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“Outside my bike, never has anything important in my life been just mine."
My body stilled, so did my heart, and my eyes locked with his.
He started moving again, slowly, deeply and he kept talking. "Always castoffs, leftovers, used, sometimes even food from the dumpsters."
My heart started beating again, only to trip over itself; my breath came fast, not only from what was happening to my body but what he was saying.
"Vance-"
His lips came to mine, his hands moved out of my hair and went to the side of my face and he stared in my eyes, pressing deep inside.
"Mine," he muttered, his deep voice hoarse, that fierce undercurrent there.
His tone caused a shiver to run through me, straight through to my soul.
Then he kissed me.”
― Kristen Ashley, Rock Chick Renegade

“I'll keep your secrets with me, right behind my teeth.”
― Paramore

“Baby, I'm not afraid. I've been to hell and back. I'm a free spirit, a wild child and a renegade.”
― Mishi McCoy

“First the mania for confession,
then the mania for clarity,
issued from you, dark, hypocritical
sentiment! Let them now
condemn my every passion, let them
drag me through the mud, call me twisted,
foul pervert, dilettante, perjurer;
you keep me apart, give me life’s assurance:
I burn at the stake, play the card of fire
and win: I win this small,
vast possession, my infinite,
miserable pity
which makes even righteous anger my friend.
And I can do this because I’ve endured you too long!”
― Pier Paolo Pasolini, Selected Poems

“Billos ran. He tore down the shore, bounded up on the rock, and dove into the air.
The warm water engulfed him. A boiling heat knocked the wind from his lungs. The shock alone might kill him.
But it was pleasure that surged through his body, not pain. The sensations coursed through his bones in great unrelenting waves.
Elyon.
How he was certain, he did not know. But he knew. Elyon was in this lake with him.
Billos opened his eyes. Gold light drifted by. He lost all sense of direction. The water pressed in on every inch of his body, as intense as any acid, but one that burned with pleasure instead of pain.
He sank into the water, opened his mouth and laughed. He wanted more, much more. He wanted to suck the water in and drink it.
Without thinking, he did just that. The liquid hit his lungs. Billos pulled up, panicked. He tried to hack the water from his lungs, but inhaled more instead. No pain. He carefully sucked more water and breathed it out slowly. Then again, deep and hard. Out with a soft whoosh. He was breathing the water!
Billos shrieked with laughter. He swam into the lake, deeper and deeper. The power contained in this lake was far greater than anything he'd ever imagined.
"I made this, Billos."
Billos whipped his body around, searching for the words' source. "Elyon?" His voice was muffled, hardly a voice at all.
"Do you like it?"
"Yes!" Billos said. He might have spoken; he might have shouted--he didn't know. He only knew that his whole body screamed it.
Billos looked around. "Elyon?"
"Why do you doubt me, Billos?"
In that single moment the full weight of Billos's foolishness crashed on him like a sledgehammer.
"I see you, Billos."
"I made you."
"I love you."
The words crashed over him, reaching into the deepest folds of his flesh, caressing each hidden synapse, flowing through every vein, as though he had been given a transfusion.
"I choose you, Billos."
Billos began to weep. The feeling was more intense than any pain he had ever felt.
The current pulled at him, tugging him up through the colors. His body trembled with pleasure. He wanted to speak, to yell, to tell the whole world that he was the most fortunate person in the universe. That he was loved by Elyon. Elyon himself.
"Never leave me, Billos."
"Never! I will never leave you."
The current pushed him through the water and then above the surface not ten meters from the shore. He stood on the sandy bottom. For a moment he had such clarity of mind that he was sure he could understand the very fabric of space if he put his mind to it.
He was chosen.
He was loved.”
― Ted Dekker, Renegade

“To identify a person as a Southerner suggests not only that her history is inescapable and formative but that it is also impossibly present. Southerners live uneasily at the nexus between myth and reality, watching the mishmash amalgam of sorrow, humility, honor, graciousness, and renegade defiance play out against a backdrop of profligate physical beauty.”
― Sally Mann, Deep South

“A stab from a friend cuts deeper than a stab from a foe.”
― Amit Kalantri, Wealth of Words

“She was permitting herself the luxury she had often dreamed-of doing exactly what she pleased and telling people who didn't like it to go to hell. To her had come that pleasant intoxication peculiar to those whose lives are a deliberate slap in the fact of organized society-the gambler, the confidence man, the polite adventuress, all those who succeed by their wits.”
― Margaret Mitchell, Gone with the Wind