I think that's shameful, even if it's just a story, to propose an afterlife for evil... Any afterlife notion is a manipulation and a sop. It's shameful the way the unionists and the pagans both keep t...
You lost your copper as well as your faith in wishes, and prayers.
You know our Alice. She plays hide-and-seek but sometimes forgets to ask someone to look for her.
You can endure any sort of prison if you can apprehend a window in the dark.
With all those stars in the sky, why isn't there enough light for us to see by? We stumble like blinded sheep.''As you can see, it is clouding over. The stars can't pierce the gloom; they just wait it...
What's the different between a shooting star and a falling house? One which is propitious grants delicious wishes, the other which is vicious squishes witches.
What did it say about the movement of time, about what was about to happen, that I could understand the hummingbird spin of human voices?
What a mystery we are to ourselves, even as we go on, learning more, sorting it out a little. The further on we go, the more meaning there is but the less articulable. You live your life, and the olde...
Those times are over and gone, and good-riddance to them, too. We were hopelessly high-spirited. Now we're the thick-waisted generation, dragging along our children behind us and carrying our parents...
They had ganged up on her, in the claustrophobic, loving way of families, and she wanted no more of it.
There is a limit to the nonsense even a dream can attempt.
The body apologizes to the soul for its errors, and the soul asks forgiveness for squatting in the body without invitation.
She added, perhaps to herself, You have to become old and ugly before anyone listens to you, and then they don't, because you're ugly and old.
Será que o diabo já se esforçou para ser bom de novo ou, se fizer isso, não é um demônio?
Quanto mais civilizados nos tornamos, mais horrendas são as nossas diversões.
People who claim that they're evil are usually no worse than the rest of us... It's people who claim that they're good, or any way better than the rest of us, that you have to be wary of.
Now this is this, or seems to be.
Noon is a disguise of whiteness put on by the eternal Night behind it.
It's the only condition I know. Bitter Love, Loneliness, contempt for corruption, blind hope. It's where I live. A permanent state of bereavement. This is nothing new.
It would have made a nice painting, were someone to choose something as lowly as that to study. Another story, a story written in oils rather than one painted on porcelain. But to be most effective, t...