neglect without drying up—I mean loving and admiring. For there is merely bad luck in not being loved; there is misfortune in not loving. All of us, today, are dying of this misfortune. For violence and hatred dry up the heart itself; the long fight for justice exhausts the love that nevertheless gave birth to it. In the clamor in which we live, love is impossible and justice does not suffice.

I was utterly terrified—petrified—but I knew there had to be a Japanese sniper in a small fishing shack near the shore. He was firing in the other direction at Marines in another battalion, but I knew as soon as he picked off the people there—there was a window on our side—that he would start picking us off. And there was nobody else to go…and so I ran towards the shack and broke in and found myself in an empty room. There was a door which meant there was another room and the sniper was in that—and I just broke that down. I was just absolutely gripped by the fear that this man would expect me and would shoot me. But as it turned out he was in a sniper harness and he couldn’t turn around fast enough. He was entangled in the harness so I shot him with a .45 and I felt remorse and shame. I can remember whispering foolishly, “I’m sorry” and then just throwing up…I threw up all over myself. It was a betrayal of what I’d been taught since a child.

I am against the mass media ‐ CBS, ABC, NBC, UPI and AP being used by Washington D.C. since WWI, and by the CIA wince WWII, as pure propaganda tools. My positive philosophy is very simple. I believe there is in each of us a potential for peace and harmony. A few power‐mad perverts dictate orders that must be challenged. They are going against the laws of nature. A family and society that does not care for its infants with love and affection will create and does produce mad bombers. The source of this peace and harmony is within the family unit, not government agents or law enforcement. Without love in the home there is never quiet in the community, cities or around the world. There are ways to counteract the evil being purposely planned. Study history. Separate fears and prejudices from facts. Recognize facts from propaganda. Invest energy in fighting for what you believe in. Analyze harder where we are going and what you are doing about it. What do you really believe in? How much do we care?

Look, Gray…a decent guy doesn’t just get born and grow up to be Mr. Perfect. They need to be created by a woman. They’re like a dumb blank lump of clay and you have to mold them into what you want them to be, while erasing everything their mothers ever taught them and all the horrible internet porn they’ve watched growing up.”I laughed.“I am so serious. Do not laugh. Do you realize that men actually think that porn is real? Like a girl is going to scream and thrash around like that for thirty minutes and all you have to do is be the pizza guy! The pizza guy, Grace…and they don’t ever eat the pizza first! And let’s not even talk about the fact that NO real girls look THAT good! It’s like they all come from the planet Nocellulite-us.

I think you’re good for Four, you know,” he says. I stare at my hands, curled in my lap. I don’t feel like explaining to him that we’re on the verge of breaking up--I don’t know him, and even if I did, I wouldn’t want to talk about it. All I can manage to say is, “Oh?” “Yeah. I can see what you bring out in him. You don’t know this because you’ve never experienced it, but Four without you is a much different person. He’s…obsessive, explosive, insecure…” “Obsessive?” “What else do you call someone who repeatedly goes through his own fear landscape?” “I don’t know…determined.” I pause. “Brave.” “Yeah, sure. But also a little bit crazy, right? I mean, most Dauntless would rather leap into the chasm than keep going through their fear landscapes. There’s bravery and then there’s masochism, and the line got a little hazy with him.” “I’m familiar with the line,” I say. “I know.” Amar grins. “Anyway, all I’m saying is any time you mash two different people against each other, you’ll get problems, but I can see that what you guys have is worthwhile, that’s all.” I wrinkle my nose. “Mash people against each other, really?” Amar presses his palms together and twists them back and forth, to illustrate. I laugh, but I can’t ignore the achy feeling in my chest.

Scary, right? The dying process. I don’t feel scared about death but dying freaks me the fuck out.” “I’m not scared of dying,” he said. “You’re not?” Now he was the professor and I was the pussy. “I would say I’m less scared of dying than I am of life.” Actually, maybe I agreed with him. “I think I’m equally scared of both,” I said. That was the truth. It felt good to say it. “What is it about dying that scares you the most? Are you afraid of having regrets?” “No,” I said. “I think it’s literally the physical process. Like, the suffocation. I’m so scared to be suffocating and panicking. I get panicked even when I go to the dentist. I am not good with discomfort—my own fear around it—than anything else.” “It might be scary for a moment,” he said. “Maybe for a few minutes. But then, from what I’ve seen, you are very free.” “Maybe,” I said. “But it’s the fear before the freedom that I’m scared of. If I could just go to sleep—just like that, go to sleep and never wake up—I would do that anytime. I would do it tonight. But I’m scared to be conscious while it’s happening.” “I had that feeling about you. That you would be happy to just go to sleep.” “Why? Because I’m boring?” “Not at all,” he said. “The opposite. But I can feel you’ve suffered.” He was so dramatic. “Yeah, well, life is the dumbest,” I said, standing up.

Still dark. The Alpine hush is miles deep. The skylight over Holly’s bed is covered with snow, but now that the blizzard’s stopped I’m guessing the stars are out. I’d like to buy her a telescope. Could I send her one? From where? My body’s aching and floaty but my mind’s flicking through the last night and day, like a record collector flicking through a file of LPs. On the clock radio, a ghostly presenter named Antoine Tanguay is working through Nocturne Hour from three till four A.M. Like all the best DJs, Antoine Tanguay says almost nothing. I kiss Holly’s hair, but to my surprise she’s awake: “When did the wind die down?” “An hour ago. Like someone unplugged it.” “You’ve been awake a whole hour?” “My arm’s dead, but I didn’t want to disturb you.” “Idiot.” She lifts her body to tell me to slide out. I loop a long strand of her hair around my thumb and rub it on my lip. “I spoke out of turn last night. About your brother. Sorry.” “You’re forgiven.” She twangs my boxer shorts’ elastic. “Obviously. Maybe I needed to hear it.” I kiss her wound-up hair bundle, then uncoil it. “You wouldn’t have any ciggies left, perchance?” In the velvet dark, I see her smile: A blade of happiness slips between my ribs. “What?” “Use a word like ‘perchance’ in Gravesend, you’d get crucified on the Ebbsfleet roundabout for being a suspected Conservative voter. No cigarettes left, I’m ’fraid. I went out to buy some yesterday, but found a semiattractive stalker, who’d cleverly made himself homeless forty minutes before a whiteout, so I had to come back without any.” I trace her cheekbones. “Semiattractive? Cheeky moo.” She yawns an octave. “Hope we can dig a way out tomorrow.” “I hope we can’t. I like being snowed in with you.” “Yeah well, some of us have these job things. Günter’s expecting a full house. Flirty-flirty tourists want to party-party-party.” I bury my head in the crook of her bare shoulder. “No.” Her hand explores my shoulder blade. “No what?” “No, you can’t go to Le Croc tomorrow. Sorry. First, because now I’m your man, I forbid it.” Her sss-sss is a sort of laugh. “Second?” “Second, if you went, I’d have to gun down every male between twelve and ninety who dared speak to you, plus any lesbians too. That’s seventy-five percent of Le Croc’s clientele. Tomorrow’s headlines would all be BLOODBATH IN THE ALPS AND LAMB THE SLAUGHTERER, and the a vegetarian-pacifist type, I know you wouldn’t want any role in a massacre so you’d better shack up”—I kiss her nose, forehead, and temple—“with me all day.” She presses her ear to my ribs. “Have you heard your heart? It’s like Keith Moon in there. Seriously. Have I got off with a mutant?” The blanket’s slipped off her shoulder: I pull it back. We say nothing for a while. Antoine whispers in his radio studio, wherever it is, and plays John Cage’s In a Landscape. It unscrolls, meanderingly. “If time had a pause button,” I tell Holly Sykes, “I’d press it. Right”—I press a spot between her eyebrows and up a bit—“there. Now.” “But if you did that, the whole universe’d be frozen, even you, so you couldn’t press play to start time again. We’d be stuck forever.” I kiss her on the mouth and blood’s rushing everywhere. She murmurs, “You only value something if you know it’ll end.

Ideals that our nation was founded on, including equality and liberty for all, have yet to be fully realized. In some corners, their very existence is being threatened. The continuation of American democracy also is not a foregone conclusion. In fact, the American Dream that I have lived and still believe in—the notion that everyone should have an equal opportunity to rise from the ground up—is at a crossroads. More people need to have a fair chance at their dreams, however humble or ambitious those dreams may be, and now is the time to talk about what those chances might look like for everyone. Together, we have the potential to reimagine and deliver on the promise of our country, as I hope this book reveals.

Thank you for leaving the flowers. I’ve meant to mention them before now.” He frowned. “The white rose…on my pillow? In my purse? Did you leave them?” The corner of his mouth turned up. “When would I have done that?” I thought for a moment. He had said goodnight with me before we had gone downstairs to play cards that first night. I worried my lip. He grinned. “I wonder who could have gone into your bedroom after we went down the stairs?” He peaked over his shoulder to make sure we weren’t being observed. “Maybe someone saying goodnight to his little ones?” “But this morning…he didn’t know we were leaving…” “Stewart did…Stewart does a lot for my brother.” He shrugged. I blushed. “Really? Why would he do this?” His grin grew. My cheeks felt like they were on fire. “What does the white rose stand for?” “I always thought it was purity…a new beginning…reverence.” His blues danced. “Maybe my brother is a romantic after all.” I drew in a breath. Getting flowers from Ian was one thing…getting them from Liam was a whole other matter. “I’m going to tell him you thanked me for the flowers and I took credit for them. If that doesn’t get his competitive spirit revved up…I don’t know what will!” He gave me a wink. “Ah, this game is fun! Good night, sweet friend!

Lakini ukweli ni upi? Ukweli ni kwamba utajiri una changamoto nyingi kuupata na kuudumisha pia kuliko usomi na kwamba ukweli ni amani ya Mungu katika moyo wa mwanadamu. Heri msomi kuliko tajiri – Heri yule aliyesoma kuliko tajiri asiyesoma au yule aliyesoma kuliko vile alivyosoma tajiri au tajiri asiyesoma au aliyesoma lakini asiyekuwa na tamaa kabisa na dunia hii ambaye kukosa kwake tamaa na dunia hii kunamfanya msomi. Ndivyo Kristo anavyomaanisha. Si kwamba tajiri hawezi kuuona ufalme wa mbinguni. Ibrahimu, Isaka, Yakobo, Yusufu, Daudi, Sulemani, Yehoshafati, Hezekia, Zakayo, Yoana, Susana, na Lidia watauona ufalme wa mbinguni na walikuwa matajiri. Mali zao zilivyozidi hawakuangalia moyoni, hawakuwa na tamaa kabisa na dunia hii, bali walimtumaini Mungu kwa kila kitu walichokuwa nacho. Anaweza. Lakini asiipende dunia bali ayapende mambo ya ufalme wa Mungu kwa moyo wake wote.

Oh, I've nothing against God. Of course, God is only a hypothesis, but ... I admit that He is needed ... for the order of the universe and all that ... and that if there were no God He would have to be invented,” added Kolya, beginning to blush. He suddenly fancied that Alyosha might think he was trying to show off his knowledge and to prove that he was “grown up.”“I

CAIAPHAS THE ELDER: Hello. EL-FAYOUMY: “Shalom”—as it were. CAIAPHAS THE ELDER: Shalom. EL-FAYOUMY: Caiaphas the Elder: Perhaps you can clear this up—is there a Caiaphas the Younger? CAIAPHAS THE ELDER: No. EL-FAYOUMY: And yet, you are the Elder? CAIAPHAS THE ELDER: Yes.

I could have said their sleep is a challenge to us , to wake up….I could have said they sleep in sorrow for us who sleep through so many levels of our lives…they tell us that we, too, are guarding a tomb. We don’t know what’s in it. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps what was once in it has gone. We’re scared to look. But we go on guarding it.

What I’d like to know”—Tom set down his eggroll and drew himself up—“is why every time I make a friend in the congregation, they stop coming to church?” The anguish in his voice surprised me. “That is weird,” I said. Apparently, I was caught in yet another pattern larger than myself.

I was from Kusajishi, the 79th district of Rukongai. The only color I remember was blood. The people around me were more beast than human. Being a baby, I could have easily been stomped to death. But then you came. Zaraki of North Rukongai, district 80. You came from the depths of that dark abyss…and hacked apart my blood soaked world. Instantly. And you gave me a name. If you hadn’t shown up…I wouldn’t be here now.

Seeing how unhappy your mom is—seeing how much she’s had to give up—is that maybe what’s terrifying you about having kids yourself?” Talk about feeling seen.

... I watched the sea barely swelling at that hour with an exhausted motion, and I satisfied the two thirsts one cannot long neglect without drying up—I mean loving and admiring. For there is merely bad luck in not being loved; there is misfortune in not loving. All of us, today, are dying of this misfortune.

gut – like the priest’s mortal wound – to make him write well. His current assignment for UPI was to do a series

I knew I was caught up in the moment, but I couldn’t see my way clear. I was caught up…I was caught…

Waking at 5:30 a.m., watching the sunrise, and literally feeling that you beat everyone at the first competition of the day—getting up—is something that just can’t be matched.

Ever since that happened, I feel like trash. When you first started talking to me in school? When I told you I’d been sick? I hadn’t been sick. I’d been knocked up while I was passed out.” “You are not trash,” he whispered softly, not trusting his voice. “You’re an angel. Pure as gold. You didn’t do anything wrong.” “That’s not how it feels. Tommy,” she said miserably, “I dated before and I wouldn’t give it up—I was saving it for someone really special. Someone like you—someone I really loved. And now I can’t.” “No one else can ever take that away, Brenda. When… If… If it’s us and we know it’s time and it’s right, it’ll be special. I promise.” “How can it be? The first time should be so special. Now it won’t even be the first time!” He brushed her hair away from her eyes. “What can I do to show you that I love you just the same? Respect you? Huh?” “I don’t know….” “I do. Come on, we’re going to take care of these horses. Then we’re going to find a nice soft bale of hay and I’m going to hold you. Hold you and kiss you until you believe me when I say I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Everything is going to be fine.” “I was so scared to tell you.” “I know, Bren. It’s okay now. I don’t want you to ever worry about that again. Okay?” An

She wanted to get married,” he said. “She said, either we at least get engaged and plan to get married, or I walk. Those were her words.” He made a slash in the air with his finger. “Line in the sand. Ultimatum.” “Really,” Shelby said with a questionable tone. “After only two years of practically living together?” “Okay, now you’re just making fun of me,” Sean said in a pout. “I admit, I shouldn’t have let her go. But I was younger. I was cocky then.” “Oh, were you?” Luke asked. Sean glowered. “So, she said she was ready for marriage, you said you weren’t, you split up—is that right?” Shelby asked. “That’s about it.” He made a face. “We might’ve said a few unnecessary things during the discussion. You know—angry things.” “I’ll bet,” Luke said. “And

THE MEETING GOT under way as soon as Marshall walked into the room. He looked dignified and serious, and he was wearing a dark suit. There were three men at the conference table, across from him, from a company in Boston that was not quite as large as UPI, but very close, and its growth rate had been remarkable in the past two years. It was well on its way to becoming the largest corporation in the country and outstripping all its competitors. And all it needed now was a powerful leader at its helm. And everyone at its base in Boston had agreed that Marshall Weston was the one. They had no idea if he would consider leaving UPI, and they doubted it after fifteen years, but they had come to California to try and convince him to do it. And he was listening raptly to what they said. It was their second meeting in two days, and they were going back to Boston that night. Marshall

And then you had to go and sing that song! Why did you pick that song?” His head jerked back slightly and his eyes lost some of their fierceness. “You’re mad about me singing the song? You love that song. You play it all the time.” I finally succeeded at freeing my wrist and crossed my arms under my chest. “And how the hell would you know that? I know I’ve never played that song in front of you!” “Seriously? You leave your windows open! We live right across from each other. I can hear it from my apartment.” Oh. “Well, that’s private. It’s for my parents. You don’t understand what it could possibly mean to me for you to sing that song to me.” Confusion crossed his face and he shook his head. “For your parents?” “Yes! And since we’re throwing the shields out, I lied to you, Kash.” “About what?” he said through gritted teeth, and called my name when I turned and dashed into my room. “Damn it, woman, stop running from me!” “I’m not running. I never told my parents about what happened to me like I promised you I would,” I mumbled as I grabbed underneath my mattress for my journal. Turning back to him, I held it up so he could see it and dropped it on the bed. “That is how I told my parents.” His eyes were narrowed again as they bounced between the journal and me. “Why?” “Why did I lie to you? Because you kept telling me I should tell them. And . . . well . . . technically, I did. I wrote it to them, so I guess I wasn’t exactly lying, because this”—I picked the journal back up—“is the only way I can talk to them.” “What are you—” “They’re gone, Kash. My parents died almost four years ago! I told you I couldn’t tell them. But I wasn’t ready for you to know why; no one in Texas other than Candice knows about it. And that’s how I like it.” Kash’s face fell and he took a few steps closer to me. “Rach . . .” “No, Kash. You didn’t want any more shields. Now there aren’t any. That song you sang tonight, my dad used to sing to my mom when they thought no one was watching. He would pull her close and dance with her in the kitchen while he did it, and it’s my favorite memory of them. So I’m sorry if I didn’t know how to react to you singing it to me, but that song means so much to me.” “Rachel, I’m sorry.” I threw my arms up and planted them on his chest so he wouldn’t come any closer. “Is this what you wanted? You know everything now. Are you happy . . . are you glad the shields are gone?” He pulled me into his arms and held me close. “I had no idea, I’m so sorry. I—I’m just sorry. For hurting you, for pushing you to tell me, for upsetting you with the song . . . all of it. I swear to you that isn’t what I wanted.” My anger was quickly fading and I blinked back tears. “I know, I just . . .” “That song is special to you. I get it, Rach.” He tipped my head back and brushed his lips across my forehead before capturing my eyes with his. “You need to know—” “Rach, I’m back!” Candice called. “Time to start this junk-food night!” Kash didn’t let me go, and I didn’t move. We continued to stare at each other, and when we heard Candice messing with the food in the kitchen, he leaned close and whispered in my ear. “You need to know that you’re special to me. I meant every single word I sang to you tonight and I will never regret that kiss.

Is it time to go?” she asked, propping herself onto her elbow. He tugged up the collar of his coat and slipped his feet into his boots. Then he looked at her with a seriousness that sent a jolt of fear through her. “We can’t leave.” “Sure we can.” She pushed herself up but was immediately overcome by a wave of dizziness. “Even if you were up to leaving, which you’re not”—he nodded at her weak attempt at sitting up—“I let the horse go last night. It was her only chance of surviving. Hopefully she made her way back to the stable.” “We could walk—” “Not without snowshoes. The snow’s too deep and the wind too harsh.” She leaned back again, suddenly weary and cold. “Then we’re stuck here?” “Until a rescue party comes for us.” He pulled on his gloves. “Or until spring. Whichever comes first.” He gave a halfhearted grin at his attempt at a joke.

insistent opening bark of the UPI’s Helen Thomas:

Shut up, Devon. ” Starling pried herself loose from his grasp and stood up.“I couldn’t have a good time with you even if you vibrated

Kaj pa, če je res, da je založniška hiša podobna gnezdu? Seveda ne mehkemu gnezdu, ampak takemu s kljuni in kremplji, iz katerega lahko padeš [...], ki pa je vseeno gnezdo, gnezdo iz listov in zapiskov, neutrudno izmaknjenih pozabi časa, [...] sekularno gnezdo spletenih stavkov, v katerem nenasitno čivkajo mladi upi, vedno znova v skušnjavi, da se prislinijo kam drugam, medtem pa na široko odpirajo svoj veliki kljun: "Sem talentiran, gospa, sem genij?

Wait a goddamn minute!” Rick snapped. “You have to tell me about the fucking spaceship!” “Will your ride be waiting?” Jerry asked. “He’ll wait!” “Well, okay then. I was camping with a couple of friends. We were in Arizona, way out in the middle of nowhere. We’d been in Sedona, but we moved out into the desert. When my friends woke up in the morning, I was gone. I woke up—I don’t know when—inside this spaceship. I had no memory of being snatched. It was like silver glass on the inside and the people—the aliens—had on suits that covered them from head to toe, breathing like Darth Vader, and I was stripped bare and lying out on a silver table. They were studying me and poking at me and talking in what sounded like high-pitched squeaks. Like dolphins. “My friends got a search party going back in Arizona, but after two weeks of not being able to find me, they all gave up the search. They assumed I’d wandered off and died in the desert. But at some point, again in a total blackout, I found myself back in the desert of Arizona—alone. A park ranger found me and picked me up. The story goes that I wandered off from our camp and hallucinated due to dehydration, but that isn’t what happened.” “Maybe it did,” Rick said. Jerry shook his head. “I wasn’t dehydrated. And after weeks of being missing in the desert, my clothes weren’t damaged. Not torn or dirty or anything.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve researched—mine is not the lone account of such a thing. I’ll be glad to give you what other details I can remember at the end of our next session, if you’re interested.” Rick sat back in his chair and just stared at the guy. “How often does this spaceship trick work for you?” Jerry grinned. “Every time.” *

I want the fairy tale, Brennan,” Memphis said, not caring who heard him. “I want this,” he said as he motioned to the small crowd of people who’d gone completely silent. “I want the family dinners, the date nights, the hand-holding, the fights, the making up…I want to celebrate birthdays and anniversaries and all the other sh…

The subject of baseball came up—I was an ardent Cubs fan, despite their terrible record that year—and I said, “Even if the White Sox are having a better season, Ernie Banks is clearly the best player on either team. If the Cubs build around him, they’ll be good in time.” Maureen’s father smiled unpleasantly from across the table. He said, “You’re awfully opinionated for a girl.” It was not the first time someone had said such a thing. Starting when I was in third grade, my teacher, Mrs. Jauss, had routinely asked me to be in charge when she left the room, a task that sometimes necessitated my telling John Rasch to sit down or stop poking Donna Zinser and resulted in John reminding me that I wasn’t a teacher. In fourth grade, I’d been elected co-captain of the safety patrol, which occasionally elicited similar resistance from my peers. But Mr. Gurski’s remark was the sentiment’s clearest and most succinct expression in my life thus far and gave me, henceforth, a kind of shorthand understanding of the irritation and resentment I provoked in others. Not all others, of course—plenty of people admired that I was eager and responsible—but among those provoked were both men and women, adults and children.

Amazingly, Duranty would be awarded the Pulitzer Prize, despite his woefully misleading and scurrilous journalism. Duranty would report, including in articles with titles like “Russians Hungry, but Not Starving” (March 31, 1933, New York Times): “Here are the facts. … There is no actual starvation or deaths from starvation, but there is widespread mortality from diseases due to malnutrition. … These conditions are bad, but there is no famine.”531 This was not simply erroneous reporting. Duranty knew otherwise. He told William Strang at the British embassy on September 26, 1933 that as many as ten million people had already died. He also personally told Eugene Lyons (UPI’s Moscow correspondent) that he estimated the total number of famine victims around seven million. Malcolm Muggeridge would call Duranty “the greatest liar of any journalist I have met in fifty years of journalism.” Even the esteemed man of the left, Joseph Alsop, would denounce Duranty as a “fashionable prostitute” in service of communists.532

He used to love newsrooms: the ones he had visited when his father was alive, the ones where he had interned when he was starting out—AP and UPI wire machines buzzing and clicking; typewriters clacking; reporters on phones, conducting interviews, badgering sources; heated arguments about politics in the commissary and by the vending machines. But entering the Tomorrow building was like walking into a war-torn city after a neutron bomb had gone off. Half the offices were empty or filled with their downsized occupants’ detritus. Eerie silence predominated; cubicles were occupied by beaten-down millennials scrolling Twitter, listening to music through headphones, surreptitiously filling out job applications or updating their CVs on LinkedIn. People barely talked, just messaged each other on Slack.

It’s true that low rep workouts, consisting of powerful and explosive movements, will build more size (but not less definition) than high rep workouts, because the “fast twitch” muscle fibers required in explosive movements are much larger than “slow twitch” fibers required for more enduring tasks. But really, for mass, wouldn’t you want to recruit all possible muscle fibers and not just the fast twitch? Likewise, for “definition”–that is, losing body fat so the striations in your muscles show more–wouldn’t you want to recruit all possible muscle fibers, especially since the number one factor affecting our resting metabolic rate, and thus fat loss, is muscle mass? The only thing you should alter depending on your goal–whether it’s to tone or bulk up–is nutrition.

dance is the only thing that interests me. The only thing that I'm really good at. The only thing I've ever done that matters. So, I have to keep going. Regardless of how famous or obscure I end up...I can't stop doing it. I could try, but there'd be no point. It's who I am. You know?

The implication is that great work should, if it is truly great, not be of its time or place. We should not be aware of how, why, or when it was conceived, received, marketed, or sold. It floats free of this mundane world, transcendent and ethereal. This is absolute nonsense. Few of the works that we now think of as “timeless” were originally thought of that way. Carey points out that Shakespeare was not universally favored; Voltaire and Tolstoy didn’t care for him much, and Darwin found him “intolerably dull.”16 For many decades his work was derided as low and popular. The same could be said for a “great” painter like Vermeer, who was “rehabilitated” only recently. As a society, we change what we value all the time. When I was working with the UK trip-hop band Morcheeba, they extolled the virtues of an American seventies band called Manassas. I had dismissed that band when I was growing up—I thought they were great players but not in any way relevant to me—but I could see that a younger generation of musicians, without my prejudices, might see them in a different light. I don’t think that particular band ever got elevated to the “timeless” pedestal, but many others have been. I discovered Miles Davis’s electric jams from the seventies relatively late—for the most part, they were critically frowned upon when they came out—but there might now be a whole generation who looks on those records as founding gospel, hugely inspirational.

Solitude—the kind that you can access before the sun comes up—is a force multiplier around your power, expertise and connection to being human. And your escalation requires your isolation.

She and Doroshenko had been together for close to a year by then, and she still hadn’t let him do anything more than kiss her. He wasn’t confusing love and sexuality. He knew they were opposite ends of a stick—but the same stick. It wasn’t like he wanted to have sex with her. Well, he did. But he would have been satisfied with foreplay. Feeling a breast, say, or slipping a hand down her pants. Even better, her slipping a hand down his pants. But they participated in none of that. She wasn’t shy. Zina was anything but shy. She was simply prudish. And hypocritical. Hence the reason he finally decided to end their relationship. He’d taken her aside one day at UPI and told her it would be best if they took a break from seeing each other. The surprise on her face had been satisfying. She’d cried and pleaded for him to reconsider. He almost did. However, he’d had a plan. He’d let her stew on her own for a couple of weeks. Only then, after she realized how much he meant to her, how much she needed him, would he take her back—for which she would be so grateful she would most certainly loosen up. Only Zina got over him much faster than he anticipated. In fact, she bounced back to her cheerful self within a few days. She didn’t seem to miss him at all; at least she didn’t show this.

William Faulkner. A native of Oxford in Lafayette County, Faulkner argued in a September 9 UPI editorial written from Rome, Italy, that the Till murder was not just a local issue. The consequences were so wide that even the survival of America was at stake. Because the white race totaled only one-fourth of the world’s population, he argued, the rest of the world would not tolerate white America’s abuses of its minorities any longer. Would the United States survive another attack like Pearl Harbor if people throughout the world, who differ from its majority, either in skin color or ideology, were aligned against it? Talk about freedom means nothing if it does not include all of humanity, wrote Faulkner impassionedly. His conclusion was powerful and frank: Perhaps we will find out now whether we are to survive or not. Perhaps the purpose of this sorry and tragic error committed in my native Mississippi by two white adults on an afflicted Negro child is to prove to us whether or not we deserve to survive. Because if we in America have reached that point in our desperate culture when we must murder children, no matter for what reason or what color, we don’t deserve to survive, and probably won’t.

Net-banking ‘was’ an important payment method because of (a) lower credit card penetration (b) fear of using cards online. Over a period, net-banking users started moving to debit cards (as every bank account has a debit card) but the rise of UPI drastically affected net-banking transactions. Erosion of net-banking can be attributed to both merchants and customers alike: Customer: Multiple hops to complete the transaction, non-optimised mobile pages and remembering password (not a user-friendly flow). Merchant: Success rate is inconsistent and lower; commercials are higher (than debit cards) for majority of sectors. Few years ago, net-banking options were prominently displayed on merchant’s checkout pages. But nowadays net-banking options are at the bottom of the page or hidden as the merchants still wants to have it but don’t want users to pay using those.

If your account is debited but the transaction does not go through, SBI provides for real-time reversals for technical declines and amount would be transferred back to your account immediately. In case the amount is not reversed, you can raise a dispute through SBI YONO LITE app itself. If your account is debited but the transaction does not go through, SBI provides for real-time reversals for technical declines and amount would be transferred back to your account immediately. In case the amount is not reversed, you can raise a dispute through SBI YONO LITE app itself. One of the major advantages of the facility is that the customer need not register the beneficiary in order to transfer funds. However, in case of sending money using beneficiary’s Virtual ID, the beneficiary should mandatorily be registered with UPI. In case of payment through Account number +IFSC or Aadhaar number, the beneficiary need not be registered for UPI. When this happens, your funds will instantly be returned to your Cash App balance or linked bank account. If not, they should be available within 1–3 business days, depending on your bank. I got my ID approved and added my debit card as well as my bank as a backup. However, neither of them are working as well as another credit card I've tried when I try to load cash onto the app. Every time I try to add cash in order to buy BTC, it gives me the error "This transfer failed" but does not give me an explanation. I got my ID approved and added my debit card as well as my bank as a backup. However, neither of them are working as well as another credit card I've tried when I try to load cash onto the app. Every time I try to add cash in order to buy BTC, it gives me the error "This transfer failed" but does not give me an explanation.Does anyone know why this may be happening? Could it possibly be related to the fact that my physical square cash debit card has not arrived yet?I contacted support and got this response: "Thank you for your reply. I’m very sorry you’re unable to Add Cash right now. We’re rolling out this feature to more customers, keep an eye out for updates to the app!In the meantime, rest assured that you can still send funds directly from your debit card."I am unsure what exactly he means by this, because I cannot rest assured as I am not able to send funds from my debit card or by any other method. Help? According to recent statements by the company, there are more than 7 million Cash App users and with such a large base of users, there are some common Cash App problems. Payments failed on Cash App is one of such issues that users face. If your Cash App failed to send money and wondering why does my Cash App transfer keep failing then there is no need to worry you can fix Cash App transfer failed issue. You must read this blog to resolve Cash App transfer failed and follow some easy steps. Samuel Earney Login to follow Square's Cash App is a peer-to-peer payment app that allows you to send and receive money with friends and family, without any requirement of cash on hand. Cash App is the most secure payment gate away. When someone sends you money on the Cash App, then it is a virtual currency and stays in the app. If you have an activated Cash App Card, you can use it as a debit card and spend your balance anywhere that accepts Visa. The Cash app direct deposit feature was recently added to make its deposit features more accessible and the use of this app can certainly speed up the process for people unable to access bank accounts. Cash App allows you to directly deposit your paycheck into your Cash App account, invest the funds in your account balance, and use the Cash Card to make purchases. Cash App is not just a peer to peer digital payment application it is essentially a full-fledged financial tool.

Even so, in Graham’s case there was a big difference between actually running for office and plunging deeply into the political discussions of the day. He remained an avid imbiber of current events. Journalist visitors to Graham’s home routinely reported seeing most of the major newsmagazines and papers—Time, Newsweek, US News & World Report, the New York Times, and the Times of London—strewn around his office. For a time, Graham even had a UPI teletype machine installed in his kitchen.

On the mountain tonight the full moon faces the full sun. Now could be the moment when we fall apart or we become whole. Our time seems to be up—I think I even hear it stopping. Then why have we kept up the singing for so long? Because that’s the sort of determined creature we are. Before us, our first task is to astonish, And then, harder by far, to be astonished. —Galway Kinnell

Spriežot par jēdziena "perversitāte" rašanos, dzimumdziņu var salīdzināt ar upi, kas plūst noteiktā gultnē, līdz notiek kas tāds, kas novirza (pervert) to no dabiskā tecējuma. Līdzīgi ir ar vārdu kinky ("nenormāls", "perverss"), jo viena no vārda kink nozīmēm ir "savijums".

First and foremost, if you’re going to plant your flag, solve a real problem. My story was resonating because I was solving a real problem many people had—really, a global problem. I had real-world experience with this, so there was a level of authenticity to everything that I was saying. I wasn’t just making stuff up—I had done the work, I had the experience to share. I was humble about it. I shared the wins and I shared the losses. I talked a lot about the things we tried that didn’t work, some real disasters, and what we learned from them. And when we won, we were thrilled that we won. I shared those wins as well. I provided practical and tactical advice for people to use. I always gave my audience something to try—something they could actually put into practice today, tomorrow, next week, next month. I made sure that this advice wasn’t overwhelming and that it clearly communicated how readers were supposed to do it. This approach is part of the reason why my book Lean UX was so successful. I forged an authentic connection with the audience that I was starting to build. People were actually paying attention because this was a real-world person talking about how to solve a challenge that they themselves had. I wasn’t just someone vying for their attention to sell them something. I had gone through the same challenges they had, and I was openly sharing what I learned in a humble way. That creates the kind of authenticity that you can’t fake. And it captures people when you tell your story.

I love you, Sebastian, please don’t push me away. I love you.” “Oh God. I just don’t know what I’m doing any more; I’m so fucked up—I feel like I can’t fucking breathe. Don’t give up on me, Caro. Please don’t give up on me. I need you, baby. I love you so much. I’m so sorry…