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“Now goes under, and I watch it go under, the sun That will not rise again. Today has seen the setting, in your eyes cold and senseless as the sea, Of friendship better than bread, and of bright charity That lifts a man a little above the beasts that run. That this could be! That I should live to see Most vulgar Pride, that stale obstreperous clown, So fitted out with purple robe and crown To stand among his betters! Face to face With outraged me in this once holy place, Where Wisdom was a favoured guest and hunted Truth was harboured out of danger, He bulks enthroned, a lewd, an insupportable stranger! I would have sworn, indeed I swore it: The hills may shift, the waters may decline, Winter may twist the stem from the twig that bore it, But never your love from me, your hand from mine. Now goes under the sun, and I watch it go under. Farewell, sweet light, great wonder! You, too, farewell,-but fare not well enough to dream You have done wisely to invite the night before the darkness came.”

“Now, grip the bull tight with your thighs.” She dutifully tensed her thighs. “Not tense. Grip. Real hard with your whole thigh.” His voice dropped, his lips pressing in closer to her ear as he murmured, “I know you know how to do that.” A surge of heat shot from her core. Didn’t he know she was having a hard enough time sitting on the damn thing as it was without sexual innuendo messing with her equilibrium? She shot him a don’t-make-me-get-off-this-thing look but gripped. Hard. “Atta girl,” he whispered. Joss gritted her teeth. “Don’t push your luck, cowboy.”

“Now Hadley presses her forehead against the window of the taxi and once again finds herself smiling at the thought of him. He's like a song she can't get out of her head. Hard as she tries, the melody of their meeting runs through her mind on an endless loop, each time as surprisingly sweet as the last, like a lullaby, like a hymn, and she doesn't think she could ever get tired of hearing it.”

“Now Harry,” she began, “Magic is in itself a form of religion, but there are powerful beings who can be considered as gods and goddesses. Herne the Hunter, Morrigan, Cernunnos, Epona are a few British deities just like Odin, Thor, Zeus, Hera, Isis, Osiris, etc. are deities of other times and countries. Even the more modern gods like the Christ, Buddha, Allah, etc. are powerful beings or representations of the ‘Uncaused Cause’ as the creator of all things is sometimes called.”

“Now have two generations whose minds have been totally perverted, polluted, and destroyed by the American public education system, and, in particular, the history curriculum. Breitbart has a story on how this has happened. As the left appeases Muslims, public schools are teaching students to hate America.”

“Now having travelled from the pride of man in the High Renaissance and the Enlightenment down to the present despair, we can understand where modern people are. They have no place for a personal God. But equally they have no place for man as man, or for love, or for freedom, or for significance. This brings a crucial problem. Beginning only from man himself, people affirm that man is only a machine. But those who hold this position cannot live like machines! If they could, there would be no tensions in their intellectual position or in their lives. But even people who believe they are machines cannot live like machines, and thus they must “leap upstairs” against their reason and try to find something which gives meaning to life, even though to do so they have to deny their reason. This was a solution Leonardo da Vinci and the men of the Renaissance never would have accepted, even if, like Leonardo they ended their thinking in despondency. They would not have done so, for they would have considered it intellectual suicide to separate meaning and values from reason this way. And they would have been right. Such a solution is intellectual suicide, and one may question the intellectual integrity of those who accept such a position when their starting point was pride in the sufficiency of human reason.”

“Now he began to see for the first time the unbelievable magnitude of what man, when he gained power to understand and rule the world in terms of dialectic truths, had lost. He had built empires of scientific capability to manipulate the phenomena of nature into enormous manifestations of his own dreams of power and wealth...but for this he had exchanged an empire of understanding of equal magnitude: an understanding of what it is to be a part of the world, and not an enemy of it.”

“Now he had chanced on one of he standard hard-on sessions of the shower, as on both sides of him and across the room three queens sported horizontal members which they turned around from time to time to conceal or display, barely exchanging looks as they resolved. The old men took no interest in this activity, knowing perhaps from long experience that it rarely meant anything or led anywhere, was a brief and helpless surrender to the forcing-house of the shower. In a few seconds the hard-on might pass from one end of the room to the other with the foolish perfection of a Busby Berkeley routine.”

“Now he haunts me seldom: some fierce umbilical is broken, I live with my own fragile hopes and sudden rising despair. Now I do not weep for my sins; I have learned to love them And to know that they are the wounds that make love real. His face illudes me; his voice, with its pity, does not ring in my ear. His maxims memorized in boyhood do not make fruitless and pointless my experience. I walk alone, but not so terrified as when he held my hand. I do not splash in the blood of his son nor hear the crunch of nails or thorns piercing protesting flesh. I am a boy again--I whose boyhood was turned to manhood in a brutal myth. Now wine is only wine with drops that do not taste of blood. The bread I eat has too much pride for transubstantiation, I, too--and together the bread and I embrace, Each grateful to be what we are, each loving from our own reality.”

“Now," he huffed, the heat of his breath against her pussy near enough to drive her insane, "you're going to ride my face and you come." His hands gripped the backs of her thighs, cupping her ass firmly, bringing her down to him. "What if I crush you?" she asked. "You won't. There is nowhere else I would rather be right now, Rosemary." Ellis looked up at her from between her legs, his pupils blown wide, a grin on his face. Then he pulled her to him. The first suck of his mouth sent a jolt of pleasure right through her. "Fuck," Rosemary hissed, as Ellis lapped at her centre, using his hands to move her, showing her how to grind against him. She was shy at first, but that soon faded, with every firm lick on her cunt, every kiss Ellis planted on her clit. He seemed to be taking just as much pleasure from this as she did, groaning as she writhed against his lips. She loved watching him lose control; she wanted to be the one to elicit this reaction from him. Rosemary let herself go, grinding into the heat of Ellis's mouth, seeing stars as the orgasm crashed through her.”

“Now he looked at the classic parked on the street and admitted, “I bought it soon after we met. I… had hoped someday I might have this chance.” I pointed to the Galaxie. “You can’t possibly have felt like that for me then!” He turned to gaze into my eyes, laying his chin on my shoulder as he said softly, “I have loved you with everything in me from the moment I saw you.”

“Now he must get back to Margaret. In the old days, he used to come home full of tales about deliveries, excited, even exalted by having witnessed the same old miracle. But after they lost both their sons in the war, she couldn't stand to hear about any of that and he kept it to himself. She had become a shadow, acquiescent, passive, full of humdrum little remarks about the house and the weather and how hard he was on his clothes, and then he'd bought her a puppy, and she talked endlessly about that. It had become a fat spoiled dog, and still she talked about it as though it were a puppy. It was all he could think to do for her, as his grief had never been allowed to be on par with hers. He kept that to himself as well. But when he was alone in the car like this, and with a drop of whisky inside him, he thought about Ian and Donald who were never spoken of at home, who would, he felt, be entirely forgotten except for his own memory and their names on the village monument.”

“Now he realized the truth: that sacrifice was no purchase of freedom. It was like a great elective office, it was like an inheritance of power - to certain people at certain times an essential luxury, carrying with it not a guarantee but a responsibility, not a security but an infinite risk. Its very momentum might drag him down to ruin - the passing of the emotional wave that made it possible might leave the one who made it high and dry forever on an island of despair...Sacrifice by its very nature was arrogant and impersonal; sacrifice should be eternally supercilious.”

“Now he's sautéing onions, garlic, bell peppers and paprika in a generous amount of oil?" "Aha! I know! He's making soffritto, a base paste commonly used in Italian cuisine!" Soffritto is finely diced herbs and vegetables sautéed in butter or olive oil until they become a paste. It's closely related to the French Mirepoix of onions, carrots and celery. But by adding paprika and bell peppers to the Italian version... yes, that will meld well with the anchoiade sauce, giving it depth and sweetness!”

“Now," he said, turning me to face him. "Let us dance, Elisabeth." The musicians struck up another song, one I didn't recognize. The tempo was slow and in a minor key, seductive and sinister. The Goblin King pulled me into his embrace. He pressed his hand to my lower back, pushing our hips close together. Our hands met palm to palm, fingers intertwined. He was not masked and neither was I. Our eyes met. Despite the closeness of our bodies, it was the touch of our eyes that made me blush. "Mein Herr," I demurred. "I don't think-" "You think too much, Elisabeth," he said. "Too much about propriety, too much about duty, too much about everything but music. For once, don't think." The Goblin King smiled. It was a wicked grin, one that made me feel unsafe and excited at the same time. "Don't think. Feel.”

“Now he sat alone; on a disabled starship about fifty years from anywhere on conversion drive – assuming he still had that. Insurance was a good thing – a very good thing - but it wasn’t going to help him much out here. The highlight of his afternoon was going to be staring at the blinking bridge instrumentation – which just happened to be running on the emergency batteries and actually blinking, like for real. Moreover, since his mutinous crew had made off with the Short Shit, the ships only shuttle, he was facing quite a problem”

“Now he saw another elephant emerge from the place where it had stood hidden in the trees. Very slowly it walked to the mutilated body and looked down. With its sinuous trunk it struck the huge corpse; then it reached up, broke some leafy branches with a snap, and draped them over the mass of torn thick flesh. Finally it tilted its massive head, raised its trunk, and roared into the empty landscape.”

“Now he slept soundly through the nights, and often he dreamed of trains, and often of one particular train: He was on it; he could smell the coal smoke; a world went by. And then he was standing in that world as the sound of the train died away. A frail familiarity in these scenes hinted to him that they came from his childhood. Sometimes he woke to hear the sound of the Spokane International fading up the valley and realized he’d been hearing the locomotive as he dreamed.”