Why, once I met this guy who knew this guy who knew this guy who knew this guy who knew this guy who knew this guy who knew this guy who knew this guy who knew this guy who knew this guy's cousin.

Dounia was at once asked to give lessons in several families, but she refused. All of a sudden everyone began to treat her with marked respect and all this did much to bring about the event by which, one may say, our whole fortunes are now transformed. You must know, dear Rodya, that Dounia has a suitor and that she has already consented to marry him. I hasten to tell you all about the matter, and though it has been arranged without asking your consent, I think you will not be aggrieved with me or with your sister on that account, for you will see that we could not wait and put off our decision till we heard from you.

One town's very like another when your head's down over your pieces, brother.

You speak in abbreviations because real life conversation moves too slowly. You're the media's creation, yeah, your free will has been taken and you don't know.

This led to coagulation. Which was dispersed throughout the body, or else led to bleeding, insanity, and death.

But all of a sudden the scene changed; it was the memory, no longer of old impressions but of an old desire, only recently reawakened by the Fortuny gown in blue and gold, that spread before me another spring, a spring not leafy at all but on the contrary suddenly stripped of its trees and flowers by the name that I had just murmured to myself: "Venice"; a decanted springtime, which is reduced to its own essence and expresses the lengthening, the warming, the gradual unfolding of its days in the progressive fermentation, no longer, now, of an impure soil, but of a blue and virginal water, springlike without bud or blossom, which could answer the call of May only by the gleaming facets fashioned and polished by May, harmonising exactly with it in the radiant, unalterable nakedness of its dusky sapphire. Likewise, too, no more than the seasons to its flowerless creeks, do modern times bring any change to the Gothic city; I knew it, even if I could not imagine it, or rather, imagining it, this was what I longed for with the same desire which long ago, when I was a boy, in the very ardour of departure, had broken and robbed me of the strength to make the journey: to find myself face to face with my Venetian imaginings, to observe how that divided sea enclosed in its meanderings, like the sinuosities of the ocean stream, and urbane and refined civilization, but one that, isolated by their azure girdle, had evolved independently, had had its own schools of painting and architecture, to admire that fabulous garden of fruits and birds in coloured stone, flowering in the midst of the sea which kept it refreshed, lapped the base of the columns with its tide, and, like a somber azure gaze watching in the shadows, kept patches of light perpetually flickering on the bold relief of the capitals.

Then no matter where you are, in a crowded restaurant or on some desolate street or even in the comforts of your own home, you'll watch yourself dismantle every assurance you ever lived by. You'll stand aside as a great complexity intrudes, tearing apart, piece by piece, all of your carefully conceived denials, whether deliberate or unconscious. And then for better or worse you'll turn, unable to resist, though try to resist you still will, fighting with everything you've got not to face the thing you most dread, what is now, what will be, what has always come before, the creature you truly are, the creature we all are, buried in the nameless black of a name. And then the nightmares will begin.

If instead you are processing something that is textual in nature, such as program output, HTML, email content, or CSV or XML files, you'll probably want to use str and text-mode files.

To make power, people try to put pieces of this metal close enough together that they make heat fast, but not so close that they go out of control and blow up. This is very hard, but there is so much heat and power stored in this metal that some people have wanted to try anyway.

Everyone knows physical beauty has nothing to do with merit; that's what education's accomplished. But even with the best intentions in the world, people haven't stopped practicing lookism. We try to be impartial, we try not to let a person's appearance affect us, but we can't suppress our autonomic responses, and anyone who claims they can is engaged in wishful thinking. Ask yourself: don't you react differently when you meet an attractive person and when you meet an unattractive one? Every study on this issue turns up the same results: looks help people get ahead. We can't help but think of good-looking people as more competent, more honest, more deserving than others. None of it's true, but their looks still give us that impression.

Colour me stoned Colour me dumb Colour me green Colour me gone Colour me high Colour me low Colour me out on the edge somewhere I don't know

As he leaned over to pick up the desk, he felt a hand jab roughly between his thighs and another hand grab his hair.

The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to a close and a drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of Privet Drive. Cars that were usually gleaming stood dusty in their drives and lawns that were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing; the use of hosepipes had been banned due to drought. Deprived of their usual car-washing and lawn-mowing pursuits, the inhabitants of Privet Drive had retreated into the shade of their cool houses, windows thrown wide in the hope of tempting in a nonexistent breeze. The only person left outdoors was a teenage boy who was lying flat on his back in a flower bed outside number four. He was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone who has grown a lot in a short space of time. His jeans were torn and dirty, his T-shirt baggy and faded, and the soles of his trainers were peeling away from the uppers. Harry Potter's appearance did not endear him to the neighbors, who were the sort of people who thought scruffiness ought to be punishable by law, but as he had hidden himself behind a large hydrangea bush this evening he was quite invisible to passersby.

Something in your eyes is making such a fool of me. When you hold me in your arms, you love me 'til I just can't see. But then you let me down, when I look around. Baby, you just can't be found. Stop driving me away, I just want to stay. There's something I just got to say.

I am proud to come to this city as the guest of your distinguished Mayor, who has symbolized throughout the world the fighting spirit of West Berlin. And I am proud to visit the Federal Republic with your distinguished Chancellor, who for so many years has committed Germany to democracy and freedom and progress and to come here in the company of my fellow American, General Clay, who has been in this city during its great moments of crisis and will come again if ever needed. Two thousand years ago the proudest boast was "civis Romanus sum." Today, in the world of freedom, the proudest boast is "Ich bin ein Berliner." I appreciate my interpreter translating my German! There are many people in the world who really don't understand, or say they don't, what is the great issue between the free world and the Communist world. Let them come to Berlin. There are some who say that communism is the wave of the future. Let them come to Berlin. And there are some who say in Europe and elsewhere we can work with the Communists. Let them come to Berlin. And there are even a few who say that it is true that communism is an evil system, but it permits us to make economic progress. Lass' sie nach Berlin kommen. Let them come to Berlin. Freedom has many difficulties and democracy is not perfect, but we have never had to put a wall up to keep our people in, to prevent them from leaving us. I want to say, on behalf of my countrymen, who live many miles away on the other side of the Atlantic, who are far distant from you, that they take the greatest pride that they have been able to share with you, even from a distance, the story of the last 18 years. I know of no town, no city, that has been besieged for 18 years that still lives with the vitality and the force, and the hope and the determination of the city of West Berlin. While the wall is the most obvious and vivid demonstration of the failures of the Communist system, for all the world to see, we take no satisfaction in it, for it is, as your Mayor has said, an offense not only against history but an offense against humanity, separating families, dividing husbands and wives and brothers and sisters, and dividing a people who wish to be joined together. What is true of this city is true of Germany -- real, lasting peace in Europe can never be assured as long as one German out of four is denied the elementary right of free men, and that is to make a free choice. In 18 years of peace and good faith, this generation of Germans has earned the right to be free, including the right to unite their families and their nation in lasting peace, with good will to all people. You live in a defended island of freedom, but your life is part of the main. So let me ask you as I close, to lift your eyes beyond the dangers of today, to the hopes of tomorrow, beyond the freedom merely of this city of Berlin, or your country of Germany, to the advance of freedom everywhere, beyond the wall to the day of peace with justice, beyond yourselves and ourselves to all mankind. Freedom is indivisible, and when one man is enslaved, all are not free. When all are free, then we can look forward to that day when this city will be joined as one and this country and this great Continent of Europe in a peaceful and hopeful globe. When that day finally comes, as it will, the people of West Berlin can take sober satisfaction in the fact that they were in the front lines for almost two decades. All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin, and, therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words "Ich bin ein Berliner."

To be honest, it's not a big deal when you're young; you know, like they say, whatever you grew up with seems normal to you. We knew that there was something that other people could see that we couldn't, but it was just something we were curious about.

I walk ten thousand miles, ten thousand miles to see you.

If you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals.

The fall (bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!) of a once wallstrait oldparr is retaled early in bed and later on life down through all christian minstrelsy.

The Purposes of the United Nations are: 1. To maintain international peace and security, and to that end: to take effective collective measures for the prevention and removal of threats to the peace, and for the suppression of acts of aggression or other breaches of the peace, and to bring about by peaceful means, and in conformity with the principles of justice and international law, adjustment or settlement of international disputes or situations which might lead to a breach of the peace; 2. To develop friendly relations among nations based on respect for the principle of equal rights and self-determination of peoples, and to take other appropriate measures to strengthen universal peace; 3. To achieve international co-operation in solving international problems of an economic, social, cultural, or humanitarian character, and in promoting and encouraging respect for human rights and for fundamental freedoms for all without distinction as to race, sex, language, or religion; and 4. To be a centre for harmonizing the actions of nations in the attainment of these common ends.

Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.

Maybe the worst part is how I end up worse off. Comments made, voices raised, my trauma triggered war scars.

Note to self - really fire Malek this time. He's so far beyond unhinged, it's not even funny any more.

Whatever the people ordain last shall be legally valid.

Whether we realize it or not, the culture in which we live, and with which we identify, powerfully shapes just about every aspect of our being.

Human backpacks look a lot like monster backpacks, but if you open one up you can see that they are exactly as big on the inside as they seem from the outside, implying humans never quite mastered basic dimensional design theory.

Harry lay flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had been running. He had awoken from a vivid dream with his hands pressed over his face. The old scar on his forehead, which was shaped like a bolt of lightning, was burning beneath his fingers as though someone had just pressed a white-hot wire to his skin. He sat up, one hand still on his scar, the other reaching out in the darkness for his glasses, which were on the bedside table. He put them on and his bedroom came into clearer focus, lit by a faint, misty orange light that was filtering through the curtains from the street lamp outside the window.

He spoke so rapidly that he did not finish half his words, but his son was accustomed to understand him. He led him to the desk, raised the lid, drew out a drawer, and took out an exercise book filled with his bold, tall, close handwriting.

In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather more beef than mutton, a salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away with three-quarters of his income. The rest of it went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to match for holidays, while on week-days he made a brave figure in his best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper past forty, a niece under twenty, and a lad for the field and market-place, who used to saddle the hack as well as handle the bill-hook. The age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty; he was of a hardy habit, spare, gaunt-featured, a very early riser and a great sportsman. They will have it his surname was Quixada or Quesada (for here there is some difference of opinion among the authors who write on the subject), although from reasonable conjectures it seems plain that he was called Quexana. This, however, is of but little importance to our tale; it will be enough not to stray a hair's breadth from the truth in the telling of it.

A LONG, LONG TIME AGO... There lived a Civilization of great power. They built a city, and within that city they built a palace. They held sacred the secrets of the Holy Cross, and understood the planar nature of reality. They ventured to the far shore and sought power from the spaces between.

What for many years past he had feared more than anything was being shown up and this was the chief ground for his continual uneasiness at the thought of transferring his business to Petersburg. He was afraid of this as little children are sometimes panic-stricken. Some years before, when he was just entering on his own career, he had come upon two cases in which rather important personages in the province, patrons of his, had been cruelly shown up. One instance had ended in great scandal for the person attacked and the other had very nearly ended in serious trouble.

It's an old text. The verses are familiar to me, but I don't remember by whom they were written. The language is very old and intricate. The first verse starts by drawing a comparison between the world and a tangled rug. It says that the world is an unfortunate mess. Like a knot, the nature of its existence is the fact that the parts are locking each other, none able to spring free. Then as it goes on the world becomes a furry animal hide, I suppose... because now us living beings are like insects crawling in the fur. And then it's a fishing net, because the more we struggle and squirm, the more entangled we become. It says that only the limp body of the jellyfish cannot be captured in the net. So we should try to be like the jellyfish, because the jellyfish doesn't try. This was an eternal dilemma to them - they were burdened by great ambition, yet deeply convinced that striving in itself was an unforgivable vice. They tried very hard to be effortless. Perhaps that's what we were to them, someone to delegate that unrestrained effort to. I know I have tried very hard.

You must know, sire, that my father was Mahmoud, the king of this country, the Black Isles, so called from the four little mountains which were once islands, while the capital was the place where now the great lake lies. My story will tell you how these changes came about.

Thus, sirs, you are bound to keep quiet by human and divine law.

I will investigate further before informing the others. Kagha will demand answers I don't yet have. I had better record any further findings in a separate volume and keep them upon my person, lest prying eyes jump to the wrong conclusions.

You choose to be hurt rather than to hurt others, right?

Allheaven, the time has come for our final battle. You've been hiding from me for tens of thousands of years, and I've also been hiding away. It's time to sort things out once and for all.

All my life I want money and power, respect my mind or die from lead shower.

And here is the revised DNA strand, repaired by the computer. The operation you've witnessed would have taken months in a conventional lab, but we can do it in seconds.

Late into the night I write and the pages of my notebook swell from all the words I've pressed onto them. It almost feels like the more I bruise the page the quicker something inside me heals.

In his dark room he is finally alone with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows. The only light is red and softly glows, as though this were a church and he a priest preparing to intone a Mass. Belfast. Beirut. Phnom Penh. All flesh is grass. He has a job to do. Solutions slop in trays beneath his hands, which did not tremble then though seem to now. Rural England. Home again to ordinary pain which simple weather can dispel, to fields which don't explode beneath the feet of running children in a nightmare heat. Something is happening. A stranger's features faintly start to twist before his eyes, a half-formed ghost. He remembers the cries of this man's wife, how he sought approval without words to do what someone must and how the blood stained into foreign dust. A hundred agonies in black and white from which his editor will pick out five or six for Sunday's supplement. The reader's eyeballs prick with tears between the bath and pre-lunch beers. From the aeroplane he stares impassively at where he earns his living and they do not care.

Well yeah, it's a death-trap, but a really powerful death trap. What, you suddenly care about safety now?

I'm afraid I can't explain myself, sir. Because I am not myself, you see?

I get it. This won't stop until I die. But when I die, I want it to hurt. When my friends leave, when I have to let go, when this entire town is wiped off the map, I want it to hurt. Bad. I want to lose. I want to get beaten up. I want to hold on until I'm thrown off and everything ends. And you know what? Until that happens, I want to hope again. And I want it to hurt. Because that means it meant something. It means I am something, at least... pretty amazing to be something, at least...

The incommodities of such a war. Whatever is the case in a time of war, where every man is an enemy to every man, the same is true when men live without any other security besides what can be gained by their own strength and invention. In such a condition there is no industry, because its fruit would be uncertain. There is no culture of the earth, no navigation, nor use of the commodities that may be imported by sea. There is no commodious building, no instruments of moving and removing those things that require much force. There is no knowledge of the face of the earth, no account of time, no arts, no letters and no society. Worst of all there is continual fear and danger of violent death, and the life of man is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.

Life can get pretty crazy at times. It can be hectic, confusing, stressful, and that's on a good day. Life can be full of happiness and full of sadness. One moment you're on top of the world and nothing can go wrong. The next, it feels as if nothing will ever be right again. I guess it depends where you are right now on your ride through life whether you smile when you read this or fight back tears. No matter where you stand on the long path, right now, try very hard to smile, and be glad you're in the game.

We also constantly give thanks to God for this, that when you received the word of God that you heard from us, you accepted it not as a human word but as what it really is, God's word, which is also at work in you believers. For you, brothers and sisters, became imitators of the churches of God in Christ Jesus that are in Judea, for you suffered the same things from your own compatriots as they did from the Jews, who killed both the Lord Jesus and the prophets, and drove us out; they displease God and oppose everyone by hindering us from speaking to the Gentiles so that they may be saved. Thus they have constantly been filling up the measure of their sins; but God's wrath had overtaken them at last.

The whole group was one blaze of gold, as the saying is.

The publication of my first story had raised my spirits, but it couldn't spur my writing.

While he was saying this, a cloud came and overshadowed them; and they were terrified as they entered the cloud. Then from the cloud came a voice that said, "This is my Son, my Chosen, listen to him!" When the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silent and in those days told no one any of the things they had seen.

There we found delicious fruits, and having satisfied our hunger we presently lay down to rest upon the shore. Suddenly we were aroused by a loud rustling noise, and starting up, saw that it was caused by an immense snake which was gliding towards us over the sand. So swiftly it came that it had seized one of my comrades before he had time to fly, and in spite of his cries and struggles speedily crushed the life out of him in its mighty coils and proceeded to swallow him. By this time my other companion and I were running for our lives to some place where we might hope to be safe from this new horror, and seeing a tall tree we climbed up into it, having first provided ourselves with a store of fruit off the surrounding bushes. When night came I fell asleep, but only to be awakened once more by the terrible snake, which after hissing horribly round the tree at last reared itself up against it, and finding my sleeping comrade who was perched just below me, it swallowed him also, and crawled away leaving me half dead with terror.

DON'T WRITE BACK THEY'LL PROBLY SIKOWANALIZE YOUR LETTER.

To realize one's destiny is a person's only obligation.

If you think anyone is sane you just don't know enough about them.

In the great grand scheme of things, we're just tiny specks that will one day be forgotten. So, it doesn't matter what we did in the past, or how we'll be remembered. The only thing that matters is right now: this moment, this one spectacular moment we are sharing together.

Smoke more weed, Turtle. Seriously, smoke more weed.

A meal is something you eat. It's not something you name your kid.

Well, you told me I have a plethora. And I just would like to know if you know what a plethora is. I would not like to think that a person would tell someone he has a plethora, and then find out that that person has no idea what it means to have a plethora.

Anything which has ended is finished That which is perfect is finished The perfect man is no exception to the rule The perfect man of the past is made according to the rule of the past The rule of the past is a law of injustice and hypocrisy The revelation of the meaning of the law is revealed through the law itself

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate - we can not consecrate - we can not hallow - this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us - that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion - that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain - that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom - and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

You want to know how two chemicals interact, do you ask them? No, they're going to lie through their lying little chemical teeth. Throw them in a beaker and apply heat.

The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.

I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.

It would take a typist over 50 years to type out the DNA sequence, which would be stupid because she could just cut and paste it and go home.

A book is a great cemetery in which, for the most part, the names upon the tombs are effaced.

It was tribulation I sought at the bottom of it, tears and tribulation, and have found it, and I have tasted it; but He will pity us Who has had pity on all men, Who has understood all men and all things, He is the One, He too is the judge. He will come in that day and He will ask: 'Where is the daughter who gave herself for her cross, consumptive step-mother and for the little children of another? Where is the daughter who had pity upon the filthy drunkard, her earthly father, undismayed by his beastliness?'

He stared straight before him, as though seeing nothing. There was a determined gleam in his eyes; at the same time there was a deathly pallor in his face, as though he were being led to the scaffold. His white lips were faintly twitching. He was dressed like a workman and was of medium height, very young, slim, his hair cut in round crop, with thin spare features. The man whom he had thrust back followed him into the room and succeeded in seizing him by the shoulder; he was a warder; but Nikolay pulled his arm away.

The human whose name is written in this note shall die.

Power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men, even when they exercise influence and not authority; still more when you superadd the tendency of the certainty of corruption by authority.

It was not so much that his hands were shaking, but that he kept making mistakes; though he saw for instance that a key was not the right one and would not fit, still he tried to put it in. Suddenly he remembered and realised that the big key with the deep notches, which was hanging there with the small keys could not possibly belong to the chest of drawers (on his last visit this had struck him), but to some strong box, and that everything perhaps was hidden in that box.

Along the shore the cloud waves break, The twin suns sink behind the lake, The shadows lengthen In Carcosa. Strange is the night where black stars rise, And strange moons circle through the skies, But stranger still is Lost Carcosa. Songs that the Hyades shall sing, Where flap the tatters of the King, Must die unheard in Dim Carcosa. Song of my soul, my voice is dead, Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in Lost Carcosa.

You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know.

Dear Master Golbraith, Word has been brought to Candlekeep that Baldur's Gate is under threat and there are those who claim that the mind flayer plot is being driven from within the city's own seats of power. As a leading expert in mind flayers and counter-illithid strategies, we would like to consult with you that we may pool our resources to destroy such a plot before it takes root. Leave word for us at The Lodge, and we will arrange a date and time. -- The First Reader.

Around midafternoon, the snow thinned into sleet, and some umbrellas appeared on Kissena Boulevard. When the green lights came on, pedestrians skirted or jumped across the puddles gathering at the curbs.

In the heat of the summer, you're so different from the rest.

The people we love are the ones who hurt us the most, after all.

A knowledge system can be defined in terms of four characteristics: epistemology, a theory of knowledge giving an account of what counts as knowledge and how we know what we know; transmission, dealing with how knowledge is conveyed or acquired, with how it is learned and taught; power, both external (how knowledge communities relate to other knowledge communities) and internal (how members of a given knowledge community relate to one another); and innovation, how what counts as knowledge may be changed or modified. The systemic nature of knowledge is due to the reciprocal influence of these four characteristics upon one another: how we know, how we learn and teach, how we innovate, and how power figures in this are linked.

I answer all your questions but then y'all got to go, now the question I ask you is how bad you wanna know?

When Mike had first reached Tina, she was screaming hysterically. Her whole left arm was bloody, covered with a profusion of small bites, each the size of a thumbprint. And there were flecks of sticky foam on her arm, like a foamy saliva.

I could be brown, I could be blue, I could be violet sky I could be hurtful, I could be purple, I could be anything you like Gotta be green, gotta be mean, gotta be everything more Why don't you like me, why don't you like me? Walk out the door!

It is difficult to exaggerate the mathematical richness of this idea. It has been convincingly argued by mathematical historians that the ensuing investigation into the validity of Fourier's conjecture was the fundamental catalyst for the pursuit of rigor that characterizes 19th century mathematics. Power series had been in wide use in the 150 years leading up to Fourier's work, largely because they behaved so well under the operations of calculus. A function expressed as a power series is continuous, differentiable an infinite number of times, and can be integrated and differentiated as though it were a polynomial. In the presence of such agreeable behavior, there was no compelling reason for mathematicians to formulate a more precise understanding of "limit" or "convergence" because there were no arguments to resolve. Fourier's successful implementation of trigonometric series to the study of heat flow changed all of this. To understand what the fuss was really about, we need to look more closely at what Fourier was asserting, focusing individually on the terms "function," "express," and "trigonometric series."

You just keep on pushing my love over the borderline.

Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.

It's an old conversation log. I seem to be in it, but I can't recall much. Let me read it to you: "1650.800 - PRIVATE Five Pebbles, Chasing Wind, Big Sis Moon, No Significant Harassment CW: this is in confidence, but apparently a pseudonym "Erratic Pulse" has appeared on a nearby Sliverist conversation with ideas about personal ascension. Someone here in our vicinity is trying to cross themselves out. FP: Where did you hear this? NSH: I wish them super good luck in that endeavor. How is it going to happen? Have the overseers gnaw through bedrock until their entire can crashes down in the void sea? BSM: Please be respectful when speaking of the Void Sea. Grey Wind, where did you hear this? CW: I really shouldn't say. He's going to attempt some sort of breeding program. Thought you might want to know. NSH: Haha with the slimers, lizards and etceteras? Surely the answer was in a lizard skull all along! CW: Well, he's not looking for the same thing as we anymore, he's changed his task, so who knows really. BSM: I will try to find him and talk to him. Please don't spread this around! NSH: Moon will go get them! Long live the inquisition!"

It has come to my attention that some have lately called me a collaborator, as if such a term were shameful. I ask you, what greater endeavor exists than that of collaboration? In our current unparalleled enterprise, refusal to collaborate is simply a refusal to grow--an insistence on suicide, if you will. Did the lungfish refuse to breathe air? It did not. It crept forth boldly while its brethren remained in the blackest ocean abyss, with lidless eyes forever staring at the dark, ignorant and doomed despite their eternal vigilance. Would we model ourselves on the trilobite? Are all the accomplishments of humanity fated to be nothing more than a layer of broken plastic shards thinly strewn across a fossil bed, sandwiched between the Burgess shale and an eon's worth of mud? In order to be true to our nature, and our destiny, we must aspire to greater things. We have outgrown our cradle. It is futile to cry for mother's milk, when our true sustenance awaits us among the stars. And only the universal union that small minds call 'The Combine' can carry us there. Therefore I say, yes, I am a collaborator. We must all collaborate, willingly, eagerly, if we expect to reap the benefits of unification. And reap we shall.

I have something to say. So shut the fuck up and listen. I spent thirteen years half-cut up to my eyeballs. Drunk, to put it mildly. Then suddenly I saw it, a streetlight shining in my face. 500 Gigawatts of the power of God. A vision of my bloated body found in some ditch. Scared me straight. So I got a collar shirt, mortgage and a credit card. All the things that make a good man. I hoped I could raise my children to be better than their old man. I wanted to believe I was never one setback away from my worst self. But the truth is. Discipline. Drive. Routine. The endless fucking desperation to get shit done. A loving wife? Great kids? Sobriety? I'm telling you. You. Accomplishments I'd been chasing all my life. Never felt as good as I expected when I crossed the finish line. ... So now that we're at the end. Takin' inventory. Those nights spinning out of my head, sinking into the sofa. Broken glass in my palms. Bleeding dry the funniest thing ever. Old dogs laughing and snarling on a waterbed floor, mocking the moon for daring to show its face. All nausea and wreckage and vomit and ugly cruelty. The only problem in the world an empty bottle. Those were the best days of my life. Yeah. ...Those were the best days of my life. I got nothing to hide. Ready to face the music. I can see myself for what I am. But you? A cowardly, selfish motherfucker and you can't even see it. ...I should've been able to protect the kid. If I could have done one thing right, I wish it had been to give him one small chance off this goddamned rock.

I'll accept any of the following as correct answers: fear, intimidation, nice red uniforms, a comfy chair, and soft pillows.

Through most of the Middle Ages and Renaissance, religious "disputations" (formal debates) offered the avowed method of establishing truth in theology. Based on the hoary old traditions of Platonic philosophy, these debates were judged based on the debaters' citation of "accepted" written works and the usual rhetorical skills of spokesmen. Disputations between Catholic and Jewish theologians (such as that in Paris in 1240) were quite polite; those between Protestants and Catholics (for instance, Regensburg in 1541) somewhat less so. Meanwhile, to the East the Mughal emperor Akbar the Great was hosting disputations between Muslim, Hindu, Jain, Zoroastrian, and Catholic Jesuit holy men as a show of his religious tolerance.

I walk this empty street, on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams. When the city sleeps, and I'm the only one and I walk alone.

I don't know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.

it's a beautiful day outside. birds are singing, flowers are blooming... on days like these, kids like you... Should be burning in hell.

We are not so very different, you and I. We both spend our lives looking for the weaknesses in one another's systems. Don't you think it's time to recognize that there is as little worth on your side as there is on mine?

Whatever you brag about the most is what you lack the most. Whatever it is that you want others to know that you own the most of is what you want to possess the most.

Chaos theory originally grew out of attempts to make computer models of weather in the 1960s.

The moon will never lie to anyone. Be like the moon. No one hates the moon or wants to kill it. The moon does not take antidepressants and never gets sent to prison. The moon never shot a guy in the face and ran away. The moon has been around a long time and has never tried to rip anyone off. The moon does not care who you want to touch or what color you are. The moon treats everyone the same. The moon never tries to get in on the guest list or use your name to impress others. Be like the moon. When others insult or belittle in an attempt to elevate themselves, the moon sits passively and watches, never lowering itself to anything that weak. The moon is beautiful and bright. It needs no makeup to look beautiful. The moon never shoves clouds out of its way so it can be seen. The moon needs not fame or money to be powerful. The moon never asks you to go to war to defend it. Be like the moon.

The people with ideas have no power and the people with power have no ideas.

It was as if that great rush of anger had washed me clean, emptied me of hope, and, gazing up at the dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, for the first time, the first, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe. To feel it so like myself, indeed, so brotherly, made me realize that I'd been happy, and that I was happy still. For all to be accomplished, for me to feel less lonely, all that remained to hope was that on the day of my execution there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that they should greet me with howls of execration.

Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

We've been tricked, we've been back-stabbed, and we've been, quite possibly, bamboozled.

I have a first place ribbon in doing nothing... it's the same ribbon as last place.

How many Ten Commandments were there? How many? Well, you just named them. Ten. So there were ten Ten Commandments. There weren't 100 commandments. There were ten...commandments. There were ten...commandments. Yes. That's it.

It was tribulation I sought at the bottom of it, tears and tribulation, and have found it, and I have tasted it; but He will pity us Who has had pity on all men, Who has understood all men and all things, He is the One, He too is the judge. He will come in that day and He will ask: 'Where is the daughter who gave herself for her cross, consumptive step-mother and for the little children of another? Where is the daughter who had pity upon the filthy drunkard, her earthly father, undismayed by his beastliness?'

It would take a typist over 50 years to type out the DNA sequence, which would be stupid because she could just cut and paste it and go home.

In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather more beef than mutton, a salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away with three-quarters of his income. The rest of it went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to match for holidays, while on week-days he made a brave figure in his best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper past forty, a niece under twenty, and a lad for the field and market-place, who used to saddle the hack as well as handle the bill-hook. The age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty; he was of a hardy habit, spare, gaunt-featured, a very early riser and a great sportsman. They will have it his surname was Quixada or Quesada (for here there is some difference of opinion among the authors who write on the subject), although from reasonable conjectures it seems plain that he was called Quexana. This, however, is of but little importance to our tale; it will be enough not to stray a hair's breadth from the truth in the telling of it.

I thought that with such acknowledgment my children would receive rights.

As to his real character, had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner, had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those casual errors, under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years' continuance.

The gold brow plumbs the blue. The diver sun-slow dived from noon-goes down; my soul mounts up! she wearies with her endless hill.

He began to wish to know more of her; and, as a step towards conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were assembled.

The whole group was one blaze of gold, as the saying is.

Now, Ahab and his three mates formed what may be called the first table in the Pequod's cabin. After their departure, taking place in inverted order to their arrival, the canvas cloth was cleared, or rather was restored to some hurried order by the pallid steward. And then the three harpooneers were bidden to the feast, they being its residuary legatees. They made a sort of temporary servants' hall of the high and mighty cabin. In strange contrast to the hardly tolerable constraint and nameless invisible domineerings of the captain's table, was the entire care-free license and ease, the almost frantic democracy of those inferior fellows the harpooneers.

They are not free at all. They are essentially our prisoners.

It shows a bad heart and does not tally with your reputation.

And one couldn't love more, but this is something special.

It was not so much that his hands were shaking, but that he kept making mistakes; though he saw for instance that a key was not the right one and would not fit, still he tried to put it in. Suddenly he remembered and realised that the big key with the deep notches, which was hanging there with the small keys could not possibly belong to the chest of drawers (on his last visit this had struck him), but to some strong box, and that everything perhaps was hidden in that box.

No, Dounia, I see it all and I know what you want to say to me; and I know too what you were thinking about, when you walked up and down all night, and what your prayers were like before the Holy Mother of Kazan who stands in mother's bedroom. Bitter is the ascent to Golgotha.... Hm... so it is finally settled; you have determined to marry a sensible business man, Avdotya Romanovna, one who has a fortune (has already made his fortune, that is so much more solid and impressive), a man who holds two government posts and who shares the ideas of our most rising generation, as mother writes, and who seems to be kind, as Dounia herself observes.

He had still the most important thing to do - to steal the axe from the kitchen. That the deed must be done with an axe he had decided long ago. He had also a pocket pruning-knife, but he could not rely on the knife and still less on his own strength, and so resolved finally on the axe.

He stared straight before him, as though seeing nothing. There was a determined gleam in his eyes; at the same time there was a deathly pallor in his face, as though he were being led to the scaffold. His white lips were faintly twitching. He was dressed like a workman and was of medium height, very young, slim, his hair cut in round crop, with thin spare features. The man whom he had thrust back followed him into the room and succeeded in seizing him by the shoulder; he was a warder; but Nikolay pulled his arm away.

Dear Master Golbraith, Word has been brought to Candlekeep that Baldur's Gate is under threat and there are those who claim that the mind flayer plot is being driven from within the city's own seats of power. As a leading expert in mind flayers and counter-illithid strategies, we would like to consult with you that we may pool our resources to destroy such a plot before it takes root. Leave word for us at The Lodge, and we will arrange a date and time. -- The First Reader.

"How old is he?" the policeman asked Mrs. Reilly. "I am thirty," Ignatius said condescendingly. "You got a job?" "Ignatius hasta help me at home," Mrs. Reilly said. Her initial courage was failing a little, and she began to twist the lute string with the cord on the cake boxes. "I got terrible arthuritis." "I dust a bit," Ignatius told the policeman. "In addition, I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip."

Dounia was at once asked to give lessons in several families, but she refused. All of a sudden everyone began to treat her with marked respect and all this did much to bring about the event by which, one may say, our whole fortunes are now transformed. You must know, dear Rodya, that Dounia has a suitor and that she has already consented to marry him. I hasten to tell you all about the matter, and though it has been arranged without asking your consent, I think you will not be aggrieved with me or with your sister on that account, for you will see that we could not wait and put off our decision till we heard from you.

Everyone knows physical beauty has nothing to do with merit; that's what education's accomplished. But even with the best intentions in the world, people haven't stopped practicing lookism. We try to be impartial, we try not to let a person's appearance affect us, but we can't suppress our autonomic responses, and anyone who claims they can is engaged in wishful thinking. Ask yourself: don't you react differently when you meet an attractive person and when you meet an unattractive one? Every study on this issue turns up the same results: looks help people get ahead. We can't help but think of good-looking people as more competent, more honest, more deserving than others. None of it's true, but their looks still give us that impression.

To be honest, it's not a big deal when you're young; you know, like they say, whatever you grew up with seems normal to you. We knew that there was something that other people could see that we couldn't, but it was just something we were curious about.

I am well and strong and still the same and in the same place.

Jamais vu. The opposite of deja vu. Not *already* seen, but *never* seen. Everything that should be familiar appears strange and new. Like some half-forgotten day in your childhood, only *now*. That's the feeling you've been having. And for who knows how long? You should go and ask Joyce Messier about this -- what world are we in? This is the fundamental question.

I still can't believe it I'm stunned Land of the rising sun, here I come I'm here, next stop lower eastern hemisphere Hip hop's hot all around the globe

Behold: the Anti-Object Task Force has assembled. God's avenging angel, arrayed against the lower emanations of the Darkened One: shoe racks, tape recorders, motor carriages. And doors. So many doors. You're not just pounding it all to pieces. You're *reforging* the universe. From the anvil of the heavens to the worms below. Indulge in it. Be bold. Have an *impact* on the shape of Creation. Out of the furnace of your rage -- a new reality! Also, you should trash your room *again*.

uh summa lumma dooma lumma you asumma im a human what i gotta do to get it through to you im superhuma n innovitative and im make of rubber so t hat anything you say is ricoshiting off oif me and ill glue it to you and im devastiating more than everyh deomanstrating how to give a mothersfriucking audience and feeling like its levitating never fading and i know the ahters are foeever waiting for ythe day that they can say i fell off theyll be celebrating !! (yipppeeee) cause i know the way to get them motivated i make elevtor music you make elevator music aswell oh hes too main river well thatsd what they do when they get jelly they cofnuse it its not hip-hop, im not sure what it is beacsue im emimnem

No! You should have waited! Well, it's too late now. I, Siegward of the Knights of Catarina, fight by your side!

Through most of the Middle Ages and Renaissance, religious "disputations" (formal debates) offered the avowed method of establishing truth in theology. Based on the hoary old traditions of Platonic philosophy, these debates were judged based on the debaters' citation of "accepted" written works and the usual rhetorical skills of spokesmen. Disputations between Catholic and Jewish theologians (such as that in Paris in 1240) were quite polite; those between Protestants and Catholics (for instance, Regensburg in 1541) somewhat less so. Meanwhile, to the East the Mughal emperor Akbar the Great was hosting disputations between Muslim, Hindu, Jain, Zoroastrian, and Catholic Jesuit holy men as a show of his religious tolerance.

Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.

You must know, sire, that my father was Mahmoud, the king of this country, the Black Isles, so called from the four little mountains which were once islands, while the capital was the place where now the great lake lies. My story will tell you how these changes came about.

Explosion A deep explosion in my soul Outbreak of an esoteric power Like an opened mystic door Unleashing secrets Strength, light, truth, love, live Conscience Inward awakening Something has taken my me Wisdom, powerfulness I feel invincible I am a warrior of life I become the mighty god we all have inside

Human backpacks look a lot like monster backpacks, but if you open one up you can see that they are exactly as big on the inside as they seem from the outside, implying humans never quite mastered basic dimensional design theory.

But all of a sudden the scene changed; it was the memory, no longer of old impressions but of an old desire, only recently reawakened by the Fortuny gown in blue and gold, that spread before me another spring, a spring not leafy at all but on the contrary suddenly stripped of its trees and flowers by the name that I had just murmured to myself: "Venice"; a decanted springtime, which is reduced to its own essence and expresses the lengthening, the warming, the gradual unfolding of its days in the progressive fermentation, no longer, now, of an impure soil, but of a blue and virginal water, springlike without bud or blossom, which could answer the call of May only by the gleaming facets fashioned and polished by May, harmonising exactly with it in the radiant, unalterable nakedness of its dusky sapphire. Likewise, too, no more than the seasons to its flowerless creeks, do modern times bring any change to the Gothic city; I knew it, even if I could not imagine it, or rather, imagining it, this was what I longed for with the same desire which long ago, when I was a boy, in the very ardour of departure, had broken and robbed me of the strength to make the journey: to find myself face to face with my Venetian imaginings, to observe how that divided sea enclosed in its meanderings, like the sinuosities of the ocean stream, and urbane and refined civilization, but one that, isolated by their azure girdle, had evolved independently, had had its own schools of painting and architecture, to admire that fabulous garden of fruits and birds in coloured stone, flowering in the midst of the sea which kept it refreshed, lapped the base of the columns with its tide, and, like a somber azure gaze watching in the shadows, kept patches of light perpetually flickering on the bold relief of the capitals.

My Lord: Keep your titles, your servant, your horse. Indeed, no man can deprive you of them. I send you with this passports which will see you all safely beyond the seas; for your affairs in Ireland I will be steward. Perhaps we shall meet on the battlefield. I recommend to you, my lord, a life of action. The titles which I now give you shall never be my signature; but I shall always remain, Your obedient servant, sir, Maskell and Brocas.

A vivid - if somewhat melodramatic - firsthand description of what deliberate practice can feel like comes from dancer Martha Graham: "Dancing appears glamorous, easy, delightful. But the path to the paradise of that achievement is not easier than any other. There is fatigue so great that the body cries even in its sleep. There are times of complete frustration. There are daily small deaths."

Number 15: Burger King foot lettuce. The last thing you want in your Burger King burger is someone's foot fungus. But as it turns out, that might be what you get.

huh, cannot ever rizz offline girl irl and I did one time to rizz online girl idk who was she

This was a triumph. I'm making a note here: HUGE SUCCESS. It's hard to overstate my satisfaction. Aperture Science We do what we must because we can. For the good of all of us. Except the ones who are dead. But there's no sense crying over every mistake. You just keep on trying till you run out of cake. And the Science gets done. And you make a neat gun. For the people who are still alive. I'm not even angry. I'm being so sincere right now. Even though you broke my heart. And killed me. And tore me to pieces. And threw every piece into a fire. As they burned it hurt because I was so happy for you! Now these points of data make a beautiful line. And we're out of beta. We're releasing on time. So I'm GLaD. I got burned. Think of all the things we learned for the people who are still alive. Go ahead and leave me. I think I prefer to stay inside. Maybe you'll find someone else to help you. Maybe Black Mesa... THAT WAS A JOKE. FAT CHANCE. Anyway, this cake is great. It's so delicious and moist. Look at me still talking when there's Science to do. When I look out there, it makes me GLaD I'm not you. I've experiments to run. There is research to be done. On the people who are still alive. PS: And believe me I am still alive. PPS: I'm doing Science and I'm still alive. PPPS: I feel FANTASTIC and I'm still alive. FINAL THOUGHT: While you're dying I'll be still alive. FINAL THOUGHT PS: And when you're dead I will be still alive. STILL ALIVE THANK YOU FOR PARTICIPATING IN THIS ENRICHMENT CENTER ACTIVITY!!

And yet there had never been a biologic crisis. The Andromeda Strain provided the first.

Keelhauled and crippled Tangled in misery An abyss of dying dreams Cascading delirium Mirrored waters Through oceans celestial Time steals nostalgia For only the pain is real

Around midafternoon, the snow thinned into sleet, and some umbrellas appeared on Kissena Boulevard. When the green lights came on, pedestrians skirted or jumped across the puddles gathering at the curbs.

GLaDOS: Well, this is the part where he kills us. Wheatley: Hello! This is the part where I kill you!

Colour me stoned Colour me dumb Colour me green Colour me gone Colour me high Colour me low Colour me out on the edge somewhere I don't know

The fall (bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!) of a once wallstrait oldparr is retaled early in bed and later on life down through all christian minstrelsy.

Anything which has ended is finished That which is perfect is finished The perfect man is no exception to the rule The perfect man of the past is made according to the rule of the past The rule of the past is a law of injustice and hypocrisy The revelation of the meaning of the law is revealed through the law itself

HUGE NEWS DROP TODAY! JON HAS ANNOUNCED HUGE BANS AND WE GOT ZOMBIESWAP, VIELLE, PDL, AND EVEN ADELINE FUCKING HAPPENING HOLY SHIT TRUST KARA! I FUCKING KNEW IT WE WON IT BIGGEST BANWAVE IN TR HISTORY ! A MOAB HAS BEEN DETONATED! THE KRAKEN HAS BEEN RELEASED!!!!! JAMMIE AND JISOO WERE RIGHT HOLY FUCKING SHIT I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S HAPPENING ZOMBIESWAP IS CONSEEDING RIGHT NOW GO TO TYPERACER-STATS HOLY SHIT JON AND BILL KARA ARE STANDING THERE WE DID IT TYPERACERBROS WE FUCKING DID IT HOLY SHIT IT'S HAPPENING I CAN'T BELIEVE THE TEARS IN MY EYES WE WON THE DEEP STATE IS DEFEATED OH MY GOD IT'S FUCKING ALL REAL!!!!!!

We also constantly give thanks to God for this, that when you received the word of God that you heard from us, you accepted it not as a human word but as what it really is, God's word, which is also at work in you believers. For you, brothers and sisters, became imitators of the churches of God in Christ Jesus that are in Judea, for you suffered the same things from your own compatriots as they did from the Jews, who killed both the Lord Jesus and the prophets, and drove us out; they displease God and oppose everyone by hindering us from speaking to the Gentiles so that they may be saved. Thus they have constantly been filling up the measure of their sins; but God's wrath had overtaken them at last.

In his dark room he is finally alone with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows. The only light is red and softly glows, as though this were a church and he a priest preparing to intone a Mass. Belfast. Beirut. Phnom Penh. All flesh is grass. He has a job to do. Solutions slop in trays beneath his hands, which did not tremble then though seem to now. Rural England. Home again to ordinary pain which simple weather can dispel, to fields which don't explode beneath the feet of running children in a nightmare heat. Something is happening. A stranger's features faintly start to twist before his eyes, a half-formed ghost. He remembers the cries of this man's wife, how he sought approval without words to do what someone must and how the blood stained into foreign dust. A hundred agonies in black and white from which his editor will pick out five or six for Sunday's supplement. The reader's eyeballs prick with tears between the bath and pre-lunch beers. From the aeroplane he stares impassively at where he earns his living and they do not care.

# What if method call ordering needs differ from the MRO? >>> class B: def __init__(self): print('B.__init__'); super().__init__() >>> class C: def __init__(self): print('C.__init__'); super().__init__() >>> class D(B, C): def __init__(self): print('D.__init__'); C.__init__(self); B.__init__(self) >>> X = D() D.__init__ C.__init__ B.__init__ C.__init__ # It's the MRO xor explicit calls...