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the return

(the lyric bythos gave me for the music box used to be my friends page title)

in your spiritual life...
words that embody your presence are "fulfillment, industry, television".
words that embody the people or things that you interact with are "cube, fall, hard, rage".
words that embody things that may be a part of you are "asia, axe, baby, beer, bread, day, fact, fear, gin, peace, web".
words that embody people or things in your periphery are "attraction, blue, cup, encyclopedia, film, food, gamble, line, luxury, mathematics, mercury, mind, pact, pain, poverty, revelation, satellite, splendor, stonehenge, toe, unknown".

the card in the center represents the present status or challenge of the relationship. ace of pentacles: the seed of prosperity and material gain - perhaps as yet unseen. a new foundation from which to turn your dreams into reality. the need to focus on the practical and understand the dynamics of the natural world. may represent a gift, document, inheritance, or an unexpected opportunity for physical achievement.

***

their noisome dark-green ichor formed a large, spreading pool; but its stench was half overshadowed by the newer and stranger stench, here more pungent than at any other point along our route.

and the toads sat on the stones and dropped their spittle in the water; and the reeds were yellow that grew along the edge. and at night, a heavy, white fog gathered over the water, so that the stars could not see through it; and by day a fine white mist hung over it, and the sunbeams could not play on it. and no man knew that once the marsh had leapt forth clear and blue from under a hood of snow on the mountain's top: aye, and that the turning of one stone might have caused that it had run on and on, and mingled its song with the sea's song for ever.

the stranger was silent for a while.

this is america. we fought lexington to free ourselves; we fought gettysburg to free others. yet the yoke remains; we have only shifted it to the other shoulder. we talk of liberty–oh, the farce of it, oh, the folly of it! we tell ourselves and teach our children that we have achieved liberty, that we no longer need fight for it. why, the fight is just beginning and so long as our conception of liberty remains as it is to—day, it will continue.

“for we conceive of liberty in the statues we raise to her as a beautiful woman, crowned, victorious, in bright armour and white robes, a light in her uplifted hand–a serene, calm, conquering goddess. oh, the farce of it, oh, the folly of it! liberty is not a crowned goddess, beautiful, in spotless garments, victorious, supreme. liberty is the man in the street, a terrible figure, rushing through powder smoke, fouled with the mud and ordure of the gutter, bloody, rampant, brutal, yelling curses, in one hand a smoking rifle, in the other, a blazing torch.

“freedom is not given free to any who ask; liberty is not born of the gods. she is a child of the people, born in the very height and heat of battle, born from death, stained with blood, grimed with powder. and she grows to be not a goddess, but a fury, a fearful figure, slaying friend and foe alike, raging, insatiable, merciless, the red terror.”

presley ceased speaking. weak, shaking, scarcely knowing what he was about, he descended from the stage. a prolonged explosion of applause followed, the opera house roaring to the roof, men cheering, stamping, waving their hats. but it was not intelligent applause. instinctively as he made his way out, presley knew that, after all, he had not once held the hearts of his audience. he had talked as he would have written; for all his scorn of literature, he had been literary. the men who listened to him, ranchers, country people, store—keepers, attentive though they were, were not once sympathetic. vaguely they had felt that here was something which other men–more educated–would possibly consider eloquent. they applauded vociferously but perfunctorily, in order to appear to understand.

presley, for all his love of the people, saw clearly for one moment that he was an outsider to their minds. he had not helped them nor their cause in the least; he never would.

disappointed, bewildered, ashamed, he made his way slowly from the opera house and stood on the steps outside, thoughtful, his head bent.

he had failed, thus he told himself. in that moment of crisis, that at the time he believed had been an inspiration, he had failed. the people would not consider him, would not believe that he could do them service. then suddenly he seemed to remember. the resolute set of his lips returned once more. pushing his way through the crowded streets, he went on towards the stable where he had left his pony.

the little house escaped by a miracle. marie considered it the same miracle that left holy pictures unhurt on the walls of destroyed houses, and allowed the frailest of old ebony and rosewood crucifixes to remain unharmed.

women have strange fancies, sometimes.

york neil came toward them from the house. it was plain from his manner he had a joke up his sleeve.

"why is’t there goes impetuous rage with lion’s breed morose, and cunning with foxes, and to deer why given the ancestral fear and tendency to flee, and why in short do all the rest of traits engender from the very start of life in the members and mentality, if not because one certain power of mind that came from its own seed and breed waxes the same along with all the body? but were mind immortal, were it wont to change its bodies, how topsy—turvy would earth’s creatures act!"

once i heard a penetrating monk observe, whose convent stood near the city gates: "there goes one ready equally for doing or suffering, and of whom we shall soon hear that he is involved in some great catastrophe--it may be of deep calamity--it may be of memorable guilt."

"it's a fact he seemed to be against george merry," silver admitted, musingly. "but george is little more'n a name at the best of it," he added, brightening. "and to get into soundings for once. what is this good? i made a mutiny, and i been a gentleman o' fortune; well, but by all stories, you ain't no such saint. i'm a man that keeps company very easy; even by your own account, you ain't, and to my certain knowledge you're a devil to haze. which is which? which is good, and which bad? ah, you tell me that! here we are in stays, and you may lay to it!"

"i said it in hebrew--i said it in dutch-- i said it in german and greek: but i wholly forgot (and it vexes me much) that english is what you speak!"

then, as one who lives alone in the country, far from any neighbor, hides a brand as fire-seed in the ashes to save himself from having to get a light elsewhere, even so did ulysses cover himself up with leaves; and minerva shed a sweet sleep upon his eyes, closed his eyelids, and made him lose all memories of his sorrows.

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