Pryce Quotes

The first lesson a watcher learns is to separate truth from illusion. Because in the world of magicks, it's the hardest thing to do.

After the first week I knew every line, freckle and scar on his body. Some might call it obsessive. I called it having an attention to detail. I can't help it if I'm overly observant.

The train slowed down at the approach to shrewsbury station and glided between the eleventh-century abbey and the stadium of shrewsbury town football club. Two sacred arenas where men chanted and waited for a miracle that never came.

Truth may be vital, but without love, it is unbearable. Caritas in veritate.

I feel like I just went to my own funeral. and I didn’t like the eulogy

Smart is totally sexy.

Nothing's ever simple. I just don't want you to ignore possibilities out of fear. Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith, believing that somebody's going to catch you.

Confession cleans the sinner's soul, it doesn't help the victim. Our whole church is in need of forgiveness. Where is our humility? Sin is a wound, not a stain. It needs to be treated, healed. Forgiveness is not enough.

We are seeing a globalization of indifference. There is a culture of conflict, which makes us think only of ourselves. Makes us live in soap bubbles which, however lovely, are also insubstantial. We've become used to the suffering of others. It doesn't affect me. No one in our world feels responsible.

It's not easy to entrust oneself to God's mercy. I know He has a very special capacity for forgetting our mistakes. God forgets, but I don't.

When Roy began to pace, smart people hid.

Release your past into the universe and embrace your future with opened arms.

That's the trouble with people like you, Knight, you only know how to mock. How to break things. You don't know how to create anything. You never did.

Pope Benedict : A Church that marries the spirit of the age... Pope Francis : Yes, ..will be widowed in the next.

Your imagination will get you to your destination.

As Freya Stark herself had put it: ‘To be treated with consideration is, in the case of female travellers, too often synonymous with being prevented from doing what one wants.

She was the woman who had been left £100,000 in Richard Pryce’s will. So she was part of the triangle that included Pryce and Lockwood! That had to mean something.

Every community is called to be an instrument for the liberation and promotion of the poor.

Truth is not a belief, it is a process.

Surviving is what any animal would do. It’s making something of yourself that earns the badge. Nobody can choose how they were born and raised, but everyone can choose how they’re going to live.

We all suffer from spiritual pride. We all do. You must remember that, uh... you are not God. In God, we move, and live, and have our being. We live in God, but we are not of it. You're only human.

The Story Is Always There Sometimes you don't need to talk to someone to see how they feel. You don't need to ask about their story. Some people have it written on their faces and you just have to take the time to read.

[W]ith a heavy heart, we are biding farewell to those entries that were written in rhyming slang, which utilized Atbash cyphering, and which assumed expert knowledge of American Sign Language and the inner intricacies of the I Ching from its readers.

Funny how the experience of one person could have such an impact on billions of others. Pryce wondered what that said about the way the world was run. Nothing good, she was sure of that. All politics is personal, Pryce thought. It turns out all policy is personal, too.

For the first time in my life, the karma fairy—bless her black, bitchy heart—looked the other way.

The door shut behind him, sealing me in with three pissed-off werewolves and a testy vampire, all of whom acted as if I were shit on the bottom of their shoe.

Now everything about their lives had become a duet.

Life is INCONCLUSIVE but its about an everlasting FUTURE

We need bridges, not walls.

The beauty of real peace is that it is immune to the cares of this world.

Real love defies logic

No, the truth about love is this: if they’d missed the bus they would now be saying the same things about a person they met five minutes later on the Prom; their love was an accident; their lover just a nobody, gift-wrapped by their own imagination. There was nothing uncanny about it. They should have kept the drawbridge to their hearts closed; kept the moat free from weed.

check your attitude. I didn’t get your men killed. Put the blame where it belongs, with the man you stabbed between the eyes. He’s dead. They’re dead. Anyone, at any given time, is seconds from death. Even you. Get over it.

It was partly the buzz you get at any big fight but also there was the build-up of static brought on by the rustling of pacamacs, and which had on occasion, so they said, given rise to the appearance of ball-lightning at these events.

The Story Is Always There Sometimes you don't need to speak to someone to know how they are feeling. You don't need to ask what is their story - often people have it written on their faces and you just have to take the time out to read it.

My ignorance about the quotidian aspects of Iranian life was unsettling in one sense but in another way it was refreshing not to have textbook images or holiday brochure promo material to raise expectations – and the inevitable disappointment when it didn’t materialise. It made me realise, even in our world of information overload, how little of daily Iranian life is known outside its borders, and how rare it is to be able to arrive in a country with the sensation of an utterly blank canvas waiting to be filled.

So, consider this. Today he’s sober, no traces of chemicals caught in his bloodstream, no bullet-blown high patching synthetic samples over the melody of his mind. Does that make this real or a side-effect of the comedown? Falling in love feels no-parachute sorts of terrifying, the ground rushing up too hard and too fast. If love is intangible, hypothetical, subjective and experienced on a uniquely individual basis, how can Jaxon ever truly know if that’s the way he’s feeling? But then, realistically, how can he know that it’s not?

... it seems to me there are two schools of thought. One you find in gift shops, written on trinkets adorned with pink hearts, on little notebooks and diaries and teddies and stuff; it says, “If you love them, let them go.” And then there’s the other school of thought, the Louie Knight school, which says, “If you love someone, don’t let them go.” The first one is fine if you live in a gift shop or if your supply of happiness on this earth is as plentiful and uninterrupted as the gas that comes through the mains. But if you’re like me and you find that most of the time the gas is cut off, you can’t afford to be so prodigal.

To some extent, the direction of one's chosen path automatically selects for the paths that may cross it. A warriors path will intersect the paths of other warriors, allies and enemies alike. A workers path will interest the paths of other workers. But as with games of cards and dice, sometimes unexpected crossings occur. Some are driven by chance, others by design, others by a change in one's goal. Some are driven by malice. Such manipulations can prove effective in the short term. But the longer-term consequences can be perilously difficult to predict. The path of Arihnda Pryce is one such example. A deep and perceptive study of it can serve as a valuable lesson. And as an even more valuable warning.

It is, of course, much easier for a literary character to take a risk for love. The realities of social strata and responsibility mean nothing but a plot point in today’s modern literature, but outside of these stories we are not pushing for change. The ideals we embody in our art rarely play themselves out in our lives. What would happen if we took the example of our fictional heroes; what if each of us was a Don Juan?

For reasons we can only guess at, it is said that God decides before we are born which of us are to be saved and which consigned to eternal damnation; and not just before we were born, but before anyone was born. Before He started work on the universe, before He had even laid the first brick, it had been ordained who would be lost and who would be saved; and which of us would serve our time in Aberystwyth. Nothing we do on this earth makes a blind bit of difference. God pulls the arm, the wheels spin, we are damned or saved. All you can do is hope He gives better odds than the publican.

Sometimes I imagine meeting the guy who designs raingear that can be neither donned nor doffed when wet. We both roll up at a gas station at about the same time. Of course, it’s raining. When I figure out what he does for a job, rain gear designer, or whatever, I stop him right there by holding up an index finger. “Just wait a minute,” I say. Then I struggle to remove a waterlogged glove, shaking my head and laughing a bit because I know what’s coming next. Holding the glove by the cuff, I soggy-slap him in the face. “That’s a sloggy!” I’d say (trademark), and I’d deliver it on behalf of us all.

Love is a momentum it keeps moving, evolving, growing, shape-shifting never static.

I am an open book but closed to the illiterate.

The contempt that critics held for Langdon Pryce was nothing compared with the scorn he reserved for them. In his view, critics were responsible for untold misery for which they should be held to account. Most of them either didn’t know or didn’t care how destructive their words could be. If snobby art critics had been kinder to a young Adolf Hitler, the entire twentieth century could have been a lot more pleasant for everyone.

Did Jesus build walls? His face is a face of mercy. The bigger the sinner, the warmer the welcome. Mercy is the dynamite that blows down walls.

Just as the commandment 'Thou shalt not kill' sets a clear limit so to safeguard the value of human life, so today, we also have to say, 'Thou shalt not' to an economy of exclusion and inequality which idolizes money.

Attribution given to the Honorable Robert Nesta Marley, Peter Tosh, Jimmy Cliff, Marcus Garvey, Usain Bolt, the Honorable Portia Simpson-Miller, Louise Bennett, Grace Jones, and Shelly-Ann Fraser-Pryce. Deepest gratitude to all the leaders that continue to inspire us to be our best selves.

My mother, she was twenty in 1979, she supported Khomeini, she wanted to throw out the Shah. But now she cries all the time. Ten times a day she says to me, what did I do? What did I do? It wasn’t meant to be like this. But there is nothing we can do.

For the first time I felt as though I was in a Third World country. This was a land of improvisation, poor sanitation and no services for the traveller beyond the most basic petrol stations with nothing for sale except cheap fuel, hot water for tea and a hole in the ground for a toilet. Building and planning regulations were obviously open to interpretation, if not entirely ignored outside of the cities; houses were crumbling, newly built breezeblock walls often comically wonky, and electricity and plumbing either non-existent or improvised.

The great and only comfort about being a woman is that one can always pretend to be more stupid than one is and no one is surprised.

I came to the conclusion that it was impossible to classify anyone in Iran, and herein lay its fascination.

I realised then, sitting silent and alone in the wilderness, that it wasn’t just the traffic, noise and pollution of the cities and highways that I’d found wearing, it was also the sensation of being constantly on display, even if the attention I attracted was almost always well-meaning. Iran is a country of, and for, extroverts,

I could see that between the two regimes, the Pahlavis must now seem infinitely preferable to the reality of the Islamic Republic. If oppression is a dish that must be served with a side order, then let it be glamour and excess rather than religion and hypocrisy.

Legend had it that this cult had acquired their name from their ruthless leader’s tactic of getting his followers stoned before encouraging them to murder top political and religious leaders with trippy, weed-induced promises of a paradise full of nubile young maidens in exotic gardens. These bloodthirsty stoners lapped it up and soon became known as the Hashish-iyun, named after their drug of choice, and giving root to the English word, assassin.

I sat at the kitchen table, next to their youngest son, eleven-year-old Amir, chirpy, polite and fluent in English, who was busy alternating between his maths homework and sketching the fascinations of a contemporary Iranian boy: luxury sports cars, the BMW roundel and masked gun-toting terrorists. ‘These are the speciality of Yazd,’ said Sara. For a moment I thought she was referring to her son’s artwork, but was relieved to find her presenting us with a plate of tiny decorated sweets and pastries.

Mr Yazdani had made a big deal about me removing any Islamic-imposed clothing as soon as the door had shut behind us, insisting that my headscarf and manteau were exchanged for loose-flowing hair and a T-shirt. He didn’t say as much, but I sensed this was not merely a desire to make his guest comfortable but also his own quiet way of showing me his opinion of the regime. As a fifty-something war veteran, with his reserved, old-school demeanour he seemed an unlikely spokesman for women’s rights, but he talked with great pride about Sara’s career and studies and, as ever, I was reminded how it was impossible to pigeonhole any of the Iranians I had met. Whenever you thought you had a handle on them, they came out with an unexpected opinion, thought or statement. It was one of the most intriguing elements of my journey; I never quite knew what was going to happen next.

You can never really know about other people, the people you work with, people you may think are your friends. How can you ever know? Who is watching, who is listening?’ I remembered Omid making a similar comment, about how Iranians cannot easily make new confidants, how they cannot risk exposing their opinions or behaviour to anyone they don’t know intimately, preferring to stick with their close groups of truly trusted friends. It was as if all the openness and tolerance I had witnessed was reserved for outsiders, but could not be extended to their fellow countrymen.

Once Dorry left—spacey and vague, whatever she’d been hiding all week, she was still hiding—all Tuesday wanted to do was dig up those profiles in the Globe, see for herself what Dorry’s excellently sensitive gut had intuited. And speaking of her excellent gut . . . where was that report she’d written about Pryce?

Thirty-five years of intimidating and dreary Islamic rule had created a rose-tinted view of the pre-revolutionary era. The arrests, the intimidation, the decadence of the elite, the horrors of SAVAK; it had all been forgotten, replaced by a revised, romantic version of the good old days. Among Iranians of a certain age and class, the swinging sixties and seventies are recalled with a poetic yearning nostalgia; an era of mini-skirts, freedom and hedonism. ‘I haven’t had a glass of wine since 1979,’ one man had told me at a petrol station in Qazvin; ‘I miss the 1970s,’ he had added with a mournful, faraway look.

So do you believe there is an afterlife?’ I asked him. ‘Yes, I think so. I hope so. You know why I hope this?’ He paused and looked me in the eye, waiting. I shook my head. ‘Because I want Khomeini to suffer. I want to believe he is suffering now, for what he did to the Iranian people, all the people he killed and tortured and drove away from their homes. All the lives he has ruined.

After the revolution most of the major roads in the cities, especially in Tehran, had been renamed with the appropriate amount of anti-western fervour, changing the likes of Eisenhower Avenue to Azadi Avenue (meaning ‘freedom’ in Persian) and Shah Reza Square to Enqelab Square (the Persian word for ‘revolution’). My map recce also showed up a liking for using street names to show allegiance to Iran’s friends and allies, such as the ubiquitous Felestin – Palestine – which cropped up in many Iranian cities. There were more pointed allegiances too; the street that housed the British Embassy, Winston Churchill Street, had been renamed in typically cheeky Iranian fashion as Bobby Sands Street (it was transliterated as ‘Babisands’), in tribute to the IRA hunger striker. In 1981 the embassy had been forced to move their official entrance to a side street so as to avoid the embarrassment of having Sands’ name on their headed notepaper.

Yes, yes, our countries are going to be friends, at last!’ I didn’t bother pointing out the minor detail that Obama wasn’t my president. It didn’t seem important. American, British, whatever. Great Satan, Little Satan, we had all been merged into one by the Islamic Republic’s propaganda machine. No different from how Persians and Arabs are all one and the same in many western minds, I supposed.

I took a cab into the centre of town and listened to the driver’s running commentary on all that ailed his beloved city, on the good old days when he could have a beer and a dance, and how he had escaped to America to study engineering but couldn’t afford the university fees and was forced to return home after a year. ‘Now, drive taxi in Tehran. No beer. No fun.’ He shrugged, resigned to his fate. After about twenty minutes, once his English vocabulary had been depleted, his analysis of Tehran’s problems was distilled down to two descriptions as he pointed at buildings in turn as we passed by. ‘Reza Shah!’ he would shout triumphantly at anything remotely grand or old. ‘Islamic Republic!’ he spat at each shoddy concrete office block.

Hash, heroin, ham, hip-hop and heavy metal were all equally illegal, and just as accessible, if you knew who to call. ‘I can get you bacon if you want,’ offered Omid with the sneaky wink of a playground drug dealer. I almost felt I was disappointing him by being a vegetarian.

This is the reality if you take a stand against the government in Iran.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘Would you take that risk?’ It was a difficult question. I liked to think I was the kind of person who would make a stand, but it was easy for me to say, coming from a democratic country with its unarmed policemen and the reassuring notion of habeas corpus enshrined in law. Taking a stand in Iran was a life or death decision.

To be treated with consideration is, in the case of female travellers, too often synonymous with being prevented from doing what one wants.

The garden layout, the design and proportions of the pavilion, the ingenious bâdgir, all of it was a triumph of Persian ingenuity, but I couldn’t help look at the beauty around me and be bewildered by the contrast not just to the chaotic scenes of Iran’s street life and its homicidal highways, but also to the brutality meted out by the people in charge of this nation over the centuries. How could a people who are capable of inventing and creating to this level of perfection also be responsible for so much cruelty and carelessness? I was standing in one of the most exquisitely designed places I had ever seen, in a country that pollutes its air to lethal levels, litters its countryside, crushes artistic endeavours and executes more people than almost anywhere else in the world. It was as though there was no middle ground; both ends of the spectrum of the human condition represented, both taken to the extreme.

I flew home with Iran Air, which gave me six and a half hours to truly appreciate the impact of the international sanctions first hand. The scratchy seat fabric, cigarette-burned plastic washbasins and whiff of engine oil throughout the cabin reminded me of late seventies coach travel, which was probably the last time these planes had had a facelift. I tried to convince myself that Iran Air had prioritised the maintenance of engines and safety features over the interior decor but I wasn’t convinced, especially when the seatbelt refused to budge. The in-flight entertainment had certainly been spared an upgrade, consisting of one small television at the front of the plane showing repeat screenings of a gentle propaganda film featuring chador-clad women gazing at waterfalls and flowers with an appropriately tinkly soundtrack. The stewardesses’ outfits were suitably dreary too. Reflecting Iran Air’s status as the national carrier of the Islamic Republic, they were of course modest to the point of unflattering, with not a single glimpse of neck or hair visible beneath the military style cap and hijab. As we took off, I examined my fellow passengers. Nobody was praying and as soon as we were airborne, every female passenger removed her headscarf without ceremony.

worry

Prostitution is the world’s oldest profession.

I stared at his face, looking into his eyes, feeling the full force of his loathing; his entire demeanour and tone emanated disgust, disgust at me and everything I represented. He despised me. It occurred to me that I felt exactly the same about him. If this trip was supposed to be an exercise in cultural understanding, of open-mindedness and trying to see the world from another’s viewpoint, then right now I was failing. But I didn’t care. Until now I had kept quiet, remained calm and purposely not engaged with the situation. But now I felt a shift inside me, a physical sensation of something rising up, boiling over. Ha! Mr Basiji, I didn’t grow up in 1980s anarcho Bristol for nothing! My anti-establishment blood runs deep. An ingrained, lifelong mistrust of authority and hatred of bullies in uniform found its way to the surface right there on the baking streets of Tehran. I could not have stopped myself if I tried. And I didn’t want to. So I looked him in the eye and told him to fuck off.

It wasn’t about being brave, or toughing it out, or any of that air-punching motivational language; all that was required in these moments was to keep plodding on, quietly, resolutely, without fuss or drama.

The fabled mind-broadening power of travel is usually a gradual affair, something that creeps up on you the more you put yourself out in the world, but in Iran it was a sledgehammer effect. I found myself rethinking, recalibrating just about everything every minute of the day. It was like being whacked in the face with my own prejudices and misconceptions at every turn; but it wasn’t an unpleasant experience, it was thrilling.

His indomitable spirit was uplifting, and unexpected. He wasn’t going to let a despotic regime and a bunch of international sanctions get in the way of life, no way! Ironically, it reminded me of all the best elements of the United States, that go-get-’em, can-do positivity that is such a heartening aspect of American culture. It wasn’t a comparison I was expecting to make in Iran, but I was already becoming used to being confounded and surprised at every turn.

it wasn’t the only aspect of Iran that reminded me of America. The two countries had far more similarities than either would care to admit; both maligned and misunderstood, tarnished in the eyes of the world by a minority of religious fundamentalists and obstreperous politicians, but in truth, populated by generous, hospitable people, endlessly innovative and industrious with a truly astounding capacity for vast portions of food. The meth-cooking drug labs of their respective deserts were another more recent and unfortunate similarity. Shishe had come late to Iran, in the last decade, but was ripping through the country, overtaking heroin as the drug of choice among disaffected youth and even upper-class women looking for a quick weight-loss plan.

Thirty-five years of intimidating and dreary Islamic rule had created a rose-tinted view of the pre-revolutionary era. The arrests, the intimidation, the decadence of the elite, the horrors of SAVAK; it had all been forgotten, replaced by a revised, romantic version of the good old days. Among Iranians of a certain age and class, the swinging sixties and seventies are recalled with a poetic yearning nostalgia; an era of mini-skirts, freedom and hedonism.

She smiled a lot, laughed easily and listened intently when others spoke. She had been battling the system her whole life, but it had not made her bitter. To me she was the epitome of the modern Iranian woman – a generous heart and an inner core of indefatigable strength.

Hafez seemed to have the effect of unifying the Iranian people. His poems epitomised the Iranian mindset; passionate and opinionated but laced with humour and a lust for life. His moral and religious messages had elevated him to oracle status, but they sat comfortably alongside admissions of human frailty and decadence, including plentiful references to desire, wine and drunkenness. And just like the twenty-first-century Iranians I had met, from tech-savvy young guns to devout traditionalists, Hafez’s world was a harmonious blend of the mystical and the human, as if no conflict existed between the two.

I wondered if we could ever truly understand each other, and if not, did it matter? Maybe that was where we had been going wrong all this time, always trying to understand, to make sense, to control, to fit Iran into our own frame of reference, instead of simply accepting?

I was ashamed to find myself contemplating that for the traveller, Iran’s charms lay in its isolation. This was not a mindset I liked, or approved of; I didn’t want to be like the smug backpackers in The Beach, trying to keep their special place a secret. I wanted the Iranian people to reap all the benefits from engaging with the world and for the rest of us to wake up to the reality that Iran is not a nation of desert-dwelling terrorists.

I loved that the Iranians never quite did what you thought they were going to do, or even, what you wanted them to do. The whole damn place reeked of cheeky bad-boy charm, and to this, I was not immune.

As two former empires, both with distinct identities and a strong sense of national pride, there is an island mentality in Iran that feels strangely familiar, a perverse pleasure to be found in going it alone, not being bossed around. Neither nation is particularly comfortable with the idea of mucking in with its neighbours – Britain with its scepticism towards Europe and inflated sense of importance in the world; Iran, an island of Shi-ite Muslims surrounded by Sunnis, geographically in the Middle East but definitely not Arabs – always, defiantly, neither East nor West. But there were gentler similarities too; an appreciation of the absurd and a sense of humour that celebrates the subversive and the silly, a love of the outdoors and an illustrious history of mountaineering and climbing, the national penchant for picnics and a profound appreciation of nature. Even the strange formalised politeness of ta’arof reminded me of our own British rituals of insistence and refusal when passing through a doorway or our habit of apologising when bumped into by a stranger. And, of course, our mutual inability to do anything without a cup of tea.

I am ashamed to say that despite my conscious mind taking an open-minded approach to this journey, my subconscious had prepared for the worst. When I had turned up at the border I had been bracing myself for all the horrors as predicted by the doom-mongers back home. I was steeled for the onslaught of angry Islamists who would shun me (or worse) for being British/western/an infidel/female – take your pick. But instead I had been hit with a tidal wave of warmth and humanity to a degree that I have never experienced anywhere else in the world.

The two of us with our scrappy motor and no idea what was going to happen next, a Persian version of the Blues Brothers scene – there’s 106 miles to Qom, we’ve got a full tank of benzin, half a pack of pistachios, it’s sunny out, and I’m wearing a hijab. Bezan berim!

The trick with puzzles (learning experiences) is how willing you are to learn the lesson. I used to believe that all learning involved struggle and pain. I’ve since chosen to delete that programming. The psychologist Gay Hendricks wrote, “We choose how gently we get our lessons by how open we are to learning.” When you resist the lesson, life just keeps coming back at you with harder and harder puzzles. Martha Beck’s excellent advice is: “Cave early!” My new intention is to learn my lessons willingly, with the least resistance possible.

He recalled what Phillip Pryce had said about hatred forming the undercurrent to the legal proceedings, and thought there had to be a way to turn that rage around. He thought the best lawyer finds a way to harness whatever external force is directed at his client and take advantage of it.

Pryce’s chicken is an unhealthy-looking grey, the way my sister looked when she had glandular fever. He examines it gloomily. ‘We’ll get

So the Bawdy Bluestocking was the proprietress of her own shop, selling lurid novels to ladies in the front and more esoteric fare in the back, from the looks of the shelves around him. He spied Pope and Crabbe, Shakespeare, of course, and names he did not recognize at all. He wondered how she chose her stock and where it came from. She must spend her days in endless research. The thought was unaccountably lovely to him.

These incident acquaintances and the twisted stories that grew out of them, made John thinking that “Charles Dickens” was not just another pub, but a special place in the Universe, where life itself ties the knots.

Elias was so close that she could not even draw a breath before his lips were on hers. ... She could not deny that she wanted him with all her heart, in wanton ways and practical ways, day and night. Almost losing him was far scarier than the life-threatening situations she had faced on her own.

This is perhaps a foolish risk,” she said against his ear. “What will they do if they catch us?” He gave her a look of mock horror. “Make me marry you?” “That would be the respectful thing to do.” “I respect you,” he said darkly, grazing his teeth and tongue over the lace that framed her bosom. “Shall I take you upstairs and respect you over and over again?

She planned to do everything she had fantasized about in their time apart, everything that she had promised herself she would do if she got him back. It would take a lifetime to discover him.

Everything we experience in life is designed to shape our characters.

PEACE OF MIND IS THE ONLY FOUNDATION FOR TRUE HAPPINESS.

ROMANTIC LOVE IS ONLY RELATIVE TO THE MOMENT.

A Pheonomenal woman is driven by her divine given POWER: The acronym Power defines her qualities: Poised for success Opportunities are endless Works hard to achieve her goals Enduring strength and vitality Reaps the rewards of her hard work A Phenomenal woman will get out of bed, when the whole world around her is falling apart.

The story of life is INCONCLUSIVE but it is all about an everlasting future.

Keeping or holding on to a concept shows belief but building or adding to it shows confidence and depth of character.

Just do what you were going to do, before you said you were going to do it.