X Lover Quotes

If you and I really, truly wanted to change the world, we'd invent more words that started with x.

This place is just too frickin precious," the cop said, eyeing a guy dressed in a hot pink leisure suit with makeup to match. "Give me rednecks and home-grown beer any day of the week over this X-culture bullshit.

I am many things,” he said. “Man, monster, lover.

But who knew the words, when said by the right person, by a boy who raises your temperature, move heat like nothing else? Shoot a shock of warmth from your curls to your toes?

When he put the old-fashioned mechanical toy on her palm, she stopped breathing. It was a tiny representation of an atom, complete with colored ball bearings standing in for neutrons, protons, and on the outside, arranged on arcs of fine wire, electrons. Turning the key on the side made the electrons move, what she’d thought were ball bearings actually finely crafted spheres of glass that sparked with color. A brilliant, thoughtful, wonderful gift for a physics major. “Why magnesium?” she asked, identifying the atomic number of the light metal. His hand on her jaw, his mouth on her own. “Because it’s beautifully explosive, just like my X.

Books are the wings that let us fly beyond the ordinary.

A good book isn’t just read; it’s felt.

One who has not only the four S's, which are required in every good lover, but even the whole alphabet; as for example... Agreeable, Bountiful, Constant, Dutiful, Easy, Faithful, Gallant, Honorable, Ingenious, Kind, Loyal, Mild, Noble, Officious, Prudent, Quiet, Rich, Secret, True, Valiant, Wise; the X indeed, is too harsh a letter to agree with him, but he is Young and Zealous.

Books whisper the stories your heart has always known.

Every book is a conversation with the past, present, and future.

In the letters he sends to his friend, Werther recounts both the events of his life and the effects of his passion; but it is literature which governs the mixture. For if I keep a journal, we may doubt that this journal relates, strictly speaking, to events. The events of amorous life are so trivial that they gain access to writing only by an immense effort: one grows discouraged writing what, by being written, exposes its own platitude: "I ran into X, who was with Y" "Today X didn't call me" "X was in a bad mood," etc.: who would see a story in that? The infinitesimal event exists only in its huge reverberation: Journal of my reverberations (of my wounds, my joys, my interpretations, my rationalizations, my impulses): who would understand anything in that? Only the Other could write my love story, my novel.

Mark is the one thing in this world that I love enough to write a million words about... he is the one I am obsessive about recording. I want you to love him as much as I do. I want you to see him how I see him. Yes, he has flaws and, yes, I put my blinders on when looking at those flaws... but I feel compelled to immortalize our story—his story.

She was raised by women who understood how to live with the X-ray of the man.

I invoke the other's protection, the other's return: let the other appear, take me away, like a mother who comes looking for her child, from this worldly brilliance, from this social infatuation, let the other restore to me "the religious intimacy, the gravity" of the lover's world. (X once told me that love had protected him against worldliness: coteries, ambitions, advancements, interferences, alliances, secessions, roles, powers: love had made him into a social catastrophe, to his delight.)

He’s my family,” I say finally. “I’m not going to say that he’s like my brother, because that’s gross. But until him, I had one person to trust. And being in love, that was just one small part of it. When that part ended—and that part has way, way ended—the other parts didn’t.

She was every Cora she'd ever been: Cora X, Cora Kaufmann, Cora Carlisle. She was an orphan on a roof, a lucky girl on a train, a dearly loved daughter by chance. She was a blushing bride of seventeen, a sad and stoic wife, a loving mother, an embittered chaperone, and a daughter pushed away. She was a lover and a lewd cohabitator, a liar and a cherished friend, and aunt and a kindly grandmother, a champion of the fallen, and a late-in-coming fighter for reason over fear. Even in those final hours, quiet and rocking, arriving and departing, she knew who she was.

The saying is  v trustworthy: If anyone aspires to  w the office of overseer, he desires a noble task. 2Therefore  x an overseer [1] must be above reproach,  y the husband of one wife, [2]  z sober-minded, self-controlled, respectable,  a hospitable,  b able to teach, 3not a drunkard, not violent but  c gentle, not quarrelsome,  d not a lover of money.

We do not make up for hurt with hurt, Persephone. That is a god’s game. We are lovers.” “Then how do we make up for hurt?” “With time. If we can be comfortable being angry with one another for a little while.” “I don’t want to be angry with you.” “Nor I with you. But it doesn’t change feelings, and it doesn’t mean we can’t care for each other while we heal.

(...) rest content and satisfied that as you are caught in the noose of love it is one of worth and merit that has taken you, and one that has not only the the four S's that they say true lovers ought to have, but a complete alphabet; only listen to me and you will see how I can repeat it by rote. He is to my eyes and thinking, Amiable, Brave, Courteous, Distinguished, Elegant, Fond, Gay, Honorable, Illustrious, Loyal, Manly, Noble, Open, Polite, Quickwitted, Rich, and the S's according to the saying, and then Tender, Veracious: X does not suite him, for it is a rough letter; Y has been given already; and Z Zealous for your honour.

Reader's Digest (Reader's Digest USA) - Clip This Article on Location 56 | Added on Friday, May 16, 2014 12:06:55 AM Words of Lasting Interest Looking Out for The Lonely One teacher’s strategy to stop violence at its root BY GLENNON DOYLE MELTON  FROM MOMASTERY.COM PHOTOGRAPH BY DAN WINTERS A few weeks ago, I went into my son Chase’s class for tutoring. I’d e-mailed Chase’s teacher one evening and said, “Chase keeps telling me that this stuff you’re sending home is math—but I’m not sure I believe him. Help, please.” She e-mailed right back and said, “No problem! I can tutor Chase after school anytime.” And I said, “No, not him. Me. He gets it. Help me.” And that’s how I ended up standing at a chalkboard in an empty fifth-grade classroom while Chase’s teacher sat behind me, using a soothing voice to try to help me understand the “new way we teach long division.” Luckily for me, I didn’t have to unlearn much because I’d never really understood the “old way we taught long division.” It took me a solid hour to complete one problem, but I could tell that Chase’s teacher liked me anyway. She used to work with NASA, so obviously we have a whole lot in common. Afterward, we sat for a few minutes and talked about teaching children and what a sacred trust and responsibility it is. We agreed that subjects like math and reading are not the most important things that are learned in a classroom. We talked about shaping little hearts to become contributors to a larger community—and we discussed our mutual dream that those communities might be made up of individuals who are kind and brave above all. And then she told me this. Every Friday afternoon, she asks her students to take out a piece of paper and write down the names of four children with whom they’d like to sit the following week. The children know that these requests may or may not be honored. She also asks the students to nominate one student who they believe has been an exceptional classroom citizen that week. All ballots are privately submitted to her. And every single Friday afternoon, after the students go home, she takes out those slips of paper, places them in front of her, and studies them. She looks for patterns. Who is not getting requested by anyone else? Who can’t think of anyone to request? Who never gets noticed enough to be nominated? Who had a million friends last week and none this week? You see, Chase’s teacher is not looking for a new seating chart or “exceptional citizens.” Chase’s teacher is looking for lonely children. She’s looking for children who are struggling to connect with other children. She’s identifying the little ones who are falling through the cracks of the class’s social life. She is discovering whose gifts are going unnoticed by their peers. And she’s pinning down—right away—who’s being bullied and who is doing the bullying. As a teacher, parent, and lover of all children, I think this is the most brilliant Love Ninja strategy I have ever encountered. It’s like taking an X-ray of a classroom to see beneath the surface of things and into the hearts of students. It is like mining for gold—the gold being those children who need a little help, who need adults to step in and teach them how to make friends, how to ask others to play, how to join a group, or how to share their gifts. And it’s a bully deterrent because every teacher knows that bullying usually happens outside her eyeshot and that often kids being bullied are too intimidated to share. But, as she said, the truth comes out on those safe, private, little sheets of paper. As Chase’s teacher explained this simple, ingenious idea, I stared at her with my mouth hanging open. “How long have you been using this system?” I said. Ever since Columbine, she said. Every single Friday afternoon since Columbine. Good Lord. This brilliant woman watched Columbine knowing that all violence begins with disconnection. All

I climbed under the covers and shone the flashlight on Mason's gift: a roll of something or somethings, bound in string. I unfurled it to reveal an 8x10 black-and-white photograph. The girl in the picture was me. Me in the Mystery Machine, eyes locked with the eye of Mason's camera, mouth tilted in an incredulous smirk. It was the girl from the mirror, it was the girl from the wall in McGrath's tomb, it was the girl from the moon, as far away as that. A familiar girl with a faraway look in her eye. I'd know her anywhere; I didn't know her at all. Over her eyes Mason had outlined a pair of 3-D movie glasses–a nod to Weegee's 3-D-movie lovers, no doubt, although this girl–me, I– was alone, not locked in some passionate embrace. Underneath her/my face, Mason had taped a fortune cookie message: One who admires you greatlyis hidden before your eyes. God! He almost had me. So if I was the 3-D girl with hidden eyes, did he think I was his admirer? Oh, Mr. Mad Hatter, I thought. How fearfully wrong thou art.

During World War II, rationing in Russia had made vinyl prohibitively expensive, and cheap X-ray film became the bootleg music industry’s substitute. After purchasing a used X-ray plate for a ruble or two from a medical facility, music lovers could cut the plate into a disk with scissors or a knife before having it etched with their favorite tunes. Students studying engineering, I was told, particularly excelled in this bootlegging process. But even a thawed Khrushchev regime had its standards to uphold, and in 1959 the government began a crackdown on this illicit music market. One government tactic was to flood record shops with unplayable records, many intended to damage record players. Some of these records included threatening vocals placed in the middle of a recording, which screamed at the unsuspecting listener, “You like rock and roll? Fuck you, anti-Soviet slime!” Eventually the use of bone records declined as replacement technologies, such as magnetic reel-to-reel tape, took over. But until then, bone-record makers were hunted down and sent to the Gulags. Particularly offensive to the Soviet government were bootleggers who reproduced American jazz records, music Stalin had declared a “threat to civilization.” Despite

...Pouring every bit of the emotion she felt into her kiss, Blair melted into her partner until she could feel own her knees weaken. “I love you so much. It… it frightens me, but I can’t hold back.” “It frightens you?” “Yes. More than I can tell.” “Don’t be frightened,” Kylie murmured. “I’ll never hurt you, sweetheart. I swear!” “I know,” Blair said. “It’s not that… it’s… oh, I don’t know what it is. I’m just scared.” “Don’t let love frighten you. It’s freeing. Trust me.” “I do. I do trust you.” “That’s what love is,” Kylie said fervently. “It’s jumping out of a plane without a parachute, but knowing with every fiber of your being that you’re safe. Your lover will protect you. No matter what. It’s blind faith, Blair. Totally blind faith.” "I’ve never… ever felt this way before,” Blair said, tears filling her eyes. “I’m so frightened, Kylie. Please, please don’t hurt me.” She held on to her lover with all of her might, sobbing so hard she felt sick. “I’ll always be there for you. I’ll catch you. I promise I’ll catch you.

Blair was home when Kylie arrived the next night, and as soon as the doctor walked into the house, Blair called out, “Get changed! I brought carryouts for dinner. We’re gonna spend the whole night talking about the dangerous world of lesbianism.” “I have a feeling that someone’s not taking my concerns very seriously,” Kylie said when she walked into the kitchen. Blair gave her a hug and said, “I take you and your concerns very seriously. But I’m confident that I’ve thought of the repercussions, and I know that once I convince you of that, we’re gonna be fine.” She gave her a dazzling smile and said, “Is it okay if I’m happy about that?” “I suppose so,” Kylie said, trying but failing to look aggrieved. She wrapped her arms around Blair and playfully tossed her back and forth. “You’re so darned cute that I can barely stand it!” “Oh, you haven’t seen half of it. Just you wait. I’ll confound you with cuteness.

When I have someone to express my sexuality with, I express it with gusto. I think new levels of gusto are in the offing, because I’m finally lying with the woman I was meant to be with.” She kissed her tenderly. “The one who holds my heart.” Shelby threw her arms around Jemma’s shoulders and held on tightly. “I loved you long before I knew what love meant. Now I’m sure. Of our love. Of you. Of us.” Jemma kissed her, tears showing once more. “Now I know heaven exists.” Another sweet kiss followed quickly. “I see it in your eyes.

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The difference between a basic orientation toward the love of learning and one toward the love of spectacle is that between two kinds of basic restlessness. The one sort, exemplified by Augustine’s own journey as he describes it, unceasingly moves past the surfaces of things to what is more real. The second flees unceasingly from object to object, all on the same level—never culminating in anything further, never achieving anything beyond the thrill of experience. It is the bare existence of a human possibility that inspires the exercise of the love of spectacle. The lovers of spectacle seek no good of the kind Malcolm X, André Weil, or Irina Ratushinskaya sought—indeed, it is the bad, the sad, and the ugly as such that hold special fascination for them. The love of learning always wants more; the love of spectacle is satisfied at the surface, like someone scratching an itch rather than trying to heal a wound.28

The elements of impulse subtle and everywhere—ask any lover. — Kevin McLellan, from “Winterberries x,” Sixth Finch (Fall 2018)

Field of Night is the first in a very, very interesting series. The characters were really fleshed out, the dialogue sounded natural, and the story itself held a lot of suspense that kept me on my toes the entire time. I would definitely recommend this book to other sci-fi lovers I know.

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Amalgamation with the other color, produces degradation to which no lover of his country, no lover of excellence in the human character, can innocently consent,” he wrote in 1814, after he had fathered several biracial children. Like

When you're reading a book, press and hold on a character’s name or a place mentioned in the book to view the corresponding X-Ray topic. You can also tap the top of the screen to display the secondary reading toolbar, and then tap the X-Ray button. If X-Ray is not available for a book, the button will be disabled. X-Ray scans your entire book for characters, historical figures, and terms. It can also provide detailed information from Wikipedia and Shelfari, Amazon's community-powered encyclopedia for book lovers. To find out if a book has X-Ray, look for X-Ray Enabled in the Kindle Store description of the book.

Pluttr’s other massive draw is “pseudonymity mode.” The company maintains that people are the most authentic with their five closest friends - and with perfect strangers. The draw of strangers has forever fueled vast anonymous forums online. But anonymity also breeds awful behavior, one-off interactions rather than budding relationships, and endless lying about traits and backgrounds. So who really knows if you’re communing with a caring priest, a fellow AIDS sufferer, or a medical expert? Or an actual acquaintance of Person X? An employee of company Y? Or a fellow closeted gay person of an age, weight, and social background that attracts you? Well, Phluttr knows. And Phluttr can attest that this is a real, well-regarded person who authentically shares your affliction, secret, or curiosity without exposing actual identities (unless both sides request it). Wrap this up in NSA-grade encryption, and there’s no better place to buy sketchy substances, seek sketch advice, cheat on lovers, or cathartically confess to the above. Phluttr has now cornered the mark in id fulfillment, rumor spreading, and confidential gut spilling - and it’s just getting started.

Lovers Who Uncover Where do all the lovers meet with one another, In an effort to uncover what has happened to the silent days? Despite ones on the corner, dream of something warmer A semblance of our old ways, what has happened to our handmade days? Oh no Oh no Oh nooooooooo We can pull a map out detailing the direct route Young ones grow anxious to proclaim their advances to the fray If we don't wake up and the truth never comes up You will never have our old lane, you will never have a right of way Oh no [x8] Hey-oh! Oh no [x8] Hey-oh! Oh nooooooooo Where do all the lovers meet with one another, In an effort to uncover what has happened to the silent days? Despite ones on the corner, dream of something warmer A semblance of our old ways, what has happened to our handmade days? Oh no [x4] Hey! Oh no [x4] Hey-oh! Hey-oh! And won't you show us where your heart is?

It seemed to be a requirement that the women who wore an "X" on their costumes would eventually take a dip in the crazy pool at least once. Power intoxicated these women and made them cruel, maniacal menaces who cast aside loyalties to friends and lovers. Even when possessed by an evil entity, the implication was that a suppressed part of the heroine's soul was reveling in the rush of deviltry.

What exactly, mon frères, does p-s-e-i-z-b-e-r-g-s-l-u-n-k-SF signify within the context of my voyages through the VO-RES-MAR-GUD? A g-r-e-a-t question! Peradventure, I would surmise… exactly… refreshingly… nada. May the deities absolve, in the name of Adonalux the Eternal, the noble s-y-n-t-a-x of my… ‘novel’ Testamentos.” Emperor Baron Francis Cosmicus [The Dromernaut Odyssey Anno Domini 3193]

When Kylie was ready, Blair went into her friend’s room and lay next to her on the bed. Blair started to thread her fingers through the doctor’s soft curls, speaking to her in a soothing voice. “It’s gonna be all right. Everything will work out. We’re gonna be one small, happy family.” She kept up her ministrations, until she felt Kylie’s body relax, and then slowed down and finally stopped. Kylie was sound asleep, and Blair couldn’t resist staying right where she was. She nestled her cheek against Kylie’s back, listening to her strong, sure heartbeat and the steady intake of breath. It’s gonna be so nice when I can sleep with her, she thought. Just lying here with her calms me down. She noticed that Mackenzie was unusually calm, too, and whispered, “Mama Kylie calms you down, too, doesn’t she, Mackenzie? All we have to do now is convince her that we’re gonna love her as much as she loves us.

Kylie and Nick went to the symphony the next night, and by the time she came home, Blair was sound asleep on the sofa. The doctor gently woke her and helped her to her feet. “But I wanna stay up and talk about being a lesbian,” Blair mumbled, her words sounding comical given her tousled hair and sleep-suffused voice. “We can talk about being lesbians tomorrow.” Kylie scratched the back of Blair’s neck, knowing that a good scratch was as effective as ether. By the time they reached the bedroom, Kylie merely had to urge her onto the bed and cover her with a quilt. “That’s my girl,” Kylie said.

...This wasn’t just Kylie. This was the woman she had chosen above every other person in the world. This woman was the most important person in her universe, and she was determined to show her how true that was.

Slaton moved closer and reached a hand under the waist of her unzipped jacket. To anyone watching, they would appear as lovers engaged in a parting embrace. Astrid tensed visibly as his hand curled around her beltline and found the gun. He’d made her take it when they left the chalet—that X-ray image he could never have explained. He discreetly pulled the Glock clear and slid it under his own jacket. “I might need this.” She pulled back and smiled nervously. “One hour,” he repeated. She nodded and turned away, crunching over a sidewalk paved in clouded ice. Astrid turned a corner and disappeared

Maggie’s my whole heart but Iris, baby, you’re my soul.

Dreams are the canvases of the soul, movies of forgotten thoughts...and that nightmares were the echoes of the heart's pain

Never rid me of your smile again, Ezra West. It’s fucking beautiful.

[...] That our love was meant to transcend time. But I reminded you that it did. That no matter what happened to me, our love with still be alive. In our children. In their children. In the letters I wrote and in the roots of the home we grew together. My love for you wasn’t going to fade because my life was. It would only grow stronger and will continue to live on forever.

I’d never forgive myself if he were to die tomorrow and that he didn’t know I loved him, Ezra. He’s not perfect but once upon a time, he showed up and I can’t expect you to understand because you’ve known him for only for the time he wasn’t his best but I love him. I love him more than his mistakes, and while it hurts when he’s not there for me anymore, I still love him. I can’t just let him go. I’d be damned living my life knowing that I hadn’t even tried.

Ezra, you can’t let things like guilt, fear, anger, and grief be the narrative of your life. Because the thing is, the world keeps spinning and you’re going to be left behind in your own miserable sorrow. Loss is hard. It’s difficult. We do not always win, but when we do, we cherish those wins. You cannot be afraid to live just because you’re scared of losing. You only live once, Ezra. Cherish its highs and its lows. Don’t be scared to live it. Don’t let fear take over you like it once did me.

You might not see it but you’re strong, Ezra. Maybe not every day, but you are strong. And with everything that life will and continues to throw at you, I promise, you only get stronger.

Losing someone, it’s not all sadness. Grief…it’s a difficult thing but it’s more than just pain and misery. In a way, it’s a display of love. Grief is an echo of the love and joy that a person brought to your life. Even when they’re gone, the moments shared with them still live. They still live within you.

I wasn’t looking for you when I came here but you found me, Iris. And I’m going to hold on as long as I possibly can.

You’re not damned, Ezra. In my eyes, you couldn’t be more beautiful.

To those who always fantasize about love and think the magic you read is all fictional. your real, soul-crushing, world-spinning, heart-exploding love is coming. And thank you to romance books for being mine.

To those who always fantasize about love and think the magic you read is all fictional. Your real, soul-crushing, world-spinning, heart-exploding love is coming. And thank you to romance books for being mine.

You may have not been a part of world history, but you were a part of mine.

It’s like you once said. To be yours, was, is, and forever will be the greatest love story. Because dying in love with you never made me feel more alive.

Because I'll be damned to let fear take the beauty of life away from me again.

Some people think words are just words, that they mean nothing. I pity those who think that way - it's sad. It's not true, it's more than just a couple of letters strung together. It's about how they can be brought together to form life. To compose. Whether that be in a story, a speech, or a song. Words that can make you feel something.

But grief is a funny thing like that - it doesn't run on anybody's time frame. It comes and goes, and the pain from losing the light of our lives still resides in all of us. You never really get over these types of things, you kind of live with it and slowly make it your new normal.

She studied him for a moment and twisted his hair around her fingers. It would be her lifeline, because she knew by Hades's voice and the way he looked at her, she was about to be consumed. "I love you, Hades," she said softly. His smile was breathtaking, and he kissed her, helping her move up and down his shaft. "I love you. You are perfection," he said, squeezing her bottom where he still held her. "You are my lover. You are my queen.

Back in 1988 the Folger had X-rayed their Janssen portrait before recasting their star bard into the less enviable role of Sir Thomas Overbury, Disagreeable Jacobean Courtier Poisoned with Tarts and Jellies by the Wife of his Homosexual Lover. In questioning the authenticity of the Cobbe gallant, the skeptics were asking an obvious question: How could this Cobbe “original” depict Shakespeare if its Janssen “copy” depicted Tom Overbury? Even Stanley Wells agreed the two portraits portrayed the same man, but it was his contention that the Folger had erred in debunking and thereby devaluing their prized Janssen Shakespeare. Wells believed both portraits depicted Shakespeare and was quick to point out the Cobbe had been found in a collection descended from the 3rd Earl of Southampton (the consensus Fair Youth of the sonnets)

I have considered castration, but I think you'd find that too pleasant," said Hades. The god pursed his lips and then shrugged. "Fair." "I had to nix anything that requires restraint too." "Unfair," said the god. "I could send you into the Forest of Despair, but it's likely your greatest fear is a life with the only one sexual partner." "A tragedy," Hermes said. "Which means I'd take a different approach." "You really have thought about this," said Hermes. "First, I'd curse you to always appear homely to any potential lover." Hermes gasped. "Then, I would ensure you never find your rhythm again. That applies to dancing and sex." "You wouldn't," Hermes said. "The sight of your penis would make everyone gag." "You beast!" "Those aren't even my favorites," said Hades with a smirk. "My favorite is that every television series you start never finishes." "No!" Hermes bellowed. "It is true what they say. You are a cruel god." Hades shrugged. "You asked.

Mystery men with strange persuasive powers, sometimes good but more often evil, are described and discussed in many books with no UFO or religious orientation. A dark gentleman in a cloak and hood is supposed to have handed Thomas Jefferson the design for the reverse side of the Great Seal of the United States (you will find this on a dollar bill). Julius Caesar, Napoleon, and many others are supposed to have had enigmatic meetings with these odd personages. These stories turn up in such unexpected places as Madame Du Barry’s memoirs. She claimed repeated encounters with a strange young man who would approach her suddenly on the street and give her startling prophecies about herself. He pointedly told her that the last time she would see him would serve as an omen for a sudden reversal of her fortunes. Sure enough, on April 27, 1774, as she and her ailing lover, King Louis XV, were heading for the palace of Versailles, the youthful mystery man appeared one final time. “I mechanically directed my eyes toward the iron gate leading to the garden,” she wrote. “I felt my face drained of blood as a cry of horror escaped my lips. For, leaning against the gate was that singular being.” The coach was halted, and three men searched the area thoroughly but could find no trace of him. He had vanished into thin air. Soon afterward Madame Du Barry’s illustrious career in the royal courts ended, and she went into exile. Malcolm X, the late leader of a black militant group, reported a classic experience with a paraphysical “man in black” in his autobiography. He was serving a prison sentence at the time, and the entity materialized in his prison cell: "As I lay on my bed, I suddenly became aware of a man sitting beside me in my chair. He had on a dark suit, I remember. I could see him as plainly as I see anyone I look at. He wasn’t black, and he wasn’t white. He was light-brown-skinned, an Asiatic cast of countenance, and he had oily black hair. I looked right into his face. I didn’t get frightened. I knew I wasn’t dreaming. I couldn’t move, I didn’t speak, and he didn’t. I couldn’t place him racially—other than I knew he was a non-European. I had no idea whatsoever who he was. He just sat there. Then, as suddenly as he had come, he was gone.

We do not make up for hurt with hurt, Persephone. That is a god’s game. We are lovers.” “Then how do we make up for hurt?” she asked. “With time,” he answered. “If we can be comfortable being angry with one another for a little while.” Persephone frowned, and the tears she thought had all dried up came again as she whispered, “I don’t want to be angry with you.” “Nor I with you,” he said, reaching to brush the tears away. “But it doesn’t change feelings, and it doesn’t mean we can’t care for each other while we heal.

Mr. X went over to his laptop and fired the Dell up. Sitting down next to the dried brown stain of a blood pool, he called up the Scrolls and found the relevant passage. The lines of the prophecy calmed him: There shall be one to bring the end before the master, a fighter of modern time found in the seventh of the twenty-first, and he shall be known in the numbers he bears: One more than the compass he apperceives, Though mere four points to make at his right, Three lives has he, Two scores on his fore, and with a single black eye, in one well will he be birthed and die.

Amalgamation with the other color, produces degradation to which no lover of his country, no lover of excellence in the human character, can innocently consent,” he wrote in 1814, after he had fathered several biracial children. Like so many men who spoke out against “amalgamation” in public, and who degraded Black or biracial women’s beauty in public, Jefferson hid his actual views in the privacy of his mind and bedroom.

Party time Part 1 After school, we go to Maddie’s. When we were little, like freshman year and even some of the sophomore year, we would sometimes stay in her room and put on x-out and pluck out eyebrows into that fine little line, and color our hair with highlights, and order pizza, cramming down as much as we could eat. Those days are going, we can’t get fat. Now Jenny hardly eats anything, and if she does, she can hardly keep it down. I think maybe that’s what I get so lightheaded, I only eat like once a day now. Jenny back then had a little extra around the middle, and now you can see her ribs, she even has that two-defined line on her tummy that goes into her underwear. I remember sneaking around late at night in her hose stealing a cookie from the jar on the top shelf in the old wood cabinet, that is also where her mom would hide her cigarettes that Jenny loved also, and the condoms were in a trinity box on top of the fridge, I sorry but I find that hilarious. At that time, we would stretch out on one of her, old enormous worn-out couches and watch, TV or movies until we fell asleep in our nightshirts’-the TV in Maddie’s living room is like 80 inches it’s like being in a movie theater our legs tangled together under an enormous fleece blanket. Maddie and liv are always entangled more passionately than Jenny and me on the loveseat! Maddie has an ancient TV in her room from the 1990s. It sucks and is small, it’s one of those with the big back on it, and the color is green, like looking into a fish tank. It’s funny her mom and dad don’t have money blinds on the windows, yet they have a big ass TV. You can sometimes see the people in the next condo overlooking us like we can see them get busy in their room! Yet nothing beats the hot guy taking a leak in room 302, he looks to be in his late twenties. He takes the boxes off at 10 pm and we get a free show. He knows we can see him because he makes it look inflexible and you are no more personable. Jenny and we girls love to press upon the glass, and just have fun and be a little crazy, like lifting our nighties and flashing the goods. Facebook stocking gets boring quickly anymore, so some nights the webcam comes out too. After her mom and dad are asleep… I like it’s more fun to be bad! Like we all have profiles and fake names because none of us are eighteen yet. Any- how’s mine is ‘Angel Pink Wings 01’ Maddie goes by: ‘Mad kitty 69’ Jenny goes by: ‘Ms. Little Lover 14’ Liv goes by: ‘Olivia O 123’ Yet everyone knows her by Liv so that name is okay- I guess. We make good money- ‘Double Clicking the Mouse.’ You would not believe all the pervs on this cam the site, just wanting to see us doing it. Like old guys like our PE teacher! Man- that I didn’t even think about how to turn on a computer. Just like him, I guess they need too to see more of us close up. We have our checks mailed to Jenny's college boyfriend’s PO Box. Me this is what I do and yes- I come for you all, I just put in fake blue hair dye in, and have fake long lashes, and put in my blue contacts, and you don’t even know me. And then pen in more eyebrows. Fake, fake, fake, fake FAKE! Boys don’t like it when you fake it or do, they look at me, that's why I am Bi.

Party time Part 1 After school, we go to Maddie’s. When we were little, like freshman year and even some of the sophomore year, we would sometimes stay in her room and put on x-out and pluck out eyebrows into that fine little line, and color our hair with highlights, and order pizza, cramming down as much as we could eat. Those days are going, we can’t get fat. Now Jenny hardly eats anything, and if she does, she can hardly keep it down. I think maybe that’s what I get so lightheaded, I only eat like once a day now. Jenny back then had a little extra around the middle, and now you can see her ribs, she even has that two-defined line on her tummy that goes into her underwear. I remember sneaking around late at night in her hose stealing a cookie from the jar on the top shelf in the old wood cabinet, that is also where her mom would hide her cigarettes that Jenny loved also, and the condoms were in a trinity box on top of the fridge, I sorry but I find that hilarious. At that time, we would stretch out on one of her, old enormous worn-out couches and watch, TV or movies until we fell asleep in our nightshirts’-the TV in Maddie’s living room is like 80 inches it’s like being in a movie theater our legs tangled together under an enormous fleece blanket. Maddie and liv are always entangled more passionately than Jenny and me on the loveseat! Maddie has an ancient TV in her room from the 1990s. It sucks and is small, it’s one of those with the big back on it, and the color is green, like looking into a fish tank. It’s funny her mom and dad don’t have money blinds on the windows, yet they have a big ass TV. You can sometimes see the people in the next condo overlooking us like we can see them get busy in their room! Yet nothing beats the hot guy taking a leak in room 302, he looks to be in his late twenties. He takes the boxes off at 10 pm and we get a free show. He knows we can see him because he makes it look inflexible and you are no more personable. Jenny and we girls love to press upon the glass, and just have fun and be a little crazy, like lifting our nighties and flashing the goods. Facebook stocking gets boring quickly anymore, so some nights the webcam comes out too. After her mom and dad are asleep… I like it’s more fun to be bad! Like we all have profiles and fake names because none of us are eighteen yet. Any- how’s mine is ‘Angel Pink Wings 01’ Maddie goes by: ‘Mad kitty 69’ Jenny goes by: ‘Ms. Little Lover 14’ Liv goes by: ‘Olivia O 123’ Yet everyone knows her by Liv so that name is okay- I guess. We make good money- ‘Double Clicking the Mouse.’ You would not believe all the pervs on this cam. the site, just wanting to see us doing it. Like old guys like our PE teacher! Man- that I didn’t even think about how to turn on a computer. Just like him, I guess they need too to see more of us close up. We have our checks mailed to Jenny's college boyfriend’s PO Box. Me this is what I do and yes- I come for you all, I just put in fake blue hair dye in, and have fake long lashes, and put in my blue contacts, and you don’t even know me. And then pen in more eyebrows. Fake, fake, fake, fake FAKE! Boys don’t like it when you fake it or do, they look at me, that's why I am Bi.

The difference between a basic orientation toward the love of learning and one toward the love of spectacle is that between two kinds of basic restlessness. The one sort, exemplified by Augustine's own journey as he describes it, unceasingly moves past the surfaces of things to what is more real. The second flees unceasingly from object to object, all on the same level—never culminating in anything further, never achieving anything beyond the thrill of experience. It is the bare existence of a human possibility that inspires the exercise of the love of spectacle. The lovers of spectacle seek no good of the kind Malcolm X, André Weil, or Irina Ratushinskaya sought—indeed, it is the bad, the sad, and the ugly as such that hold special fascination for them. The love of learning always wants more; the love of spectacle is satisfied at the surface, like someone scratching an itch rather than trying to heal a wound.

Humans + alcohol x urge to kill=body count. Not what he or his business interests needed.

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