“He hunted with his groin but couldn't find her.”
“She thought she heard a faint growl. She listened harder. The warrior with all the gorgeous black hair was growling. Because she's said the other man was good-looking and muscular? Uh-huh. A clear case of caveman possessiveness...and it kind of got to her.”
“The last thing he heard was Medichi's voice crying out, "It must be the goddamn breh-hedden. Again. Holy shit! It's a fucking epidemic!”
“He turned back to her stomach and got very close. She thought he meant to kiss her again and prepared to enjoy his lips on her abdomen once more. Instead he addressed the fiery ball of cells.
"Lucy," he said, deepening his voice in a really wretched imitation of Darth Vader. "I am your father."
Alison groaned. her breh was such a ham. A terrible, wonderful, sexy, vampire ham. Who'd've thought?”
“She wanted to be the rain, to cover him with moisture, to bring life to his seed.”
“[...] Deep within, her female organs began to contract and release. She felt the path of his seed and now in her mind she could see a golden trail. How was this even possible? Dear God, how was any of this even possible?
Now she could see the chrysalis of her genetic material, a bright burning light at the end of a tunnel. The imagery made her smile then laugh. She could see his sperm, like lightning [...] If his DNA wanted to make a child, why wouldn't it move at an accelerated rate?
She felt the moment when her egg received his sperm and their child began all the fantastic portentous crazy cell replications. [...]”
“It's hard to say who's a greater threat to the world, an ambitious CEO with a big ad budget or a crafty cleric with an obsolete Bible verse.”
“Don't turn blue all over now.”
“We'll build our own home."
The promise curled around her heart, a vivid ray of sunlight. "In Manhattan?"
"Of course." A slow, slow smile. "What kind of mansion would you like?"
Damn, but the archangel was playing with her again. The sunshine grew, filled her veins.
"Actually, I kind of like yours." She slid her arms around his neck. "Can I have it? Oh, and can I have Jeeves, too? I've always wanted a butler."
"Yes."
She blinked. "Just like that?"
"It's only a place."
"We'll make it more," she promised, her mouth to his. "We'll make it ours.”
“If there is any political moral to be found in this world,” Stencil once wrote in his journal, “it is that we carry on the business of this century with an intolerable double vision. Right and Left; the hothouse and the street. The Right can only live and work hermetically, in the hothouses of the past, while outside the Left prosecute their affairs in the streets by manipulated mob violence. And cannot live but in the dreamscape of the future.
“What of the real present, the men-of-no-politics, the once-respectable Golden Mean? Obsolete; in any case, lost sight of. In a West of such extremes we can expect, at the very least, a highly ‘alienated’ populace within not many more years.”
“— Къщата край морето не е просто недвижима собственост. Това е състояние на ума [...].
— Къщата край морето — продължи старецът, — дори не е нужно да е край морето. Макар че най-хубавите са там. Всички ние обичаме да се събираме при гранични обстоятелства [...].
— Там, където сушата и водата се срещат. Където земята се среща с въздуха, където тялото се среща с ума. Където пространството се среща с времето. Обичаме да седим от едната страна и да гледаме другата.”
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