Mp Love Quotes

All night long Alec sat in his chair in his pyjamas and dressing gown, socks on his feet to keep out the cold, a cigarette in his fingers with a long ash hovering over a half-full ashtray. He attempted to go to bed but the incident with Father Joe kept his mind in turmoil. This girl, well, woman now – she would be around thirty – was a mystery during the war. She was kidnapped, it was thought, from her school, the day the Germans entered Paris. Her uncle, Sir Jason Barrett MP, was in England; her step-parents were somewhere else in France, on holiday, and found they could not get back; and Charlotte was being cared for by a Swedish couple, a nanny or housekeeper and her chauffeur husband. Was Charlotte actually Freya? What had this baron fellow to do with Freya, apart from marrying her? Had she been a prostitute? And what was the old cleric babbling on about “finding her and protecting her”? From whom?

If I had an .MP3 of your heartbeat… I might actually get some sleep.

We all want love. We all need love. And no matter how much we push it away or pretend to deny ourselves of it, our hearts will always desire it.

Maybe that’s why I wanted to get lost somewhere, because I wanted to be found.

But for me, if we're talking about romance, cassettes wipe the floor with MP3s. This has nothing to do with superstition, or nostalgia. MP3s buzz straight to your brain. That's part of what I love about them. But the rhythm of the mix tape is the rhythm of romance, the analog hum of a physical connection between two sloppy human bodies. The cassette is full of tape hiss and room tone; it's full of wasted space, unnecessary noise. Compared to the go-go-go rhythm of an MP3, mix tapes are hopelessly inefficient. You go back to a cassette the way a detective sits and pours drinks for the elderly motel clerk who tells stories about the old days--you know you might be somewhat bored, but there might be a clue in there somewhere. And if there isn't, what the hell? It's not a bad time. You know you will waste time. You plan on it.

And they got blackout drunk one night and it just happened. It was basically an accident, and he gave me the most sincere and moving confession of all time, swore to God he loved me so much and would do anything to convince me, blah blah blah, but it didn’t matter, I kept thinking about it and running it through my head and just burning with it. I cried every night for weeks. Practically wore the binary off all my saddest Mp3s.

To be in love with pain-to pine after aching-is not that a wicked madness?

description by the former girlfriend of a grossly overweight MP, who had said that making love to him was like having a wardrobe fall on top of her with the key still in the door. That

If “piracy” means using value from someone else’s creative property without permission from that creator–as it is increasingly described today – then every industry affected by copyright today is the product and beneficiary of a certain kind of piracy. Film, records, radio, cable TV… Extremists in this debate love to say “You wouldn’t go into Barnes & Noble and take a book off of the shelf without paying; why should it be any different with online music?” The difference is, of course, that when you take a book from Barnes & Noble, it has one less book to sell. By contrast, when you take an MP3 from a computer network, there is not one less CD that can be sold. The physics of piracy of the intangible are different from the physics of piracy of the tangible.

Put stress always on the aspiration within; let that get depth and steadiness in the heart; the outer obstacles of mind and the vital will recede of themselves with the growth of the heart's love and aspiration. Breath of Grace, editor: M.P. Pandit, p.205

Jean-Luc takes a deep drag, flips a page of his book, and exhales. The smoke hangs in midair for a second like a ghost flashing through. In my usual world, I would’ve despised the sight and the smell of his cigarette. But this is not my usual world, and this is not my usual self. Instead, the smoke becomes a magical sight and even the smell captivates me.

I inhale slowly, soaking it all in. I step forward and backward, my neck twisting and turning, memorizing every corner. I feel an instant connection to this place. Something about being here grabs me and infatuates me. I begin taking mental pictures of the narrow alleys decorated with rows of artists and vendors. I start imagining myself dining at the sidewalk cafes, sitting there with Chad during the summer, spring, winter, and fall. I get this strong desire to take off my shoes and walk barefooted on the cobblestones as if I have found my new home.

When Diana returned to work on Monday, September 16, she came directly to my bedroom and announced, “Mrs. Robertson, I have something important to tell you.” I could see out of the corner of my eye that she had a slight, mischievous grin on her face. “Go right ahead,” I said as I continued to blow-dry my hair in front of the mirror above the dresser. “No, Mrs. Robertson, I’d like your full attention.” I switched off my hair dryer and faced her as she stood in the doorway. “When you leave for work this morning, you’ll notice a lot of reporters and photographers at the entrance to the mews.” I wondered aloud if the press were following either Lord Vestey, a notorious international financier, or John Browne, a bright young M.P. known as one of “Maggie’s boys,” both of whom lived on our small street. “No, actually, Mrs. Robertson, they’re waiting for me,” Diana said with a great deal of blushing, staring at the floor, and throat clearing. “Good heavens, Diana, why?” “Well . . . I spent last weekend at Balmoral.” “With Prince Andrew?” I asked, remembering my friend Lee’s comment on the way to Glyndebourne. “No, actually, I was there to see Prince Charles.” More blushes and throat clearing, quickly followed by her disclaimer, “But he didn’t invite me. His mother did.” Hearing Diana speak of Her Majesty the Queen as “his mother” certainly gave me a clear picture of the circles in which Diana moved. I gasped and asked, probably rather tactlessly, “Gosh, do you think there’s any chance of a romance developing?” “Not really,” she said with noticeable regret. “After all, he’s thirty-one and I’m only nineteen. He’d never look seriously at me.” So modest, so appealing. I couldn’t imagine him not learning to love her. We certainly had. “Well, Diana, I wouldn’t be so sure,” I replied, thinking of my prediction from July.

So why choose to be so pessimistic? Instead, why not choose the power of your imagination mixed with realistic thinking to create a happier state of mind? Why not expect good things to happen, problems to be overcome, a robust Earth, loving relationships and a mind free from unnecessary fears?

Nothing about the way I want to destroy this perfect ass is holy, little brother.

The way he’s constricting around my cock has me wanting to confess every emotion and feeling I still have for him.  It’s euphoric the way we fit so perfectly together like this. Our bodies are still sweating, even under the hot water, our hearts racing and beating in sync.

I’m in love with this man. It’s as simple as that. I can deny it, fight it, and push it away, but he will keep coming back.

Minus my thoughts about our cocks rubbing against each other in a race for desperate release, or me begging him to spit on me just to have the chance to taste any part of him again.

But in here? In this space with you? You’re not in charge. You’re not the powerful one, Ronan. I am.

Say you hate me again as you’re about to come, little brother. Let your body talk to me, say the words you refuse to let out.

Now, Ronan. Come undone for me. Remind me again how much you hate me.

Your life is where you are now. It’s anywhere you go and anywhere you take it.

What is it about the fall that seems sentimental and romantic? There is something magical and mysterious about the way the leaves drop to the ground and how they shimmer in red, gold, and brown, creating a blanket of memories. And as you watch the trees become bare, a sweet, nostalgic feeling exists inside of you as you stroll the sidewalks that glisten with traces of rain, sprinkled across each path like little jewels. Your heart beats in a different rhythm as your thoughts dwell and wander about. You remember things that should be forgotten because they broke your heart once, and yet you allow them to linger for a while for the sake of reminiscing. You parade with the hopeless romantics and the brokenhearted down the streets, alone, reliving moments that once were. You hold on to these memories until the last day of fall, hoping that by winter, you will forget them all.

Sometimes it’s good to be a tourist. It slows you down. It makes you value the little things. It makes you take pictures and forces you to remember.

We leave Prince Arthur passing rows of restaurants and bars. Chad comes close to my ear and whispers, “It’s crowded here.” He looks at me and gently grabs my hand.

Now I must speak of him, and I like him very much . I am sure he is clever, and a man of taste. He got a volume of Milton last night, and spoke of it with warmth. He is quite an M.P., very smiling, with an exceeding good address and readines of language. I am rather in love with him. I dare say he is ambitious and insincere

D.O.S.E meaning the natural production of ‘feel-good’ brain chemicals such as: --Dopamine (responsible for intense pleasure.) --Oxytocin (known as the love hormone.) --Serotonin (a natural mood enhancer.) --Endorphins (a natural pain-killer).

Alex Blumberg: What if *I wanted to say 'Hey pull out your phones right now, and I'll show you a picture of what a better podcasting app would look like'? I can't. In other words, podcasts are still the same old MP3s they've always been, and by 'always', I mean, since the dark ages in 2004, when, according to Wikipedia, the word 'podcast' appeared for the first time in history. Matt says 'You're missing the truly big opportunity here - to make your own app - to take podcasting out of the dark ages, reinvent the way we listen.' Matt Mazzeo: Podcasts is frankly a technology that has really core audience on it that just love it, that hasn't broken out into the broader mainstream. Most people aren't podcast listeners. There are a whole bunch of things that are broken there, that you have an opportunity to fix.

Man is folly itself. Let this one fact only be considered: those same Greeks believed that they alone of the nations possessed the thing they called philosophia — the love of the subtleties of wisdom; and even while they were thus believing, the Vedic Hymns had been sung; the Brahmin had codified the intricate activities of the Attributes Sut, Raj, and Tum; and the Boodh had denied that Brahma, Vishnu, and Mahadeva were emanations of the Spirit of God. Such is the inborn vanity and shallowness of man.

What’s crazy is…I’m over him. But I’m not over what I allowed the relationship to turn me into.

She did not find these riches (of fulfillment). They were a gift from God.

The anthology was not a best-seller; art as a weapon seldom is.

Dennis and Mario, meanwhile, have fallen behind to debate the merits and demerits of Mario’s new phone. ‘The thing you don’t understand about this phone is that it’s state of the art, which means, this is the best phone you can get.’ ‘I do understand that, you moron, I’m saying what’s the point of having a state-of-the-art phone when everyone who’s going to call you on it is living six feet away from you?’ ‘I think what it is, is, you are jealous of my state-of-the-art phone, which has a camera and an MP3 player.’ ‘Mario, if you can’t see why your parents suddenly gave you that gay phone you’re even dimmer than I thought. I mean, think about it, they leave you in school for the entire holiday, and then they give you some rinky-dink piece of plastic so they can talk to you without having to see you face-to-face. They couldn’t say, “We don’t love you” more clearly if they wrote it in skywriting over the rugby pitches.’ ‘That shows what you know, because my parents do love me.’ ‘Well, why did they leave you here over mid-term, then?’ ‘They did not go into it, but they were very specific about it not being because they didn’t love me, and I know because I asked them that very question.

But for me, if we’re talking about romance, cassettes wipe the floor with MP3s. This has nothing to do with superstition, or nostalgia. MP3s buzz straight to your brain. That’s part of what I love about them. But the rhythm of the mix tape is the rhythm of romance, the analog hum of a physical connection between two sloppy, human bodies. The cassette is full of tape hiss and room tone; it’s full of wasted space, unnecessary noise. Compared to the go-go-go rhythm of an MP3, mix tapes are hopelessly inefficient.

Amardeep has been baptized ‘Raamji’ by MP. I don’t know when he got this weird nickname or why, but it was probably because of his simple, sober nature. Unlike the rest of us at the hostel, he was not at all a night person and his room’s light would go off precisely at 11 p.m. At times, MP, Happy and I used to stand outside

Pain wrung his heart. So, then, it was to be the same in death as it had always been in life. He concealed the bitter ache, pretending to laugh at something Chilcot was going on about. It was inevitable that during all those years they were growing up, people had compared him and Charles with each other. After all, they'd both been so close in age, so similar in looks and build. But in the eyes of those adults around them — adults who behaved as though neither child had ears nor feelings — Charles had been the golden boy — the Beloved One. Gareth's carefree, devil-may-care nature had never stood a chance against Charles's serious-minded ambition, his dogged pursuit of perfection at whatever he did. It was Charles who had the keener wit, the better brain, the more serious mind. It was Charles who'd make a magnificent MP or glittering ambassador in some faraway post, Charles who was a credit to his family, Charles, Charles, Charles — while he, Gareth ... well, God and the devil only knew what would become of poor Gareth. Charles had never been one to gloat or rub it in. Indeed, he'd resented the inevitable comparisons far more than Gareth, who laughingly pretended to accept them and then did his best to live down to what people expected of him. And why not? He had nothing to prove, no expectations to aspire to. Besides, he hadn't envied Charles. Not really. While Charles had been groomed to succeed to the dukedom should Lucien die without issue, he, Gareth, had been having the time of his life — running wild over Berkshire, over Eton, and most recently, over Oxford. Never in his twenty-three years, had he allowed himself to feel any envy or resentment toward his perfect, incomparable older brother. Until now — when he found himself wanting the one thing Charles had owned that he himself did not have:  the love of Juliet Paige. He looked at her now, standing off by herself with her head bent over Charlotte as she tried to soothe her. The child was screaming loudly enough to make the dead throw off their tombstones and rise up in protest, but her mother remained calm, holding the little girl against her bosom and patting her back. Gareth watched them, feeling excluded. Charles's bride. Charles's daughter. God help me. He knew he was staring at them with the desperation of one confined to hell and looking wistfully toward heaven. He thought of his wife's face when he'd taken Charles's ring off and put it on her other finger, the guilty gratitude in her eyes at this noble act of generosity that had cost him so little but had obviously meant so much to her. What could he do to deserve such a look of unabashed worship again? Why, she was looking at me as she must have looked at Charles. She still loved his brother. Everyone had loved his brother. He could only wonder what it might take to make her love him. But it's not me she wants. It's him. 'Sdeath. I could never compete with Charles when he was alive. How can I compete with him now? Lucien's cold judgment of the previous morning rang in his head:  You are lazy, feckless, dissolute, useless. He took a deep breath, and stared up through the great stained glass windows. You are an embarrassment to this family — and especially to me. He was second-best. Second choice. Perry

The day may dawn when fair play, love for one’s fellow men, and respect for justice and freedom will enable tormented generations to march forth serene and triumphant from the hideous epoch in which we have to dwell. Meanwhile, never flinch, never weary, never despair.

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I was lost in my own little world, devouring the pages of my book, taking slow sips of my lukewarm coffee, when an old man with a kind face and a gentle smile approached me. He had silver hair, and he wore a white button-down shirt, and brown trousers. He offered me his hand, and I recall closing my book in haste, taking his hand, and following him across the room, like I knew him. We stopped at a table where a man who looked like he was in his mid-thirties sat alone, immersed in the pages of his book. The old man leads me to the empty chair next to the stranger, and without hesitation, I sat down. Regardless of how perplexed I was by what was going on, I didn’t ask any questions. I didn’t want to. I was too amused by what was happening to me.