Wallet Lost Quotes

Holocausts do not amaze me. Rapes and child slavery do not amaze me. And Franklin, I know you feel otherwise, but Kevin does not amaze me. I am amazed when I drop a glove in the street and a teenager runs two blocks to return it. I am amazed when a checkout girl flashes me a wide smile with my change, though my own face had been a mask of expedience. Lost wallets posted to their owners, strangers who furnish meticulous directions, neighbors who water each other's houseplants - these things amaze me.

Dearest creature in creation, Study English pronunciation. I will teach you in my verse Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse. I will keep you, Suzy, busy, Make your head with heat grow dizzy. Tear in eye, your dress will tear. So shall I! Oh hear my prayer. Just compare heart, beard, and heard, Dies and diet, lord and word, Sword and sward, retain and Britain. (Mind the latter, how it’s written.) Now I surely will not plague you With such words as plaque and ague. But be careful how you speak: Say break and steak, but bleak and streak; Cloven, oven, how and low, Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe. Hear me say, devoid of trickery, Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore, Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles, Exiles, similes, and reviles; Scholar, vicar, and cigar, Solar, mica, war and far; One, anemone, Balmoral, Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel; Gertrude, German, wind and mind, Scene, Melpomene, mankind. Billet does not rhyme with ballet, Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet. Blood and flood are not like food, Nor is mould like should and would. Viscous, viscount, load and broad, Toward, to forward, to reward. And your pronunciation’s OK When you correctly say croquet, Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve, Friend and fiend, alive and live. Ivy, privy, famous; clamour And enamour rhyme with hammer. River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb, Doll and roll and some and home. Stranger does not rhyme with anger, Neither does devour with clangour. Souls but foul, haunt but aunt, Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant, Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger, And then singer, ginger, linger, Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge, Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age. Query does not rhyme with very, Nor does fury sound like bury. Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth. Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath. Though the differences seem little, We say actual but victual. Refer does not rhyme with deafer. Foeffer does, and zephyr, heifer. Mint, pint, senate and sedate; Dull, bull, and George ate late. Scenic, Arabic, Pacific, Science, conscience, scientific. Liberty, library, heave and heaven, Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven. We say hallowed, but allowed, People, leopard, towed, but vowed. Mark the differences, moreover, Between mover, cover, clover; Leeches, breeches, wise, precise, Chalice, but police and lice; Camel, constable, unstable, Principle, disciple, label. Petal, panel, and canal, Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal. Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair, Senator, spectator, mayor. Tour, but our and succour, four. Gas, alas, and Arkansas. Sea, idea, Korea, area, Psalm, Maria, but malaria. Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean. Doctrine, turpentine, marine. Compare alien with Italian, Dandelion and battalion. Sally with ally, yea, ye, Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key. Say aver, but ever, fever, Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver. Heron, granary, canary. Crevice and device and aerie. Face, but preface, not efface. Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass. Large, but target, gin, give, verging, Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging. Ear, but earn and wear and tear Do not rhyme with here but ere. Seven is right, but so is even, Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen, Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk, Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work. Pronunciation (think of Psyche!) Is a paling stout and spikey? Won’t it make you lose your wits, Writing groats and saying grits? It’s a dark abyss or tunnel: Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale, Islington and Isle of Wight, Housewife, verdict and indict. Finally, which rhymes with enough, Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough? Hiccough has the sound of cup. My advice is to give up!!!

Give up on me " he begged her. "I don't like people dropping in to see me without warning, I have forgotten the rules of seven tiles and kabaddi, I can't recite my prayers, I don't know what should happen at a nikah ceremony, and in this city where I grew up I get lost if I'm on my own. This isn't home. It makes me giddy because it feels like home and is not. It makes my heart tremble and my head spin." "You're a stupid, " she shouted at him. "A stupid. Change back! Damn fool! Of course you can." She was a vortex, a siren, tempting him back to his old self. But it was a dead self, a shadow, a ghost and he would not become a phantom. There was a return ticket to London in his wallet, and he was going to use it.

Duane’s mouth parted slightly and his eyebrows lifted high on his forehead. All hints of his earlier frown had vanished. Unless I was misreading his expression, he appeared to be a little lost, like maybe I’d stolen his breath and his wallet and his passport and his memories. Really, he looked stunned.

He tries again, swallowing hard to ease away the painful lump in his throat. "It's just important. I love you. I'm yours. I need people to know." "Alright," Lindsay says suddenly. He leans down to grab at Pip's bag, throwing stuff out onto the carpet, his iPod and phone and wallet and gloves and Attitude magazine until he finds what he's looking for, a green marker pen, and holds it between his teeth while he starts tugging at the hem of Pip's t-shirt. Pip's too surprised to do anything but submit, he lets Lindsay peel off his t-shirt and throw that on top of all the things from his bag then just watches as Lindsay pulls the pen out of the cap in his mouth and signs his name in big green letters on the side of Pip's stomach. He holds his breath, trying not to suck in the belly fat everybody else keeps telling him is imaginary. "There, you're mine, are you fucking happy now?" Lindsay snaps, and throws the recapped pen across the room to get lost in the bookcase somewhere.

Love is a bastard born of rape,raised in bondage and let loose on a naive society to destroy convention and defy the commandments,to be cited in court as the reason why we have to have rules and sanctions. It has a certain beauty,a tangible desirability tainted with the knowledge, like that of a teenage whore, it will ruin your reputation and steal your wallet and when all is lost,the memory of love is all youre left with

He generously gave me three ten-franc notes, which it pained him to take from his wallet. A wallet I never had access to. Every day, he would count his money to be sure nothing was missing. When he did this, he lost me a little. Not me, but the love I was made of.

Word of my arrival spread as soon as I walked out of the ocean. Our beach is on the North Shore of Long Island, and it’s enchanted so most people can’t even see it. People don’t just appear on the beach unless they’re demigods or gods or really, really lost pizza delivery guys. (It’s happened—but that’s another story.) Anyway, that afternoon the lookout on duty was Connor Stoll from the Hermes cabin. When he spotted me, he got so excited he fell out of his tree. Then he blew the conch horn to signal the camp and ran to greet me. Connor had a crooked smile that matched his crooked sense of humor. He’s a pretty nice guy, but you should always keep one hand on your wallet when he’s around, and do not, under any circumstances, give him access to shaving cream unless you want to find your sleeping bag full of it. He’s got curly brown hair and is a little shorter than his brother, Travis, which is the only way I can tell them apart. They are both so unlike my old enemy Luke it’s hard to believe they’re all sons of Hermes. “Percy!” he yelled. “What happened? Where’s Beckendorf ?

It is this harsh corrective to our sense of being central, competent, and powerful that makes even trivial losses so difficult to accept. To lose something is a profoundly humbling act. It forces us to confront the limits of our mind: the fact that we left our wallet at the restaurant; the fact that we can’t remember where we left our wallet at all. It forces us to confront the limits of our will: the fact that we are powerless to protect the things we love from time and change and chance. Above all, it forces us to confront the limits of existence: the fact that, sooner or later, it is in the nature of almost everything to vanish or perish. Over and over, loss calls on us to reckon with this universal impermanence—with the baffling, maddening, heartbreaking fact that something that was just here can be, all of a sudden, just gone.

To my mind, voyaging through wildernesses, be they full of woods or waves, is essential to the growth and maturity of the human spirit. It is in the wilderness that you really learn who you are. It is in facing the challenges of the wilderness that the thickness of your wallet becomes irrelevant and your capabilities become the truer measure of your value.

The other four houses yielded jewelry, wallets, credit cards, laptops, iPads and Kindles, even a couple of expensive looking vases.... "You didn't do anything stupid like writing IOUs and signing your name, did you?" "That's an excellent idea," said Danny. He stepped back through the gate, waited for a count of five, and then returned to Eric. Now Eric was standing, and when he saw Danny he visibly sagged with relief. "What kind of moron are you?" "The fun-loving kind," said Danny. "I'm not an idiot, of course I didn't sign my name to IOUs." "Good." "I signed yours.

O Satan! Mephisto! Judas! O Benaiah! O evil eyes that glint beneath the lights! O clink of silver! O darkness, O death, O hell! Sheathed knives and chained wallets: lustful, grabbing, cheating, killing, hating, laughing in the lights . . .

I seriously don’t understand how men came to rule the world,” she’d said to her sister, Bridget, this morning, after she’d told her about how John-Paul had lost his rental car keys in Chicago. It had driven Cecilia bananas seeing that text message from him. There was nothing she could do! This type of thing was always happening to John-Paul. Last time he went overseas he’d left his laptop in a cab. The man lost things constantly. Wallets, phones, keys, his wedding ring. His possessions just slid right off him.

Dear Hilde, I assume you're still celebrating your 15th birthday. Or is it the morning after? Anyways, it makes no difference to your present. In a sense, that will last a life time. But I'd like to wish you happy birthday one more time. Perhaps you understand now why I send the cards to Sophie. I am sure she will pass them on to you. P.S. Mom said you lost your wallet. I hereby promise to reimburse you the 150 crowns. You will probably be able to get another school I.D. before they close for the summer vacation. Love from Dad.

I stretched out on the bed and slept. It was twilight when I awakened and turned on the light. I felt better, no longer tired. I went to the typewriter and sat before it. My thought was to write a sentence, a single perfect sentence. If I could write one good sentence I could write two and if I could write two I could write three, and if I could write three I could write forever. But suppose I failed? Suppose I had lost all of my beautiful talent? Suppose it had burned up in the fire of Biff Newhouse smashing my nose or Helen Brownell dead forever? What would happen to me? Would I go to Abe Marx and become a busboy again? I had seventeen dollars in my wallet. Seventeen dollars and the fear of writing. I sat erect before the typewriter and blew on my fingers. Please God, please Knut Hamsun, don’t desert me now. I started to write and I wrote: “The time has come,” the Walrus said, “To talk of many things: Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax— Of cabbages—and kings—” I looked at it and wet my lips. It wasn’t mine, but what the hell, a man had to start someplace.

Oh, yes, her husband was hopeless, and lost things and ran late, but he took care of his wife and daughters, in that old-fashioned, responsible, I-am-the-man-and-this-is-my-job way. Bridget was right: Cecilia ruled her world, but she’d always known that if there was a crisis—a crazed gunman, a flood, a fire—John-Paul would be the one to save their lives. He’d throw himself in front of the bullet, build the raft, drive them safely through the raging inferno, and once that was done, he’d hand back control to Cecilia, pat his pockets and say, “Has anyone seen my wallet?

…penny for your thoughts?” Gabe says as he sits down beside me on the cot, and joins me in watching the girls play. “Just a penny…is that all? With what’s on my mind, you could make a fortune.” I say as I lay my head on his shoulder. “Well I somehow lost my wallet, but we could use kisses as a substitute. What do you think?

2. I live in an apartment. I could never live anywhere but in an apartment. I love apartments because I lose everything. Apartments are horizontal, so it's much easier to find the things I lose-- such as my glasses, gloves, wallet, lipstick, book, magazine, cell phone, and credit card. The other day I actually lost a piece of cheese in my apartment.

and just happened to be looking out the window as he hurried out the door, they’d have no reason to suspect that he was behaving strangely.  Perhaps he’d lost something, his wallet, maybe, and was checking to see if he’d left it in his vehicle.  Still, he hesitated to lock the car for fear that the brief sounding of the horn would alert every nosy neighbor on the block

Dell pulled out his cell phone, speed-dialed a number, and put the phone on speaker. A woman answered with a professionally irritated tone: “What do you need now?” “Jade,” Dell said. “Nope, it’s the Easter Bunny. And your keys are on your desk.” Dell shook his head. “Now darlin’, I don’t always call you just because I’ve lost my keys.” “I’m sorry, you’re right. You wallet’s on your desk, too. As for your little black book, you’re on your own with that one, Dr. Flirt. I’m at lunch.” Dell sighed. “What did we say about you and the whole power-play thing?” “That it’s good for your ego to have at least one woman in your life that you can’t flash a smile at and have them drop their panties?” Dell grinned. “I really like it when you say ‘panties.’ And for the record, I knew where my keys and wallet were.” “No you didn’t.” “Okay, I didn’t, but that’s not why I’m calling. Can you bring burgers and fries for me and Brady? Oh, and Adam, too, or he’ll bitch like a little girl.” “You mean ‘Jade, will you pretty please bring us burgers and fries?’” “Yes,” Dell said, nodding. “That. And Cokes.” He looked at Brady, who nodded. “And don’t forget the ketchup.” “You forgot the nice words.” “Oh, I’m sorry,” Dell said. “You look fantastic today, I especially love the attitude and sarcasm you’re wearing.” Jade’s voice went saccharine sweet. “So some low-fat chicken salads, no dressing, and ice water to go, then?” “Fine,” Dell said, and sighed. “Can we please have burgers and fries?" “You forgot the ‘Thank you, Goddess Jade,’ but we’ll work on that. Later, boss.

A big practice in chaos magic is the use of sigils, which are abstract words or symbols you create and embed with your wishes. To create a sigil, start by writing out your desire in a single word, a couple of words, or a short sentence. Then remove all the duplicate letters, then all the vowels—basically, you can do whatever you want here—until you’re left with a bunch of lines that you can combine into one symbol. Then you put the piece of paper in a book, in your wallet, or some other place where it won’t get lost, and just forget about it.

We judge ourselves by our intentions but others by their actions. We tend to think other people's mistakes are caused by character flaws while our mistakes are due to situational factors. "I had a headache on the day of the examine, but he's not very smart." Then we have the opposite. Our good behavior is attributable to fundamental traits while other people's is temporary and situational. "I'm returning this wallet to lost and found because I'm a moral and ethical person. Others do so only if they're seen picking it up." Thus we own our strengths and disavow our weaknesses. This is a big obstetrical to overcoming self-destruction behavior, it justifies all our attempts to deny or put off our need to change and rationalizes the consequences of our actions.

The pan dulce was perfect, and it gave Anna an idea. Talking to Lila about her favorite memories of her mother had shaken loose parts of the past she had either forgotten or overlooked. Like the songs her mother would sing as she cooked the one and only thing she ever cooked; like that time they visited the family coffee estate and Mum shot a rampaging wild boar and then they cooked and ate it later that night; like the smell of rain in the forest; like the fat, sour gooseberries they would pick off the trees; like fresh peppercorns straight off the vine; like countless other jumbled memories and smells and tastes and sounds that had been tucked away in some corner of her mind gathering dust for so long. Mum's favorite dish, the one and only thing she ever cooked. I'm going to make it. Anna had never learned how to make it, because she had always arrogantly assumed her mother would be around forever, but she had eaten it so many times that she was sure she could recreate it by memory and taste alone. This is it. Her favorite food. She would have to thank Lila for the inspiration later. This was the connection she had been afraid she would never find. It was a way to hold on to everything she had lost. "Can I borrow your wallet, Dad?" Excited for the first time in what felt like months, Anna rushed out to the neighborhood grocery store and picked out the ingredients she hoped would work. Curry leaves, bay leaves, whole black peppercorns, turmeric, ginger, garlic, green chilies, red chilies, limes, honey, and, finally, a fresh shoulder of pork.

In the Christmas term a conjurer used to give a performance in the school Concert Hall. I remember how once he was disconcerted, during a card trick, by young Smart-Allick. The conjurer, stepping down amongst the audience, produced a card from Smart-Allick's pocket. My chum retaliated by producing a card from behind the conjurer's collar. The conjurer then took half a crown from my chum's ear, and my chum took a ten-bob note from the conjurer's wallet, three shillings from his trousers pocket, and a fountain-pen from his waistcoat. The headmaster interfered, and took a pound note from his son's coat pocket. The son at once got his father's watch. In a touching speech, the conjurer complained that he was four pounds down, and had lost his overcoat, a dozen stamps, his hat and his set of trick-cards.

One of the bonds between Lily and me is that we both suffer with our teeth. She is twenty years my junior but we wear bridges, each of us. Mine are at the sides, hers are in front. She has lost the four upper incisors. It happened while she was still in high school, out playing golf with her father, whom she adored. The poor old guy was a lush and far too drunk to be out on a golf course that day. Without looking or given warning, he drove from the first tee and on the backswing struck his daughter. It always kills me to think of that cursed hot July golf course, and this drunk from the plumbing supply business, and the girl of fifteen bleeding. Damn these weak drunks! Damn these unsteady men! I can't stand these clowns who go out in public as soon as they get swacked to show how broken-hearted they are. But Lily would never hear a single word against him and wept for him sooner than for herself. She carries his photo in her wallet.

An inch?” Minh held his fingers apart trying to judge the unfamiliar measurement. Shake took his hand and squeezed the fingers closer together.           “By such small amounts...we win or lose.”           “Nobody won in that fight, Minh. We both lost.”           “The dreams...”           “Yes. I have them too...and you are always there.”           “Where is all the hate?”           “Gone. It always goes...when you realize your enemy is just another man...just another soldier trying to do his duty.”           “That’s how you think of me?”           “It is now. Before this you were the black-eyed monster of my nightmares.”           “And you were the green-eyed monster...”           They smiled and studied the glow of the candle.           “You stayed in your Marine Corps...”           “Yes. I had nothing in common with civilians. Didn’t like them much. I was comfortable as a Marine...among others who understand me.”           “I understand you...”           “I believe you do, Minh.”           “Did you marry? Have children?”           “I was married but that is finished now. This is my daughter...my only child.”Shake reached for his wallet and pulled out Stacey’s high school graduation picture in cap and gown.           “A scholar. She is very beautiful.”           “Yes...she is everything to me.”           “And if I had killed you that night up on those walls, she would never have been born.”Minh handed the photo back and nodded. “I wish I had known this. It makes me feel better.

1. Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you. 2. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. 3. A wise man does not make demands of kings. 4. A mind needs a book as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep it's edge. 5. People often claim to hunger for truth, but seldom like the taste when it's served up. 6. A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one. 7. I swear to you, sitting a throne is a thousand times harder than winning one. 8. In the world as I have seen it, no man grows rich by kindness. 9. If a man paints a target on his chest, he should expect that sooner or later someone will loose an arrow on him. 10. Crowns do queer things to the heads beneath them. 11. In battle a Captain's lungs are as important as his sword arm. I does not matter how brave or brilliant the man is if his commands can't be heard. 12. A man is never so vulnerable in battle as when he flees. 13. Gold has it's uses, but wars are won with iron. 14. The man who fears losing has already lost. 15. Words are wind. 16. The unseen enemy is always the most fearsome. 17. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don't ever believe any different. 18. Give gold to a foe and he will just come back for more. 19. In this world only winter is certain. 20. The gods have no mercy. That's why they're gods. 21. I have learned that the contents of a man's letters are more valuable than the contents of his wallet

Starting a little over a decade ago, Target began building a vast data warehouse that assigned every shopper an identification code—known internally as the “Guest ID number”—that kept tabs on how each person shopped. When a customer used a Target-issued credit card, handed over a frequent-buyer tag at the register, redeemed a coupon that was mailed to their house, filled out a survey, mailed in a refund, phoned the customer help line, opened an email from Target, visited Target.com, or purchased anything online, the company’s computers took note. A record of each purchase was linked to that shopper’s Guest ID number along with information on everything else they’d ever bought. Also linked to that Guest ID number was demographic information that Target collected or purchased from other firms, including the shopper’s age, whether they were married and had kids, which part of town they lived in, how long it took them to drive to the store, an estimate of how much money they earned, if they’d moved recently, which websites they visited, the credit cards they carried in their wallet, and their home and mobile phone numbers. Target can purchase data that indicates a shopper’s ethnicity, their job history, what magazines they read, if they have ever declared bankruptcy, the year they bought (or lost) their house, where they went to college or graduate school, and whether they prefer certain brands of coffee, toilet paper, cereal, or applesauce. There are data peddlers such as InfiniGraph that “listen” to shoppers’ online conversations on message boards and Internet forums, and track which products people mention favorably. A firm named Rapleaf sells information on shoppers’ political leanings, reading habits, charitable giving, the number of cars they own, and whether they prefer religious news or deals on cigarettes. Other companies analyze photos that consumers post online, cataloging if they are obese or skinny, short or tall, hairy or bald, and what kinds of products they might want to buy as a result.

45 Mercy Street In my dream, drilling into the marrow of my entire bone, my real dream, I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill searching for a street sign - namely MERCY STREET. Not there. I try the Back Bay. Not there. Not there. And yet I know the number. 45 Mercy Street. I know the stained-glass window of the foyer, the three flights of the house with its parquet floors. I know the furniture and mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, the servants. I know the cupboard of Spode the boat of ice, solid silver, where the butter sits in neat squares like strange giant's teeth on the big mahogany table. I know it well. Not there. Where did you go? 45 Mercy Street, with great-grandmother kneeling in her whale-bone corset and praying gently but fiercely to the wash basin, at five A.M. at noon dozing in her wiggy rocker, grandfather taking a nap in the pantry, grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid, and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower on her forehead to cover the curl of when she was good and when she was... And where she was begat and in a generation the third she will beget, me, with the stranger's seed blooming into the flower called Horrid. I walk in a yellow dress and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes, enough pills, my wallet, my keys, and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five? I walk. I walk. I hold matches at street signs for it is dark, as dark as the leathery dead and I have lost my green Ford, my house in the suburbs, two little kids sucked up like pollen by the bee in me and a husband who has wiped off his eyes in order not to see my inside out and I am walking and looking and this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime. Pull the shades down - I don't care! Bolt the door, mercy, erase the number, rip down the street sign, what can it matter, what can it matter to this cheapskate who wants to own the past that went out on a dead ship and left me only with paper? Not there. I open my pocketbook, as women do, and fish swim back and forth between the dollars and the lipstick. I pick them out, one by one and throw them at the street signs, and shoot my pocketbook into the Charles River. Next I pull the dream off and slam into the cement wall of the clumsy calendar I live in, my life, and its hauled up notebooks.

It was a Friday evening, and I can still vividly recall the moment everything went wrong. I had been diving into cryptocurrency trading for a while, trying to grow my investments and make some serious profits. That night, feeling confident, I decided to make a larger transfer. In my excitement, I mistakenly sent my coins to the wrong wallet address. The moment I realized my mistake, panic and dread set in. I had just lost a significant amount of money, and I felt completely helpless. I spent hours trying to figure out a solution, but everything I read seemed to only deepen my confusion and frustration. I felt completely overwhelmed. In my distress, I decided to step away for a bit. I went to a nearby bar, hoping a drink would calm my nerves. I ended up drinking whiskey, hoping to drown my worries and clear my head, but instead, it only clouded my judgment further. The more I drank, the more I felt the weight of the situation bearing down on me. I could barely think straight. As I sat there, trying to gather myself, a relative who was visiting for the festive season noticed my state. After listening to my story, he suggested I contact SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL, a fund recovery service he’d heard about. At first, I was skeptical. Having seen so many fraudulent recovery services online, I wasn’t sure if this was just another scam. But my relative reassured me, telling me that SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL had a solid reputation and had successfully helped others in similar situations. With little left to lose, I decided to give them a try. I reached out to SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL, and their team responded quickly, explaining how the recovery process worked. They assured me that there would be no upfront fees and immediately began working on my case. Over time, they managed to successfully trace and recover my lost coins. I couldn't believe it what I thought was gone forever was returned to me. I was incredibly relieved and thankful. The experience taught me a valuable lesson about the importance of caution when dealing with online transactions, especially in the fast-paced world of cryptocurrency. If you’ve ever found yourself in a similar situation, I highly recommend contacting a professional recovery service like SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL. They helped me recover my funds when I thought all hope was lost, and I’m confident they can do the same for others. Contact info about the company : WhatsApp:+1 (971) 4 8 7 - 3 5 3 8 Email: spartantech (@) cyberservices . com Telegram:+1 (581) 2 8 6 - 8 0 9 2

On Sunday, I reached out to Cyber Constable Intelligence, desperate for help after losing all my savings 200,000 Ethereum due to a scam. It all started when I received a message on Twitter (X) from what seemed like official blockchain support. The account looked genuine, and they claimed they could assist me with an issue I was facing. Trusting them, I shared my wallet details, never once suspecting that I was talking to fraudsters. They quickly gained access to my wallet and drained all my Ethereum. I was left in complete shock, feeling foolish and heartbroken, as this was all my life savings, the future I had been relying on. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. The feeling of helplessness and despair was overwhelming, and I couldn’t comprehend how easily I had been duped. I was devastated, thinking I had lost everything and there was no way to recover it. In my panic, I began searching online for any possible solutions. That’s when I stumbled upon a comment on Quora recommending Cyber Constable Intelligence. Someone had shared their success story about recovering stolen funds, and reading it gave me a glimmer of hope. Without wasting any time, I reached out to Cyber Constable Intelligence and explained my situation. The team was incredibly understanding and reassured me that they could help me recover my lost Ethereum. I was still shaken, but they immediately got to work. On that very Sunday, they launched the recovery program, and within a day, they had already identified the culprits. The efficiency of their work was astonishing. Not only did they track down the scammers, but they also managed to recover all of my stolen Ethereum, returning it to my wallet. The relief I felt when I saw the funds back in my account was indescribable. I couldn’t believe that it was possible to recover what seemed like an irretrievable loss. I owe it all to the professionalism and expertise of the team at Cyber Constable Intelligence. They not only helped me reclaim my stolen funds but also provided valuable advice on how to protect myself from future scams. If you’ve fallen victim to any form of online scam or cryptocurrency theft, I highly recommend contacting Cyber Constable Intelligence. They are true experts in their field and can help you recover lost funds. I hope my experience helps others who find themselves in a similar situation. Stay vigilant and always be cautious with your online security. FORE MORE INFO: Company: CYBER CONSTABLE INTELLIGENCE WhatsApp: 1 (252) 378-7611 mail: cyberconstable(@)coolsite net Website info; www cyberconstableintelligence com

Though we may have lost our tempers, our wallets, and our sanity, we are here. And come hell or high water, we’re going to have a damn good time.

To steal a man’s wallet from his front pocket you pressed against his thigh in place of the wallet’s weight. To steal a man’s soul, you pressed against him with your dreams and visions, so he wouldn’t notice when his own lost color.

With barely controlled patience, then with growing amazement, Sam watched, along with everyone else, as Miss Kent pulled out the broken straps of her suitcase and set them on the table. Then came an overstuffed wallet, a ring of keys that could sink a cargo ship, three packets of airline peanuts, a packet of tissues, an address book, and a candy bar that was squished beyond recognition. She began to mutter softly, her words lost in the cavern of her purse.

It wasn't that she wanted to be in college again, exactly. No, she just missed it sometimes, the aftermath of those nights out, inexplicable bruises and lost wallets, phone numbers being requested, make-outs with near strangers in crowded bars

I’m buying.” She was sure her wallet screeched at the generous offer. “I’ve got a few quid, thank you,” he said. “It’s cracking flags out.” He looked out the window then back, assaulting her with another heart stopping smile. “I’ve lost you, have I?” “I’m usually … I’m lost,” she admitted but in more ways than he realized. “I’m usually really good with slang, quid is cigarettes, right?” “Quid is money,

I hope this means you’re getting a new lab?” “I don’t know, T. I gotta run, we’ve got Aiden’s autopsy done and I need to write up some notes. By the way, tell Baldwin the crime scene techs found Aiden’s clothes in a bin behind the McDonald’s on West End. We’ll get that sent to his lab, if he’d like.” Baldwin said, “Yes, please, Sam. Did you find an ID?” “There was a wallet and a passport, both with ID in the name of Jasper Lohan. High-end stuff, they look legitimate.” “Jasper Lohan. I don’t recognize that name for him. No wonder we lost him in St. Louis. Cunning bastard.” He wrote a quick note, then said, “Okay. Thanks.” They hung up with promises to have dinner over the weekend. The banality of the arrangements made Taylor long for some peace and quiet, reminded her that she wasn’t like everyone else. Making plans was a luxury, a formality. In most cases, either she or Sam, or Baldwin, or Sam’s husband Simon, would be called to work a case. They lived in twenty-four-hour-a-day jobs, their lives cordoned off at the whim of a criminal.

With a few more days to hold on to, some of us are walking on a tight rope, ready to fall but we know not on which side we want to drown ourselves. On one side there is freedom and the desire to be this carefree, a little irresponsible, a little selfish, a little too thrifty, with some mismanagement, two broken cellphones, one broken laptop, some lost valuables but a heart unbroken and recently found. On the other side awaits luxury and responsibility amidst some smog, some corruption, some people dear to us, some love, some misunderstandings, some too-many-people suffocation, some fun, some reality you are willing to face, some reality you wish didn't exist. You don't wanna go back but there is nothing much left here to be for. You wanna go back but you know once you're back you're gonna miss this time, this place, this feeling terribly. You're a nobody here yet everything in some memorable times, You're somebody there holding on to not be a nobody. I had been living in the moment but today my wallet hardly made a sound as it dropped on the floor. "Nothing much left here to be for," it said.

You feel so overwritten you're like a palimpsest; the original girl almost lost under years of scrawling yet you nurture an illusion of beauty, brush your hair in the dark so when your reflection finally catches up with you you stare straight past that older woman to the skateboard dancers behind hitting the frosty air with exuberant grace. On the loose in the morning city reminds you of lovers, catching the tram to work in last night's laddered stockings, the sharp-edged day already intruding like a hangover. It's not the sex you miss or the hotel mornings but the reassurance of strangers and that wild card. Now everything's played out the same, no surprises in the pack except those dealt by disaster. Early this morning such certainty dragged on your thoughts they stumbled flat-footed through the breakfast silence and you knew neither the apples orchard fresh, crisp as snow nor the blue bowl they posed in were enough. People disappear all the time, emerge like summer snakes newly marked and glittering into a clean desert. Without the photo of a child you carry in your wallet which reminds you who you have become you'd catch a train to Musk or Mollymook, some place your fingers have strayed over. Even thinking that, you turn your face into the wind, keep walking that same old line in your new flamboyant shoes. Oh my treacherous heart.

In many societies women were simply the property of men, most often their fathers, husbands or brothers. Rape, in many legal systems, falls under property violation – in other words, the victim is not the woman who was raped but the male who owns her. This being the case, the legal remedy was the transfer of ownership – the rapist was required to pay a bride price to the woman’s father or brother, upon which she became the rapist’s property. The Bible decrees that ‘If a man meets a virgin who is not betrothed, and seizes her and lies with her, and they are found, then the man who lay with her shall give to the father of the young woman fifty shekels of silver, and she shall be his wife’ (Deuteronomy 22:28–9). The ancient Hebrews considered this a reasonable arrangement. Raping a woman who did not belong to any man was not considered a crime at all, just as picking up a lost coin on a busy street is not considered theft. And if a husband raped his own wife, he had committed no crime. In fact, the idea that a husband could rape his wife was an oxymoron. To be a husband was to have full control of your wife’s sexuality. To say that a husband ‘raped’ his wife was as illogical as saying that a man stole his own wallet. Such thinking was not confined to the ancient Middle East. As of 2006, there were still fifty-three countries where a husband could not be prosecuted for the rape of his wife. Even in Germany, rape laws were amended only in 1997 to create a legal category of marital rape.

The vibrating sounds of a big brass bell reached them from the town. Nekhludoff’s driver, who stood by his side, and the other men on the raft raised their caps and crossed themselves, all except a short, dishevelled old man, who stood close to the railway and whom Nekhludoff had not noticed before. He did not cross himself, but raised his head and looked at Nekhludoff. This old man wore a patched coat, cloth trousers and worn and patched shoes. He had a small wallet on his back, and a high fur cap with the fur much rubbed on his head. “Why don’t you pray, old chap?” asked Nekhludoff’s driver as he replaced and straightened his cap. “Are you unbaptized?” “Who’s one to pray to?” asked the old man quickly, in a determinately aggressive tone. “To whom? To God, of course,” said the driver sarcastically. “And you just show me where he is, that god.” There was something so serious and firm in the expression of the old man, that the driver felt that he had to do with a strong-minded man, and was a bit abashed. And trying not to show this, not to be silenced, and not to be put to shame before the crowd that was observing them, he answered quickly. “Where? In heaven, of course.” “And have you been up there?” “Whether I’ve been or not, every one knows that you must pray to God.” “No one has ever seen God at any time. The only begotten Son who is in the bosom of the Father he hath declared him,” said the old man in the same rapid manner, and with a severe frown on his brow. “It’s clear you are not a Christian, but a hole worshipper. You pray to a hole,” said the driver, shoving the handle of his whip into his girdle, pulling straight the harness on one of the horses. Some one laughed. “What is your faith, Dad?” asked a middle-aged man, who stood by his cart on the same side of the raft. “I have no kind of faith, because I believe no one--no one but myself,” said the old man as quickly and decidedly as before. “How can you believe yourself?” Nekhludoff asked, entering into a conversation with him. “You might make a mistake.” “Never in your life,” the old man said decidedly, with a toss of his head. “Then why are there different faiths?” Nekhludoff asked. “It’s just because men believe others and do not believe themselves that there are different faiths. I also believed others, and lost myself as in a swamp,--lost myself so that I had no hope of finding my way out. Old believers and new believers and Judaisers and Khlysty and Popovitzy, and Bespopovitzy and Avstriaks and Molokans and Skoptzy--every faith praises itself only, and so they all creep about like blind puppies. There are many faiths, but the spirit is one--in me and in you and in him. So that if every one believes himself all will be united. Every one be himself, and all will be as one.” The old man spoke loudly and often looked round, evidently wishing that as many as possible should hear him. “And have you long held this faith?” “I? A long time. This is the twenty-third year that they persecute me.” “Persecute you? How?” “As they persecuted Christ, so they persecute me. They seize me, and take me before the courts and before the priests, the Scribes and the Pharisees. Once they put me into a madhouse; but they can do nothing because I am free. They say, ‘What is your name?’ thinking I shall name myself. But I do not give myself a name. I have given up everything: I have no name, no place, no country, nor anything. I am just myself. ‘What is your name?’ ‘Man.’ ‘How old are you?’ I say, ‘I do not count my years and cannot count them, because I always was, I always shall be.’ ‘Who are your parents?’ ‘I have no parents except God and Mother Earth. God is my father.’ ‘And the Tsar? Do you recognise the Tsar?’ they say. I say, ‘Why not? He is his own Tsar, and I am my own Tsar.’ ‘Where’s the good of talking to him,’ they say, and I say, ‘I do not ask you to talk to me.’ And so they begin tormenting me.

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He was a reasonable enough man to know that this was utter nonsense.  Even if someone was up and wandering around in their unlit home at this hour and just happened to be looking out the window as he hurried out the door, they’d have no reason to suspect that he was behaving strangely.  Perhaps he’d lost something, his wallet, maybe, and was

I lost my parents during adolescence. I know what you're going through," he says, as the bartender arrives with the coffees. Andrea freezes. How does he know? They start drinking, in silence. Ian is disarmingly slow while Andrea, leaning back on the counter, finishes his in two quick sips. "And what am I going through Ian?" he challenges him, leaning his elbow next to the small cup and looking at him. Ian takes his last sip and gets off the stool. "You’re broken and experience moments of perfect chaos: one moment you're happy and the next moment you want to cut your veins," he says seriously. "You fluctuate in everyday life, hoping to create your own, new balance with small rituals. You organize your time in such a way that you don’t stand still, because if you stand still, you think. And if you think, you suffer. You're unstable, restless." He pauses. "Am I close?" "Quite." "And you’re looking for something that will make you feel better." He raises an eyebrow. "Or, maybe, fix you." He nods. "Yes." "And you've found it, too." He steps towards the cash till. "But you haven’t made it yours yet." "You’re right," says Andrea, taking his wallet. "You’re my guest," replies Ian, lifting his hand. "Thanks." The

Suppose you had seven credit cards in your purse or wallet and you lost one. Wouldn’t you leave the six and go search for the missing one until you found it? I lost a credit card recently and never once pulled out the one I hadn’t lost to obsess over it. I felt no urgency about my un-lost credit card. I didn’t call a single person to say that I still had my American Express Card. But I did start calling around to see if anyone had seen my lost MasterCard. When you lose something important, you obsess over it; you get preoccupied with it. It’s pretty much all you think about. Remember the last time you couldn’t find your phone?

that he was behaving strangely.  Perhaps he’d lost something, his wallet, maybe, and was checking to see if he’d left it in his vehicle.  Still, he hesitated to lock

Saint Anthony, the patron saint of lost things. “You pray to him when you lose your car keys or your wallet or your phone, and he helps find them.

Eating locally grown foods can not only allow you to stay in harmony with nature by taking what it offers you in that particular season, but also ensure you will have the freshest produce with the most nutrients. According to mark Lzeman, Director of Natural Resources Defense Council (NRDC)’s Urban Program in New York, “studies have shown that produce loses nutrients each day after it has been harvested and after three days it has lost 40 percent of its nutritional value”. And, shopping locally is healthier for your wallet, too. Tips for You If you are currently reside in the US, here is a list of example resources where you can find which foods are in season: Eat Local by Natural Resources Defense Council Seasonal Food Guide by Sustainable Table Seasonal Ingredient Map by Epicurious

The head has the same eyes as the fish, beady and unblinking, only they’re cloudy and flat, sunken deep into its skull. Its hair grows wild, tangled with beetles, twigs, and burs, and it trails the head like a tail. The flesh itself is rotten and foul, dead as the Heaven and Hell tree, once the tallest old oak on the reservation—its branches stretching for the stars, its roots reaching for the abyss below—and as ragged around its missing neck as the hem of my jeans.” The chain he wore on his wallet rattled as he lifted a foot over the fire, showing off the frayed cuff of his pant leg, streaked with mud. “The mouth”—he paused, clenching his jaw to steel himself—“that’s the worst part of it. It can stretch as wide as it wants . . . wide enough to suck you between its wormy lips.” She thought of the catfish again, their mouths gaping and wide, flanked by whiskers that had curled and turned black after her father had hacked off the fish heads and tossed them into the fire he’d stoked to cook the fish fillets. “It’s got a tongue of old leather and teeth like shattered glass, jagged and sharp.

I was walking down Fifth Avenue today, and I found a wallet. And I was going to keep it, rather than return it, but I thought, Well, if I lost $150, how would I feel? And I realized I would want to be taught a lesson.

[…] the smallest kindness overwhelms me for being, like Thursday itself, so unnecessary. I am amazed when I drop a glove in the street and a teenager runs two blocks to return it. I am amazed when a checkout girl flashes me a wide smile with my change, though my own face had been a mask of expedience. Lost wallets posted to their owners, strangers who furnish meticulous directions, neighbors who water each other's houseplants—these things amaze me. Celia amazed me.

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Found it,” Einen said. Their very large boxes, sealed with glowing hieroglyphs, were at the bottom. Einen recognized them by the designations written on the tops of the boxes in the desert language: ‘Islander’ and ‘Northerner’. Pulling them out of the rack, the friends thought about what they should do next. Then it dawned on Hadjar and he simply touched the hieroglyph. His blue bracelet flashed, and then the seal disappeared, melting away like a slight haze. The sword lying inside the box soothed his tense nerves better than any herbal tincture ever could. As soon as Mountain Wind was back in his calloused hand, confidence welled up in Hadjar’s soul: no obstacle in his path could stop him or even slow him down. The old leather wallet with his friends’ wedding bracelets reassured his aching heart. ‘The Black Gates’ Patriarch’s ring, the fairy’s tears, and little Serra’s gift were almost insignificant compared to those two most important things. Although, after looking at the sword, Hadjar tied the wallet to his belt first. There were many swords in this world after all... “I don’t think you’re allowed to do what you want here,” someone behind him said. Hadjar turned around. He realized that he’d been lost in his own thoughts for a while. The sounds of merriment had long since subsided. The central hall, which had resembled a tavern and a brothel at the same time, was now empty. All the practitioners wearing blue amulets had bared their weapons and crowded behind Glen. He was still lazily sipping from his mug, but his gaze was tenacious. The leader of the fifty ‘guinea pigs’, selected by Karissa, was ready to fight. To the death. Einen, who’d somehow managed to put his people’s traditional outfit on, stood next to Hadjar. In his hand, the spear-staff, which hadn’t exposed its deadly stinger yet, swayed dangerously. “Put those things back and go to bed,” Glen said bossily. “You shouldn’t steal from people who’ve sheltered you.” “We haven’t stolen anything,” Einen snapped in reply, “we’ve just taken back our things.” “There’s nothing of yours here.” “The names on the boxes beg to differ,” Hadjar stated calmly. They met Glen’s eyes. By the Evening Stars, the undersized rogue was one of the few people who could withstand Hadjar’s gaze. “It seems that children from the north and the islands can’t count,” Glen said more forcefully. “I’ll give you one more chance. Put-” “Put a dog’s reproductive organ down your throat,” Einen spat on the floor. His friend’s cursing made Hadjar open his mouth in surprise. Apparently, the stress of the recent weeks had really affected the usually calm islander. “How many newbies have you cheated like this so far? You make them think that they can’t take their things back, and then you send them to their deaths.

This type of thing was always happening to John-Paul. Last time he went overseas he’d left his laptop in a cab. The man lost things constantly. Wallets, phones, keys, his wedding ring. His possessions just slid right off him.

Although the blockchain that Bitcoin sits on has never been hacked, transactions are difficult, which has slowed widespread adoption as a payment alternative. In addition to that, storage of Bitcoins or other cryptocurrencies (wallets) has been prone to cyberattack or loss, creating a different form of risk. But even with risk and current high volatility, citizens in some parts of the world have less risk in holding Bitcoin than their own currency. The value can be moved across borders seamlessly or used as a payment mechanism when currency fails. In Venezuela today, for example, Bitcoin is already acting as a lifesaving currency for those who have it, as it is a much more secure payment medium than the local currency. Bitcoin’s high volatility is often used as an example of why it cannot be trusted as a global payment mechanism. Bitcoin is volatile; it lost 30 percent of its value in 2018, only to rise over 100 percent in the first six months of 2019. But that volatility must be put in context. The inflation rate on the bolívar, Venezuela’s local currency, was 1.8 million percent in 2018. Having the choice, even in 2018, I would much rather lose 30 per-cent on my Bitcoin than 1.8 million percent on my bolívar.

The spell was on the very fist page: a calling for the lost to be found. We wanted our diaries found. So Holly suggested we try it. At first it was like a recipe: gathering moss and branches, raiding our cupboards for olive oil, slipping saints medals out of our nanas' wallets, rooting through the Christmas boxes in the attic, looking for silver string. It was silly and secret and made us feel like kids making mud pies. None of us took it seriously, not even Holly.

In Toronto, 16 of 20 (80 percent) wallets were returned. In a large follow-up with over 17,000 “lost” wallets across 40 countries, most were brought back, with return rates reaching 80 percent in several countries. 2. In 2023, the World Happiness Report—a global survey that asks about people’s experiences and actions each year—revealed that volunteering, donating to charity, and helping strangers all increased significantly during the pandemic. For all its horrors, the plague revealed massive wells of human kindness.

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RECOVERY $3 MILLION FROM A BITCOIN SOFTWARE WALLET My family and I will never forget our ill fated vacation to the UK. What was meant to be a relaxing getaway turned into a financial nightmare. We lost a staggering £278,000 to an unscrupulous investor, leaving us with nothing. The experience was not only financially devastating but also emotionally draining. We felt betrayed, vulnerable, and helpless. In the midst of our despair, we stumbled upon CRYPTO RECOVERY CONSULTANT. At first, we were wondering if they were just another scammer. However, after conducting thorough research and reading numerous testimonials, we decided to take a chance. We contacted CRYPTO RECOVERY CONSULTANT, and to our surprise, they were professional, They guided us through the recovery process, explaining each step in detail. Thanks to Crypto Recovery Consultant's expertise and diligence, we were able to recover our lost funds. The feeling of relief and gratitude was overwhelming. We couldn't believe that we had finally gotten our money back. Crypto Recovery Consultant's services were exceptional. Our experience has taught us to be cautious when dealing with investors and to always do our due diligence. We have also learned the importance of seeking help when faced with financial difficulties. Crypto Recovery Consultant has been a game changer for us. We are forever grateful for their assistance and recommend their services to anyone who has fallen victim to blockchain scams. If you're in a similar situation, don't lose hope. There are reputable companies like Crypto Recovery Consultant that can help you recover your losses. Remember, it's never too late to seek help. Losing £278,000 to an investor was a devastating experience, but thanks to Crypto Recovery Consultant, we were able to recover our funds. We hope that our testimony will serve as a warning to others and also provide hope to those who have lost money to blockchain scams. Remember, there is always a way to recover, and Crypto Recovery Consultant is here to help. You can contact them with the following below: c r y p t o r e c o v e r y consultant@cash4u,com,,,, Whatsapp: +1 984 258 0430

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