Wear Cape Quotes

When I was a little girl I used to read fairy tales. In fairy tales you meet Prince Charming and he's everything you ever wanted. In fairy tales the bad guy is very easy to spot. The bad guy is always wearing a black cape so you always know who he is. Then you grow up and you realize that Prince Charming is not as easy to find as you thought. You realize the bad guy is not wearing a black cape and he's not easy to spot; he's really funny, and he makes you laugh, and he has perfect hair.

Heroes didn't leap tall buildings or stop bullets with an outstretched hand; they didn't wear boots and capes. They bled, and they bruised, and their superpowers were as simple as listening, or loving. Heroes were ordinary people who knew that even if their own lives were impossibly knotted, they could untangle someone else's. And maybe that one act could lead someone to rescue you right back.

Our shouting is louder than our actions, Our swords are taller than us, This is our tragedy. In short We wear the cape of civilisation But our souls live in the stone age

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and all that jazz. Anna use to be the abstinence poster girl, but post-Shaw you could write a comic book about the many adventures of her vagina. It could wear a cape.

It wasn’t easy looking dignified wearing a bed sheet and a purple cape.

If I should have a daughter…“Instead of “Mom”, she’s gonna call me “Point B.” Because that way, she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint the solar system on the back of her hands so that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.” She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry, so the first time she realizes that Wonder-woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried. And “Baby,” I’ll tell her “don’t keep your nose up in the air like that, I know that trick, you’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him.” But I know that she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boats nearby, ‘cause there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything if you let it. I want her to see the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat, to look through a magnifying glass at the galaxies that exist on the pin point of a human mind. Because that’s how my mom taught me. That there’ll be days like this, “There’ll be days like this my momma said” when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you wanna save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say “thank you,” ‘cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away. You will put the “wind” in win some lose some, you will put the “star” in starting over and over, and no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life. And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting I am pretty damn naive but I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it. “Baby,” I’ll tell her “remember your mama is a worrier but your papa is a warrior and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.” Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining. Your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing and when they finally hand you heartbreak, slip hatred and war under your doorstep and hand you hand-outs on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

Heroes don’t always wear capes, badges, or uniforms. Sometimes, they support those who do.

Take this as your reminder. Not all heroes wear capes. Some wear darkness, some wear wounds.

Do I get to wear a fancy hat?" "The fanciest," I said. "And possibly a cape." "Will there be plumes?" "Oh, yes. Several." "Then I'm in.

Single moms: You are a doctor, a teacher, a nurse, a maid, a cook, a referee, a heroine, a provider, a defender, a protector, a true Superwoman. Wear your cape proudly.

You are a ghost. Filled with stardust, wearing the bones as the shield and the skin as the cape. Fighting every day and opening up for the new wounds in the hustle of hiding the old scars.

Libraries are a force for good. They wear capes. They fight evil. They don’t get upset when you don’t send them a card on their birthdays. (Though they will charge you if you’re late returning a book.) They serve communities. The town without a library is a town without a soul. The library card is a passport to wonders and miracles, glimpses into other lives, religions, experiences, the hopes and dreams and strivings of ALL human beings, and it is this passport that opens our eyes and hearts to the world beyond our front doors, that is one of our best hopes against tyranny, xenophobia, hopelessness, despair, anarchy, and ignorance. Libraries are the torch of the world, illuminating the path when it feels too dark to see. We mustn’t allow that torch to be extinguished.

It was probably easier in the old days when the bad guys rode into town wearing black capes or whatever bad guys wore and the milk cows were ownded by honest people. Right off the bat, you'd know who you were dealing with. Now everybody dresses alike.

Her eyes went so wide they nearly bulged. It was probably wrong of me to find that amusing. Or to want to take a photo of Nicholas with his fangs out and wearing a black cape lined with red satin and then hang it over my pillow in a heart-shaped frame.

Percy and Reyna occupied matching praeters' chairs on the dais, which made Percy self-conscious. It wasn't easy looking dignified wearing a bedsheet and a purple cape. "The camp is safe," Octavian continued. " I'll be the first to congragulate our heroes for bringing back the legion's eagle and so much Imperial gold! Truly we have been blessed with good fortune. But why do more? Why tempt fate?" "I'm glad you asked." Percy stood, taking the question as an opening. Octavian stammered, " I wasn't--" "--Part of the quest," Percy said. "Yes I know. And your'e wise to let me explain, since I was.

Wearing a bath towel around the school yard and pretending it's a cape doesn't mean you have magical powers.

Come on. I know you're not a stupid man.' 'I'm quite stupid. Ask anyone.' 'Finbar, are there superheroes living among us?' Finbar snorted with laughter and Kenny started to feel a little thick. 'Superheroes? In tights and capes, flying around? If there were superheroes, Mr. Journalist, don't you think they'd be in New York or somewhere like that? There's not that many tall buildings for Spiderman to swing from in Dublin, you know? He'd have maybe two good swings and then hang there looking disappointed.' 'These people don't wear tights and capes, Finbar.' 'So they're naked superheroes? That's grand for now, but when the good weather is over they're going to regret it.' 'They look like us. They dress like us. But they're not like us. They're different.' 'You,' Finbar said. 'Are sounding very racist right now.

Anna used to be the abstinence poster girl, but you could write a comic book about the many adventures of her vagina. It could wear a cape.

I don’t wear a red cape. I can’t scale buildings like a salamander or leap across canyons twenty miles wide. I don’t have a huge S emblazoned across my chest. My superpowers come from teaching myself how to survive when all I wanted to do was be one of the people that heroes are supposed to save.

I almost cried. But I didn't, because if you're in seventh grade and you cry while wearing a blue floral cape and yellow tights with white feathers on the butt, you just have to curl up and die somewhere in a dark alley.

This is the best thing to wear for today, you understand. Because I don't like women in skirts and the best thing is to wear pantyhose or some pants under a short skirt, I think. Then you have the pants under the skirt and then you can pull the stockings up over the pants underneath the skirt. And you can always take off the skirt and use it as a cape. So I think this is the best costume for today.

At first I assumed he was a Mexican, but slowly began to realise that a real Mexican probably wouldn't be wearing a sombrero in a London nightclub. And he'd probably have a real moustache, not a stick-on one. A Mexican with a stick-on moustache would be like a Super-Mexican, because he'd have two moustaches, and that'd be cool, because a Super-Mexican could probably use his poncho as a cape, and then I realised I was saying all this to the man's face.

Everything happens for a reason. Sometimes the reason is you're stupid and make bad decisions.

The reason heroes wear capes is to wrap up and protect little girls in pain.” -Mirio Togata (My Hero Academia)

Heroes don’t always wear capes, badges, or uniforms. Sometimes, they support those who do.

Why do superheroes wear capes? His brother's voice. To show how cape-able they are? His own childhood voice.

You could write a comic book about the many adventures of her vagina. It could wear a cape.

For years, we assumed ambition was a curse for us. Men could always wear it like a cape, while women were forced to tuck and hold it inside themselves.

Heroes don't leap tall buildings or stop bullets with an outstretched hand; they don't wear boots and capes. They bled, and they bruised, and their superpowers were as simple as listening, or loving. Heroes were ordinary people who knew that even if their own lives were impossibly knotted, they could untangle someone else's. And maybe that one act could lead someone to rescue you right back.

You’ve always been a superhero.” Byron slid his nose against mine, brushing our lips together and whispering, “You’re a teacher, aren’t you? The only difference is that teachers don’t wear capes.

I grinned. "Are you saying you want to be captain of my personal guard?" Mal glanced at me, his lips quirking in a smile. "Do I get to wear a fancy hat?" "The fanciest," I said. "And possibly a cape." "Will there be plumes?" "Oh, yes. Several." "Then I'm in.

She wears a cape, and it is this that undoes her—that allows her to be pulled, limbs light and poised as a cat, from her horse.

Noel- How dare you were not rapist Jimmy- Why are you wearing a cape then? Noel- Jack the Ripper wore a cape and he wasn't a rapist. He was Russell- A serial murder there's a difference

In India, where there are no passports or identity discs, and where religions counts for so much- except among those few who have crossed the 'black water' - I believe that a man wearing a saffron robe, or carrying a beggar's bowl , or with silver crosses on his headgear and chest, could walk from Khyber Pass to Cape Comorin without once being questioned about his destination, or the object of his journey,

Lillian moved forward to meet her, studying her with curiosity. They had met before, on infrequent occasions, and she found it strange to see Dagny Taggart wearing an evening gown. It was a black dress with a bodice that fell as a cape over one arm and shoulder, leaving the other bare: the naked shoulder was the gown’s only ornament. Seeing her in the suits she wore, one never thought of dagny taggart’s body. The black dress seemed excessively revealing – because it was astonishing to discover that the lines of her shoulder were fragile and beautiful, and that the diamond band on the wrist of her naked arm gave her the most feminine of all aspects: the look of being chained.

I would wear a full length cape if I could get away with it. I do love a good swirl of fog.

Brix scoffs. “Please.” He lifts his, and holy forking fucknuggets. He has abs on top of his abs. Super abs. They could be their own superhero and wear their own cape.

Where mermaids live looks a bit like your pool.' said Bernard. 'Except they build houses out of whale bones and the wreckage of sunken ships. They play chess with seahorses. They wear capes of fish scales and sleep on beds made from seaweed.' As we listened, I thought I heard a slight splashing from the far end of the pool. 'At night,' Bernard continued, 'they turn on an electric eel for a night-light, and they light a fire, and the smoke goes up a chimney made from coral.' 'Wait a minute,' interupted Zoe, clearly immersed in Bernard's description. 'If they live underwater, how could they have a fire?' 'You should ask them,' said Bernard. Zoe and I open our eyes. Now, look, I know the light was just playing tricks on us. And I know we'd all probably inhaled too much sequin glue. But for the briefest moment, the blue of Zoe's pool gave way to deeper, darker aqua-colored water. The few plants and rocks were replaced with a lagoon and a waterfall where several mermaids lounged half in the water, half in the sun. They splashed and dove, their laughter making the same sound as the water.

From that original colony sprang seven names that still feature on the landscape: Roanoke (which has the distinction of being the first Indian word borrowed by English settlers), Cape Fear, Cape Hatteras, the Chowan and Neuse Rivers, Chesapeake, and Virginia. (Previously, Virginia had been called Windgancon, meaning "what gay clothes you wear" - apparently what the locals had replied when an early reconnoitering party had asked the place's name.)

There are garments in all of our wardrobes we don't wear because we don't dare. We bought the jumpsuit for when we were feeling brave and it turns out we never are. A friend of mine had a party and asked us to wear that thing we already own that we never dare wear and it was the most wonderful night. One woman wore her bridal gown. Others wore more cleavage than clothes. Some wore glam rock shoes and velvet capes. Others, tight jeans and crop tops. Some, cosplay cos times. We were all given permission to say yes to our most daring selves. The one we leave hanging up at home. You don't have to be queer to leave the best part of yourself in the closet. Most of us are doing it all the time,

The Herons! The Herons! The mighty, fighting Herons! No other Brotherband you'll see Is even half as darin' We sailed away from Hallasholm, we had to be real quick, For Kloof had eaten Erak's ax and chewed his walking stick. We sailed across the Stormwite and we struck a mighty storm. We had to wear our woolly caps to keep us nice and warm. We sailed around Cape Shelter and then south to Araluen. We called upon the people there to find out what was doin'. We chased an evil slaver to the market of Socorro. "We can't rescue them tonight," said Hal. "We'll get them out tomorrow." Lydia and the Ranger burned the market to the ground. The rest of us, we freed the slaves then headed out of town. The Herons! The Herons! The mighty, fighting Herons! No other Brotherband you'll see Is even half as darin' The slave master named Mahmel was a nasty kind of thug, So Stiggy dropped a rock and crushed him like a bug. We sailed back to Cresthaven and we set the captives free. King Duncan said, "Well done, my lads, you're just the boys for me. My Ranger Gilan has to go hunt down some assassins So go along with him and give these wicked types a thrashin'." A pirate galley barred our way. We quickly overtook 'em. And Ingvar led the charge aboard to stab and chop and hook 'em. We beat the Tualaghi and the Scorpions as well. The Ranger stuck his saxe into the leader, the Shurmel. When all the assassins threw a fit of wild hysterics, Hal grabbed up the Shurmel's staff and brought it back for Erak. The Herons! The Herons! The mighty, fighting Herons! No other Brotherband you'll see Is even half as darin

For the better part of my childhood, my professional aspirations were simple—I wanted to be an intergalactic princess. I didn’t care much about ruling hordes of space people. Mostly I wanted to wear the cape and the sexy boots and carry a cool weapon.

Naked, tattooed men meandered around, lit torches, congregated in groups, spoke in hushed voices. It was like pictures I had seen on the internet of Comic Con, except no one was wearing a cape. And there were no females. So, yes, it was just like Comic Con.

There is strength in empty. Not the kind of strength we wish for. We want polished strength, the kind that wears a cape and leaps tall buildings with a single bound. I couldn’t leap or fly or save anyone from catastrophe. In fact, I could barely show up. But I did. Show up. And that ended up being a strength all of its own.

My shirt is soaked, and Henry sits beside me with a rather martyred air. He’s wearing a towel around him like a cape and has a pink shower cap on his head.

Next I know, I'll be calling myself the queen of Romania and wandering down the lane wearing my bed linens for a cape.

I call my thumb Napoleon, because I rarely ever lose a thumb war. Also because my thumb's so small, and I wear a tiny funny hat and cape on it.

For some, a hero wears a spandex suit and a cape. My heroes wear flak jackets, flight suits, and combat boots.

If we wear our nursing covers backwards like capes, then everyone can see we're breastfeeding superheroes.

Wearing a cape doesn't do much for your social life.

Or to want to take a photo of Nicholas with his fangs out and wearing a black cape lined with red satin and then hang it over my pillow in a heart-shaped frame.

Sometimes you have to sigh for those moments you forget you are wearing your cape.

When the storm comes, I’ll be ready. When you wear the cape, you do the job. And I’m a Sentinel, after all. It’s what we do.

Everything happens for a reason. Sometimes the reason is you’re stupid and make bad decisions.

In China, superhumans gifted with beneficial powers are said to be 'kissed by Quan Yin.

St. Michael, defender of man, stand with us in the day of battle. St. Jude, giver of hope, be with us in our desperate hour. St. Christopher, bearer of burdens, lift us when we fall!

New Rule: Let the Pope be Pope. An animal-rights group in Italy has asked Pope Benedict to give up his fur-trimmed cape and hat. To which the Pope replied, "Don't be hatin' on my cape, bitch." Sorry, but Popes are the original divas, they invented bling, they've been wearing outlandish outfits for a thousand years--almost as long as Elton John. The clothes, the jewels, the fancy palace...Those aren't just symbols of the Papacy, they are the Papacy. The day the Pope shows up on the balcony in a pair of jeans and polo shirt is the day a billion Catholics go, "What the hell were we thinking?

looked around for Grandma, spotting her and Dougie hiding behind a car on the opposite side of the street. They were wearing Super Suits and they had bath towels pinned around their necks like capes.

Without enough money, we cannot fully realize our authentic selves. Money amplifies who we are. There isn’t a single ounce of doubt in my mind that there is something big you are intended to do on this planet. You wear the cape of what I believe is the greatest of all superheroes: the Entrepreneur. But your superhero powers can only yield as much power as your energy source provides. Money. You need money, superhero.

Protest Man stood in his usual spot in the northwest corner of the plaza, dressed in his business suit and domino mask and holding one of his usual obscure protest signs (today, it said “Stop the black cars!”).

Whenever somebody asks me to define what a hero is, I remember Latane and Darley’s experiment, staging epileptic fits in front of one, two, or three observers. A solitary observer will help immediately if he’s going to help at all, but the larger the crowd the longer the delay. It’s the Bystander Effect: the wider the diffusion of responsibility, the greater the impulse to let someone else go first. The hero goes first.

He was only five-foot-ten, but people frequently mistook him for being over six feet, at least in part because his gigantic Afro made him appear larger than life. His thin, angular frame, which was shaped like an inverted triangle, furthered this illusion; he had narrow hips, a small waist, but impossibly wide shoulders and arms. His fingers were abnormally long and sinuous, and like the rest of him, they were a rich caramel color. His bandmates jokingly called him “The Bat” because of his preference for covering his windows and sleeping during the day, but the nickname also fit his penchant for wearing capes, which furthered his superhero appearance.

Welcome, praetor!” he said. “You need any giants’ faces smashed while you’re in town, just let me know.” “Thanks, Terminus,” Percy said. “I’ll keep that in mind.” “Yes, good. Your praetor’s cape is an inch too low on the left. There—that’s better. Where is my assistant? Julia!” The little girl ran out from behind the pedestal. She was wearing a green dress tonight, and her hair was still in pigtails. When she smiled, Percy saw that her front teeth were starting to come in. She held up a box full of party hats. Percy tried to decline, but Julia gave him the big adoring eyes. “Ah, sure,” he said. “I’ll take the blue crown.” She offered Hazel a gold pirate hat. “I’m gonna be Percy Jackson when I grow up,” she told Hazel solemnly. Hazel smiled and ruffled her hair. “That’s a good thing to be, Julia.” “Although,” Frank said, picking out a hat shaped like a polar bear’s head, “Frank Zhang would be good too.” “Frank!” Hazel said.

Oh, Starbuck! it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky. On such a day - very much such a sweetness as this - I struck my first whale - a boy-harpooneer of eighteen! Forty - forty - forty years ago! - ago! Forty years of continual whaling! forty years of privation, and peril, and storm-time! forty years on the pitiless sea! for forty years has Ahab forsaken the peaceful land, for forty years to make war on the horrors of the deep! Aye and yes, Starbuck, out of those forty years I have not spent three ashore. When I think of this life I have led; the desolation of solitude it has been; the masoned, walled-town of a Captain's exclusiveness, which admits but small entrance to any sympathy from the green country without - oh, weariness! heaviness! Guinea-coast slavery of solitary command! - when I think of all this; only half-suspected, not so keenly known to me before - and how for forty years I have fed upon dry salted fare - fit emblem of the dry nourishment of my soul - when the poorest landsman has had fresh fruit to his daily hand, and broken the world's fresh bread to my mouldy crusts - away, whole oceans away, from that young girl-wife I wedded past fifty, and sailed for Cape Horn the next day, leaving but one dent in my marriage pillow - wife? wife? - rather a widow with her husband alive! Aye, I widowed that poor girl when I married her, Starbuck; and then, the madness, the frenzy, the boiling blood and the smoking brow, with which, for a thousand lowerings old Ahab has furiously, foamingly chased his prey - more a demon than a man! - aye, aye! what a forty years' fool - fool - old fool, has old Ahab been! Why this strife of the chase? why weary, and palsy the arm at the oar, and the iron, and the lance? how the richer or better is Ahab now? Behold. Oh, Starbuck! is it not hard, that with this weary load I bear, one poor leg should have been snatched from under me? Here, brush this old hair aside; it blinds me, that I seem to weep. Locks so grey did never grow but from out some ashes! But do I look very old, so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel deadly faint, bowed, and humped, as though I were Adam, staggering beneath the piled centuries since Paradise. God! God! God! - crack my heart! - stave my brain! - mockery! mockery! bitter, biting mockery of grey hairs, have I lived enough joy to wear ye; and seem and feel thus intolerably old? Close! stand close to me, Starbuck; let me look into a human eye; it is better than to gaze into sea or sky; better than to gaze upon God. By the green land; by the bright hearth-stone! this is the magic glass, man; I see my wife and my child in thine eye. No, no; stay on board, on board! - lower not when I do; when branded Ahab gives chase to Moby Dick. That hazard shall not be thine. No, no! not with the far away home I see in that eye!

Our baby brother, Roman, was born pale as dust. His soft brown curls and eyelashes stop people on the street. Whose angel child is this? they want to know. When I say, My brother, the people wear doubt thick as a cape until we smile and the cape falls.

We define ourselves as much by what we oppose as what we approve, what we won’t do as what we will do. Each choice we make forecloses other choices, while making still more choices necessary. Life is a decision tree we climb half blind. Astra, Notes from a Life

The best part about wearing capes is the pin (well… unless someone puts a tracker in the pin). Most of the time, this is where we wear our family crest—but the Foxfire uniform uses the grade level’s mascot. And Team Valiant has special pins to represent the Prime Sources (because we’re fancy like that!).

Hollywood makes it look like every week’s a new supervillain battle, every day you step out for a Starbuck’s something will happen. So not true; most superhero work is patrol and rescue, and nothing you don’t expect ever happens on your days off. But when you spend most of your time out in the thunderstorms, lightning is more likely to find you.

But you are the Grim Reaper?” “I am.” “Okay. Fine,” I snapped, tossing the ice bag at him and nailing him right in the crotch. “OH MY GOD. I am so sorry,” I gasped out as he jackknifed forward and hissed. “I did not mean to do that.” “Of course you didn’t,” Gideon said with a wince. “No one in their right mind would rack a man who carries a scythe and wears a cheesy hooded black cape.

Arbole, Arbole . . ." Tree, tree dry and green. The girl with the pretty face is out picking olives. The wind, playboy of towers, grabs her around the waist. Four riders passed by on Andalusian ponies, with blue and green jackets and big, dark capes. “Come to Cordoba, muchacha.” The girl won’t listen to them. Three young bullfighters passed, slender in the waist, with jackets the color of oranges and swords of ancient silver. “Come to Sevilla, muchacha.” The girl won’t listen to them. When the afternoon had turned dark brown, with scattered light, a young man passed by, wearing roses and myrtle of the moon. “Come to Granada, muchacha.” And the girl won’t listen to him. The girl with the pretty face keeps on picking olives with the grey arm of the wind wrapped around her waist. Tree, tree dry and green.

I showed her the essay he'd marked. It was practically dipped in red ink. Jenna made a sympathetic face, then took a closer look. She rolled her eyes. "Well, no wonder. Helios-Ra don't wear spandex tights and capes. We're not superheroes." "But you kind of think you are." I winked. "I just wrote that to see if he was paying attention." "You wrote it because you're a brat," he muttered. I beamed at him. "Now you sound like one of the Drake brothers.

Rose was patently a degenerate. Nature, in scheduling his characteristics, had pruned all superlatives. The rude armour of the flesh, under which the spiritual, like a hide-bound chrysalis, should develop secret and self-contained, was perished in his case, as it were, to a semi-opaque suit, through which his soul gazed dimly and fearfully on its monstrous arbitrary surroundings. Not the mantle of the poet, philosopher, or artist fallen upon such, can still its shiverings, or give the comfort that Nature denies. Yet he was a little bit of each - poet, philosopher, and artist; a nerveless and self-deprecatory stalker of ideals, in the pursuit of which he would wear patent leather shoes and all the apologetic graces. The grandson of a 'three-bottle' J.P., who had upheld the dignity of the State constitution while abusing his own in the best spirit of squirearchy; the son of a petulant dyspeptic, who alternated seizures of long moroseness with fits of abject moral helplessnes, Amos found his inheritance in the reversion of a dissipated constitution, and an imagination as sensitive as an exposed nerve. Before he was thirty he was a neurasthenic so practised, as to have learned a sense of luxury in the very consciousness of his own suffering. It was a negative evolution from the instinct of self-protection - self-protection, as designed in this case, against the attacks of the unspeakable. ("The Accursed Cordonnier")

The Spaniard will become a worthless slave, devoid of soul, of reason, of virtue; forbidden by his inhuman jailers from ever seeing the light. An unfortunate wretch subjugated by men who are his equals but who, in his stupidity, his laziness, his superstition, he believes to be anointed by some higher power: these gods among men, wearing ermine and purple, black capes and cassocks, who under every sun and at every latitude will always exploit a man's foolishness in order to enslave him, to make him brutish and miserable, to sap his valor and his courage.

I had some good friends - really funny ones. My best friend was a guy called Apolo Nsibambi. We shared an office at the Extra Mural Department at Makerere, and then I got a promotion - became Acting Director - and I was his boss! I used to tease him for calling himself “Doctor” - he had a Ph. D. in political science. I mocked him for wearing a tie and carrying a briefcase and being pompous. I went to his wedding. He came to my wedding. And then I completely lost touch with him. I wonder what happened to him.’ ‘Doctor Nsibambi is the Prime Minister of Uganda.

I know Sophie thinks wearing capes is super weird. (I guess humans don’t really wear them?) But capes are more than gorgeous accessories that help keep you warm in the Lost Cities—they’re a sign of status! (Though they also help keep you warm—unless someone shares their cape with you…) Some people wear gloves to keep their hands nice and toasty. Some wear them to make a fashion statement. And some wear them to hide a secret enhancing ability. Either way, once you put the gloves on, you can’t even feel they’re there—and they can be so pretty! I *love* heels! But they may not be for everyone—especially people who have a hard time walking without tripping!

Several Terminal Policy readers got together to tell Raker jokes: - Raker CAN piss into the wind. - Raker donates a lot of blood to the Red Cross -- just never his own. - Superman wears Raker pajamas. - When Raker jumps into the pool, he doesn't get wet -- the pool gets Raker. - Why did the chicken cross the road? Because Raker THREW her there!! - Raker's daughter lost her virginity ... he got it back. - Raker doesn't cheat death, he wins fair and square. - Raker turns on a light at night … not because he's afraid of the dark but because the dark is afraid of him. - When the boogy man goes to bed he checks under his bed for Raker. - Don’t tread on Raker’s cape!

Lady Sarah Henbery was his hostess, and the inspired projector of a new scheme of existence (that was, in effect, the repudiation of any scheme) that had become quite the 'thing.' She had found life an arbitrary design - a coil of days (like fancy pebbles, dull or sparkling) set in the form of a mainspring, and each gem responsible to the design. Then she had said, 'To-day shall not follow yesterday or precede to-morrow'; and she had taken her pebbles from their setting and mixed them higgledy-piggledy, and so was in the way to wear or spend one or the other as caprice moved her. And she became without design and responsibility, and was thus able to indulge a natural bent towards capriciousness to the extent that - having a face for each and every form of social hypocrisy and licence - she was presently hardly to be put out of countenance by the extremist expression of either. It followed that her reunions were popular with worldlings of a certain order. ("The Accursed Cordonnier")

How could I sacrifice her for the sake of Charlotte? I was getting tired of Charlotte, with her intact virtue and her tidy ways. Wearing her was like wearing a hair shirt, she made me itchy, I wanted her to fall into a mud puddle, have menstrual cramps, sweat, burp, fart. Even her terrors were too pure, her faceless murderers, her corridors, her mazes and forbidden doors. Perhaps in the new life, I thought, the life to come, I would be less impressed with capes and more with holes in stockings, hangnails, body odors and stomach problems. Maybe I should try to write a real novel, about someone who worked in an office and had tawdry, unsatisfying affairs. But that was impossible, it was against my nature. I longed for happy endings, I needed the feeling of release when everything turned out right and I could scatter joy like rice all over my characters and dismiss them into bliss. Redmond would kiss Charlotte so that her eyeballs rolled right back into her head, and then they could both vanish. When would they be joyful enough, when would my life be my own?

I'm quite certain that Theo plans to wear her cape for at least part of the evening." There was a note of amusement in his voice. "If you're quite sure that you won't grow overwarm," Claribel said uncertainly, eyeing the cape. It sprang out from Lady Islay's shoulders and then swirled to the ground, managing to look surprisingly light. The inside was lined with a gorgeous rosy silk, and the outside... "What on earth is that made of?" Claribel couldn't help asking as she reached out to touch it. "I can guess," Cecil put in, the thread of amusement in his voice even stronger. "Oh, can you?" Theo remarked. "Then tell me this: am I being altogether too obvious?" Claribel hadn't the faintest idea what she meant. But Cecil, clever Cecil, obviously did, because he bellowed with laughter. "Swansdown," he said. "Gorgeous swansdown, and every man and woman in this room has taken note of your swanlike triumph." "I could not resist," Theo said, with that smile that was all the more attractive for being so rarely seen. "How lucky you are in your husband," she said to Claribel. "It's a rare man who knows his fairy tales.

Blood pressure check!” The doorknob rattled, as if the nurse were intending just to walk in, but the lock held, thank God. The nurse knocked again. “Oh, shit,” Gina breathed, laughing as she scrambled off of him. She reached to remove the condom they’d just used, encountered . . . him, and met his eyes. But then she scooped her clothes off the floor and ran into the bathroom. “Mr. Bhagat?” The nurse knocked on the door again. Even louder this time. “Are you all right?” Oh, shit, indeed. “Come in,” Max called as he pulled up the blanket and leaned on the button that put his bed back up into a sitting position. The same control device had a “call nurse” button as well as the clearly marked one that would unlock the door. “It’s locked,” the nurse called back, as well he knew. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, as he wiped off his face with the edge of the sheet. Sweat much in bed, all alone, Mr. Bhagat? “I must’ve . . . Here, let me figure out how to . . .” He took an extra second to smooth his hair, his pajama top, and then, praying that the nurse had a cold and couldn’t smell the scent of sex that lingered in the air, he hit the release. “Please don’t lock your door during the day,” the woman scolded him as she came into the room, around to the side of his bed. It was Debra Forsythe, a woman around his age, whom Max had met briefly at his check-in. She had been on her way home to deal with some crisis with her kids, and hadn’t been happy then, either. “And not at night either,” she added, “until you’ve been here a few days.” “Sorry.” He gave her an apologetic smile, hanging on to it as the woman gazed at him through narrowed eyes. She didn’t say anything, she just wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm, and pumped it a little too full of air—ow—as Gina opened the bathroom door. “Did I hear someone at the door?” she asked brightly. “Oh, hi. Debbie, right?” “Debra.” She glanced at Gina, and then back, her disgust for Max apparent in the tightness of her lips. But then she focused on the gauge, stethoscope to his arm. Gina came out into the room, crossing around behind the nurse, making a face at him that meant . . .? Max sent her a questioning look, and she flashed him. She just lifted her skirt and gave him a quick but total eyeful. Which meant . . . Ah, Christ. The nurse turned to glare at Gina, who quickly straightened up from searching the floor. What was it with him and missing underwear? Gina smiled sweetly. “His blood pressure should be nice and low. He’s very relaxed—he just had a massage.” “You know, I didn’t peg you for a troublemaker when you checked in yesterday,” Debra said to Max, as she wrote his numbers on the chart. Gina was back to scanning the floor, but again, she straightened up innocently when the nurse turned toward her. “I think you’re probably looking for this.” Debra leaned over and . . . Gina’s panties dangled off the edge of her pen. They’d been on the floor, right at the woman’s sensibly clad feet. “Oops,” Gina said. Max could tell that she was mortified, but only because he knew her so well. She forced an even sunnier smile, and attempted to explain. “It was just . . . he was in the hospital for so long and . . .” “And men have needs,” Debra droned, clearly unmoved. “Believe me, I’ve heard it all before.” “No, actually,” Gina said, still trying to turn this into something they could all laugh about, “I have needs.” But it was obvious that this nurse hadn’t laughed since 1985. “Then maybe you should find someone your own age to play with. A professional hockey player just arrived. He’s in the east wing. Second floor.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Lots of money. Just your type, I’m sure.” “Excuse me?” Gina wasn’t going to let one go past. She may not have been wearing any panties, but her Long Island attitude now waved around her like a superhero’s cape. She even assumed the battle position, hands on her hips.

Slowly crossing the deck from the scuttle, Ahab leaned over the side, and watched how his shadow in the water sank and sank to his gaze, the more and the more that he strove to pierce the profundity. But the lovely aromas in that enchanted air did at last seem to dispel, for a moment, the cankerous thing in his soul. That glad, happy air, that winsome sky, did at last stroke and caress him; the step-mother world, so long cruel - forbidding - now threw affectionate arms round his stubborn neck, and did seem to joyously sob over him, as if over one, that however wilful and erring, she could yet find it in her heart to save and to bless. From beneath his slouched hat Ahab dropped a tear into the sea; nor did all the pacific contain such wealth as that one wee drop. Starbuck saw the old man; saw him, how he heavily leaned over the side; and he seemed to hear in his own true heart the measureless sobbing that stole out of the centre of the serenity around. Careful not to touch him, or be noticed by him, he yet drew near to him, and stood there. Ahab turned. "Starbuck!" "Sir." "Oh, Starbuck! it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky. On such a day - very much such a sweetness as this - I struck my first whale - a boy-harpooneer of eighteen! Forty - forty - forty years ago! - ago! Forty years of continual whaling! forty years of privation, and peril, and storm-time! forty years on the pitiless sea! for forty years has Ahab forsaken the peaceful land, for forty years to make war on the horrors of the deep! Aye and yes, Starbuck, out of those forty years I have not spent three ashore. When I think of this life I have led; the desolation of solitude it has been; the masoned, walled-town of a Captain's exclusiveness, which admits but small entrance to any sympathy from the green country without - oh, weariness! heaviness! Guinea-coast slavery of solitary command! - when I think of all this; only half-suspected, not so keenly known to me before - and how for forty years I have fed upon dry salted fare - fit emblem of the dry nourishment of my soul - when the poorest landsman has had fresh fruit to his daily hand, and broken the world's fresh bread to my mouldy crusts - away, whole oceans away, from that young girl-wife I wedded past fifty, and sailed for Cape Horn the next day, leaving but one dent in my marriage pillow - wife? wife? - rather a widow with her husband alive! Aye, I widowed that poor girl when I married her, Starbuck; and then, the madness, the frenzy, the boiling blood and the smoking brow, with which, for a thousand lowerings old Ahab has furiously, foamingly chased his prey - more a demon than a man! - aye, aye! what a forty years' fool - fool - old fool, has old Ahab been! Why this strife of the chase? why weary, and palsy the arm at the oar, and the iron, and the lance? how the richer or better is Ahab now? Behold. Oh, Starbuck! is it not hard, that with this weary load I bear, one poor leg should have been snatched from under me? Here, brush this old hair aside; it blinds me, that I seem to weep. Locks so grey did never grow but from out some ashes! But do I look very old, so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel deadly faint, bowed, and humped, as though I were Adam, staggering beneath the piled centuries since Paradise. God! God! God! - crack my heart! - stave my brain! - mockery! mockery! bitter, biting mockery of grey hairs, have I lived enough joy to wear ye; and seem and feel thus intolerably old? Close! stand close to me, Starbuck; let me look into a human eye; it is better than to gaze into sea or sky; better than to gaze upon God. By the green land; by the bright hearth-stone! this is the magic glass, man; I see my wife and my child in thine eye. No, no; stay on board, on board! - lower not when I do; when branded Ahab gives chase to Moby Dick. That hazard shall not be thine. No, no! not with the far away home I see in that eye!

Oh, Starbuck! it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky. On such a day- very much such a sweetness as this- I struck my first whale- a boy-harpooneer of eighteen! Forty- forty- forty years ago!- ago! Forty years of continual whaling! forty years of privation, and peril, and storm-time! forty years on the pitiless sea! for forty years has Ahab forsaken the peaceful land, for forty years to make war on the horrors of the deep! Aye and yes, Starbuck, out of those forty years I have not spent three ashore. When I think of this life I have led; the desolation of solitude it has been; the masoned, walled-town of a Captain’s exclusiveness, which admits but small entrance to any sympathy from the green country without- oh, weariness! heaviness! Guinea-coast slavery of solitary command!- when I think of all this; only half-suspected, not so keenly known to me before- and how for forty years I have fed upon dry salted fare- fit emblem of the dry nourishment of my soul!- when the poorest landsman has had fresh fruit to his daily hand, and broken the world’s fresh bread to my mouldy crusts- away, whole oceans away, from that young girl-wife I wedded past fifty, and sailed for Cape Horn the next day, leaving but one dent in my marriage pillow- wife? wife?- rather a widow with her husband alive? Aye, I widowed that poor girl when I married her, Starbuck; and then, the madness, the frenzy, the boiling blood and the smoking brow, with which, for a thousand lowerings old Ahab has furiously, foamingly chased his prey- more a demon than a man!- aye, aye! what a forty years’ fool- fool- old fool, has old Ahab been! Why this strife of the chase? why weary, and palsy the arm at the oar, and the iron, and the lance? how the richer or better is Ahab now? Behold. Oh, Starbuck! is it not hard, that with this weary load I bear, one poor leg should have been snatched from under me? Here, brush this old hair aside; it blinds me, that I seem to weep. Locks so grey did never grow but from out some ashes! But do I look very old, so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel deadly faint, bowed, and humped, as though I were Adam, staggering beneath the piled centuries since Paradise. God! God! God!- crack my heart!- stave my brain!- mockery! mockery! bitter, biting mockery of grey hairs, have I lived enough joy to wear ye; and seem and feel thus intolerably old? Close! stand close to me, Starbuck; let me look into a human eye; it is better than to gaze into sea or sky; better than to gaze upon God. By the green land; by the bright hearthstone! this is the magic glass, man; I see my wife and my child in thine eye. No, no; stay on board, on board!- lower not when I do; when branded Ahab gives chase to Moby Dick. That hazard shall not be thine. No, no! not with the far away home I see in that eye!” “Oh, my Captain! my Captain! noble soul! grand old heart, after all! why should any one give chase to that hated fish! Away with me! let us fly these deadly waters! let us home! But Ahab’s glance was averted; like a blighted fruit tree he shook, and cast his last, cindered apple to the soil. “What is it, what nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing is it; what cozening, hidden lord and master, and cruel, remorseless emperor commands me; that against all natural lovings and longings, I so keep pushing, and crowding, and jamming myself on all the time; recklessly making me ready to do what in my own proper, natural heart, I durst not so much as dare? Is Ahab, Ahab? Is it I, God, or who, that lifts this arm? But if the great sun move not of himself; but is an errand-boy in heaven; nor one single star can revolve, but by some invisible power; how then can this one small heart beat; this one small brain think thoughts; unless God does that beating, does that thinking, does that living, and not I. By heaven, man, we are turned round and round in this world, like yonder windlass, and Fate is the handspike.

Frog-faced Lord Slynt sat at the end of the council table wearing a black velvet doublet and a shiny cloth-of-gold cape, nodding with approval every time the king pronounced a sentence. Sansa stared hard at his ugly face, remembering how he had thrown down her father for Ser Ilyn to behead, wishing she could hurt him, wishing that some hero would throw him down and cut off his head. But

I was standing alone with him when she burst impetuously through the door, tall and wearing a rain-cape on top of a queen's costume, a forgotten crown on her head. She directed some rapid words at him. He began to tremble all over and dropped my hand from under his arm. Vera seized me cruelly by the arm and led me off... She led me through murky, dusty expanses, between strange machinery and constructions, through valleys and mountains and past a precarious wood to her dressing-room. And she still held me cruelly by the arm. There she slammed the door shut, rudely chasing away some handsome women with the amorous eyes of worshipers. I do not recall her words. It was as though she were all aflame. She kissed my hands and I realized then that she had seen only me that evening, that she had performed for only me, that she loved me and that this was all such madness. ("Thirty-Three Abominations")

Can’t you stop with the vampire clichés? Next thing we know, you’ll be wearing a cape and pronouncing all your W’s as V’s, trying to land a role on Sesame Street or a chocolate cereal ad.

Helen was dressed all in brightly colored spandex, her shirt clinging to her rolls of fat and featuring a picture of a candle flame. One of her feet was booted and the other was clad in a red converse sneaker. Was she wearing a cape?

She was wearing a long, tight black dress that pushed her fun parts up like a vanilla soufflé, and it had a slit on the side high enough to let her thigh peek through to make a few promises it didn’t intend to keep. Below all that, on her two tiny feet, she had a pair of black heels so high the person who made them must’ve needed building permits, and the way she moved in all of it would make a jungle cat jealous.

Well?" "Is that — a proposal?" "It is trying to be a proposal.  I can rephrase it, if you wish." She could only stare at him.  "Oh, Damon!" "Shall I rephrase it?  I can bow over your hand like a gallant young buck and say, 'My dear Lady Simms, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?'  That is the traditional approach. Or — " She giggled, drinking him up with her eyes, loving every inch of him. " — I can do it as a pirate might, by sweeping you off your feet and carrying you straight to the nearest clergyman without giving you a chance to deny me —" She laughed, and reached out to swat playfully at his shoulder.  "And how might the Black Wolf do it?" He stared at her, momentarily taken aback.  Then, swiftly recovering, he smiled and murmured, "I suppose he would kidnap you and wrap you in his black cape, and adopt much the same method as would our pirate." "And how do you know he has a black cape?" "Well, if I were the Black Wolf, I'd certainly wear a black cape." "Oh, Damon.  I do so wish you'd ravish me." "Consent to be my marchioness, and I shall consider it.

Your first look at Africa,” said Henk, leaning in to murmur in her ear. “Does it surprise you?” She swallowed. “It’s not what I imagined.” “What did you imagine? Lions and zebras running around everywhere?” “Well, yeah.” “That’s the way most Americans picture Africa. They watch too many nature shows on TV, and when they walk off the plane wearing bush jackets and khaki, they’re surprised to find a modern city like Cape Town. Not a zebra in sight, except at the zoo.

of thousands of voices. Then another, deeper, more guttural roar from the crowd, and a different chant: “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!” Adolf Hitler had entered the regatta grounds, followed by a large entourage of Nazi officials. Wearing a dark uniform and a full-length rain cape, he stood for a few moments gripping the hand of FISA’s Italian Swiss president, Rico Fioroni, as the two smiled and carried on an animated conversation. Then he made his way up a staircase to the wide balcony in front of Haus West and took his place of honor, looking out over the crowd and the Langer See, holding his right hand up. As his entourage arranged itself on either side of him, the crowd

Past the age of four, it suddenly becomes unacceptable and weird to dress up as an elf, or fashion a cape out of an old blanket and pretend to "fly" down the sidewalk. It stops being cute at some point. However, it is acceptable for a fifty-two-year-old man to paint a bull's-eye on his giant gut and jiggle it while naked from the waist up in twenty-degree weather behind the goal post at a Packers game, while wearing a giant wedge of cheese on his head. People in traffic watching him walk into the game may point and laugh, but they're laughing with him. It's acceptable. He's a Great Big Fan Displaying Team Spirit!

Capote - living on Park Avenue, working as an office boy at The New Yorker. He walked the halls of 28 West Forty-Fourth Street like a ballerina, carrying pencils and wearing a cape; the first time the editor in chief, Harold Ross, ever saw Capote, he asked:"What's that?" Harper Lee - she had become distracted by the city itself. Like a lot of small town bookworms, she was too well-read to be a true country bumpkin, but too country to be anything but mesmerized by Manhattan. Introductions inhibit pleasure, they kill the joy of anticipation, they frustrate curiosity.

Now it feels more like the Cape or the Hamptons. Or other towns in Maine. I guess that’s the way it always happens. Visitors go to the Midcoast because they think they want something rustic and industrial—the way life should be and all that—but really what they want is rustic and industrial plus one good coffee shop, and if they’re staying for longer than a weekend, then they want all that plus two good coffee shops, because the first one gets boring after a while—” “It really does.” “I understand. But then the tourists also want a T-shirt shop that sells gifts to bring home for the in-laws, and then a designer boutique because they weren’t expecting it to get so cool at night and because they’ve talked themselves into spending more money than they’d budgeted for just because they’re on vacation and because it’d be nice to find a knit sweater that matches exactly with their notion of what a well-heeled mariner on the Maine coast might wear on exactly such an evening, and so the town tries to provide all these services until, before you know it, it’s made enough concessions, on behalf of convenience and some imagined version of the town that only exists in brochures—to eventually, not that anyone’s really noticed, because it takes place over years or decades—trade ‘authenticity’ for what feels more like an airbrushed portrait of itself. A caricature. Buildings shaped like factories but containing everything someone from out of town thinks they don’t want but do want, or thinks they do want but don’t want.” “So Damariscotta should have stayed in its lane,” I said. I meant it as a joke, but Chip seemed to take it seriously. “You know, it probably should have,” he said.

In Cape Verde, lots of people are like me. They just don’t like to wear shoes.

There used to be something a little more authentic about the lack of amenities,” he said. “That’s probably true.” “Now it feels more like the Cape or the Hamptons. Or other towns in Maine. I guess that’s the way it always happens. Visitors go to the Midcoast because they think they want something rustic and industrial—the way life should be and all that—but really what they want is rustic and industrial plus one good coffee shop, and if they’re staying for longer than a weekend, then they want all that plus two good coffee shops, because the first one gets boring after a while—” “It really does.” “I understand. But then the tourists also want a T-shirt shop that sells gifts to bring home for the in-laws, and then a designer boutique because they weren’t expecting it to get so cool at night and because they’ve talked themselves into spending more money than they’d budgeted for just because they’re on vacation and because it’d be nice to find a knit sweater that matches exactly with their notion of what a well-heeled mariner on the Maine coast might wear on exactly such an evening, and so the town tries to provide all these services until, before you know it, it’s made enough concessions, on behalf of convenience and some imagined version of the town that only exists in brochures—to eventually, not that anyone’s really noticed, because it takes place over years or decades—trade ‘authenticity’ for what feels more like an airbrushed portrait of itself. A caricature. Buildings shaped like factories but containing everything someone from out of town thinks they don’t want but do want, or thinks they do want but don’t want.

The motors of the Flying Express diminished to a low purr and the hull sank gradually until it hit the water, moving forward in the manner of an ordinary boat. Through the loudspeaker boomed the voice of the pilot: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to dock at Providence! Watch your step going ashore.” The Hardys and their friends filed onto the dock, and walked up into the quaint town with its gray-shingled houses. Souvenir shops and seafood restaurants lined the main street. Tourists milled around and mingled with the denizens of the Cape Cutlass artists’ colony—good-looking girls in slacks with wind-blown hair and suntanned men wearing beards and sandals.

Most white Americans can only understand racial trauma as a spectacle. Right after Trump's election, the media reported on the uptick in hate crimes, tending to focus on the obvious heretical displays of hate: the white high school students parading down the hallways wearing Confederate flag capes and the graffitied swastikas. What's harder to report is not the incident itself but the stress of its anticipation. The white reign of terror can be invisible and cumulative, chipping away at one's worth until there's nothing left but self-loathing.

An orphan who was kept as a prisoner in a tower with plague signs to keep away?" Gina gently teased. "Seems like a lot of work. Nahh, I bet you're a princess of some sort." Rapunzel stared at her. Then she began guffawing: big, hearty barks of laughter. "She doesn't sound like one," Flynn observed. "She wears a pretty dress like one," Gina pointed out. "Your skin is creamy and perfect," Flynn said. "I mean, um, I guess." "You have a crown," Gina said. "It's not my crown," Rapunzel shouted, still laughing. "I grew up in two rooms... not a giant castle. I don't have any servants, or ladies-in-waiting..." "... or crowns you didn't steal," Flynn added. "... or a white horse, or velvet capes, or a scepter..." "You do have that magnificent hair, though," Flynn pointed out. "I mean, just look at it. It looks fancy and expensive and royal. A normal person, even a lord or lady, couldn't manage locks half that long. Even if it ever came in silver, which seems reeealllly unlikely." He leaned forward to get a better look, and at first Rapunzel did nothing, suddenly aware of his closeness. Whatever he said about her skin, Flynn's was also clear, healthy, and peachy. He had a little bit of hair on his chin (not a full beard like she had seen in pictures), a tiny feathery thing that she kind of wanted to touch.

No, I just realized that Dorothy was a bystander at an assassination and Glinda was a bad, bad witch.

society-wide PTSD,