The_Grynne

So the removal of aboriginal human beings from their homeland to create a commodified wilderness is a deliberate charade, a culturally constructed neo-Edenic narrative played out for the enchantment of weary human urbanites yearning for the open frontier that their ancestors “discovered,” then tamed, a place to absorb the sounds and images of virgin nature and forget for a moment the thoroughly unnatural lives they lead.

Which brings us back to why Omar--the gunfighter, the superhero, the last honest criminal in Baltimore--had to die. His death is a renunciation of fiction and its comforts. Which, in true postmodern form, still follows the rules of the fiction it renounces: as one character says in Ishmael Reed's Japanese by Spring, "in your Westerns, the gunslinger is always bested, ultimately, by an upstart."

David [Simon] and Ed [Burns] have been doing a phenomenal job writing this character. I never got in the way of that, and I wasn’t going to start to do it now. It’s sad that he had to go. If I had my way, he would have stayed in Puerto Rico with Renaldo. It’s sad. I’m not going to lie.

Therem Harth rem ir Estraven's own imaginings - like love in old cities - are ones from another lifetime, unchanging the same way that love is love.

It's too soon to tell yet if he likes these people or not, but already, he wants to. He thinks he will.

You wake up, and it's cold.

Dust plagues the world, bathing it in a rain of sin, and perhaps, perhaps if she can find the origin of that original sin, wipe it from existence, then perhaps she'll get her God back.

I do not want to break your heart, Vesper worried, guilt and affection intertwined. She kissed his forehead and tipped her face to the rosy sky, and felt a little better, but I suppose your heart can take it, being broken so little.

Nathan couldn't believe he was face down on the fucking floor. Face down was supposed to be fun. Face down was not supposed to happen in the local branch of the Bank of London.

If he didn't look, he could imagine his friend leaning back in his seat in the stands, smiling brightly, as if to say, "See? I said you'd do it." And their eyes would meet clearly, as though there were no crowd at all.

But then something unreadable shadowed across Connor's face and he said, "Nothing. I've never been anything other than this."

She used to have a name. Now it's always `baby' or `sweetheart.' `Mrs Gold.' `Darling,' from directors of a certain stripe. This is L.A. - she expected nothing else. Except that Ari arches his neck and moans, "E, Eric, baby, E, come on."

Mitchell gave George a dead-pan stare. "It's probably best if we work at not killing things together."

and she knows that for better or for worse Bigby is the Wolf and the Wolf Bigby, and he is hers

“I remember coming out of Elizabeth and thinking, Who is this?!” the director says. “I didn’t know who she was, but that power from someone in relative obscurity was like seeing her leaping fully realized from the head of Zeus.”

“You declare a holiday to revere the Lord yet do not honor it. Your concerns are shallow and profane. There is so little joy, even you do not feel it.”

"You couldn't have saved him, Sam. Not alone. Not unaided. And the aid you sought would have killed you both in the end."

She did not speak for a long time, instead watching him. "Already, I see it in you," Lasha said at last. "Volatile, human urges. They complicate things so much."

It’s been two days since Ruby left the Winchesters in Bumfuck, End-of-the-US, when she comes back to her room to find her protective spells broken, and an angel standing by the wall.

Three days since that night in the barn, and Dean had managed to convince himself that no matter what he thought he'd seen there was no such thing as angels.

With a suddenness that Castiel had never expected Dean pushed him back into the drift of snow. In the crystal clear clarity that followed Castiel wondered, just for a moment, if this was what Falling was like.