Sold Your Soul Quotes

Worry drains the mind of its power and, sooner or later, it injures the soul

Laughter opens your heart and soothes your soul. No one should ever take life so seriously that they forget to laugh at themselves.

I don't want to pass through life like a smooth plane ride. All you do is get to breathe and copulate and finally die. I don't want to go with the smooth skin and the calm brow. I hope I end up a blithering idiot cursing the sun - hallucinating, screaming, giving obscene and inane lectures on street corners and public parks. People will walk by and say, "Look at that drooling idiot. What a basket case." I will turn and say to them, "It is you who are the basket case. For every moment you hated your job, cursed your wife and sold yourself to a dream that you didn't even conceive. For the times your soul screamed yes and you said no. For all of that. For your self-torture, I see the glowing eyes of the sun! The air talks to me! I am at all times!" And maybe, the passers by will drop a coin into my cup.

There was a girl, and her uncle sold her. Put like that it seems so simple. No man, proclaimed Donne, is an island, and he was wrong. If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each other's tragedies. We are insulated (a word that means, literally, remember, made into an island) from the tragedy of others, by our island nature and by the repetitive shape and form of the stories. The shape does not change: there was a human being who was born, lived and then by some means or other, died. There. You may fill in the details from your own experience. As unoriginal as any other tale, as unique as any other life. Lives are snowflakes- forming patterns we have seen before, as like one another as peas in a pod (and have you ever looked at peas in a pod? I mean, really looked at them? There's not a chance you'll mistake one for another, after a minute's close inspection) but still unique. Without individuals we see only numbers, a thousand dead, a hundred thousand dead, "casualties may rise to a million." With individual stories, the statistics become people- but even that is a lie, for the people continue to suffer in numbers that themselves are numbing and meaningless. Look, see the child's swollen, swollen belly and the flies that crawl at the corners of his eyes, this skeletal limbs: will it make it easier for you to know his name, his age, his dreams, his fears? To see him from the inside? And if it does, are we not doing a disservice to his sister, who lies in the searing dust beside him, a distorted distended caricature of a human child? And there, if we feel for them, are they now more important to us than a thousand other children touched by the same famine, a thousand other young lives who will soon be food for the flies' own myriad squirming children? We draw our lines around these moments of pain, remain upon our islands, and they cannot hurt us. They are covered with a smooth, safe, nacreous layer to let them slip, pearllike, from our souls without real pain. Fiction allows us to slide into these other heads, these other places, and look out through other eyes. And then in the tale we stop before we die, or we die vicariously and unharmed, and in the world beyond the tale we turn the page or close the book, and we resume our lives. A life that is, like any other, unlike any other. And the simple truth is this: There was a girl, and her uncle sold her.

Bree, I would have sold my soul to be able to get your dreams back for you in that moment.

Remind me again why I put up with you?" ''Cause you sold me your soul for five bucks, and now you must submit to my will?' I still had the sheet of paper, written in his untidy fifth-grade scrawl. Gideon David Belmonte. One soul.

Worry drains the mindof its power and, sooner or later, it injures the soul

Doesn't everyone sell his soul? I tell you, sir: the devil does not exist, there is no devil, yet I sold him my soul. That is what I am afraid of. To whom did I sell it? That is what I am afraid of, my dear sir: we sell our souls, only there is no buyer.

A song isn't a commercial for an album. It isn't a tool to build name awareness or reinforce your brand. A song is a bullet that can shatter your chains.

My name is Tess Mercer. I’m no longer weak or afraid or broken. I’ve taken control of my fate. I no longer need a tower or dark angels or help. I am fear. And I take your soul in penance for everything that was done to me. I take it for the women you’ve raped. I take it for the women you’ve sold. I take it for my master, soul-mate, and husband. I take you for me.

No one loves me! Boo hoo! Guess what? We play fucking metal! I don't want to sing about your sad feelings! I want dragons.

I am not sad anymore. I am not weak or tender or quiet like you remember because the second you said those words and closed that door, I sold my soul to the part of myself I had buried in order to love you, to let you touch every inch of my rotten body, for I wanted to be touchable and not so strange. Not so sad and tender, like I’ve always been, they say, so I changed. And then your glances and words throwing knives with no return about my change of habits and ways of living, being, and I nodded and smiled, dying silently a little bit inside.

Okay,” says Henry, “if you sold your soul for one thing, what would it be?” Bea chews her lip. “Happiness.” “What is that?” he asks. “I mean, is it just feeling happy for no reason? Or is it making other people happy? Is it being happy with your job, or your life, or—

But everything good in this shit world is either by prescription, sold out, or so expensive you have to sell your soul to taste it. Life is a restaurant you can't afford. Death the bill for the food you didn't even have a chance to eat. So you order the most expensive thing on the menu - you're in for it anyway, right? - and if you're lucky, you get a mouthful.

Laughing is medicine for the soul.

Congrats, bro. You've just sold your soul to the devil. Wait. You don't have a soul.

Lexie, I practically sold my soul to get where I am today. I’m a selfish bastard … and you …” His eyes washed over my face. “You’ve already lost everything to keep your soul intact.

Snake Street is an area I should avoid. Yet that night I was drawn there as surely as if I had an appointment.  The Snake House is shabby on the outside to hide the wealth within. Everyone knows of the wealth, but facades, like the park’s wall, must be maintained. A lantern hung from the porch eaves. A sign, written in Utte, read ‘Kinship of the Serpent’. I stared at that sign, at that porch, at the door with its twisted handle, and wondered what the people inside would do if I entered. Would they remember me? Greet me as Kin? Or drive me out and curse me for faking my death?  Worse, would they expect me to redon the life I’ve shed? Staring at that sign, I pissed in the street like the Mearan savage I’ve become. As I started to leave, I saw a woman sitting in the gutter. Her lamp attracted me. A memsa’s lamp, three tiny flames to signify the Holy Trinity of Faith, Purity, and Knowledge.  The woman wasn’t a memsa. Her young face was bruised and a gash on her throat had bloodied her clothing. Had she not been calmly assessing me, I would have believed the wound to be mortal. I offered her a copper.  She refused, “I take naught for naught,” and began to remove trinkets from a cloth bag, displaying them for sale. Her Utte accent had been enough to earn my coin. But to assuage her pride I commented on each of her worthless treasures, fighting the urge to speak Utte. (I spoke Universal with the accent of an upper class Mearan though I wondered if she had seen me wetting the cobblestones like a shameless commoner.) After she had arranged her wares, she looked up at me. “What do you desire, O Noble Born?” I laughed, certain now that she had seen my act in front of the Snake House and, letting my accent match the coarseness of my dress, I again offered the copper.  “Nay, Noble One. You must choose.” She lifted a strand of red beads. “These to adorn your lady’s bosom?”             I shook my head. I wanted her lamp. But to steal the light from this woman ... I couldn’t ask for it. She reached into her bag once more and withdrew a book, leather-bound, the pages gilded on the edges. “Be this worthy of desire, Noble Born?”  I stood stunned a moment, then touched the crescent stamped into the leather and asked if she’d stolen the book. She denied it. I’ve had the Training; she spoke truth. Yet how could she have come by a book bearing the Royal Seal of the Haesyl Line? I opened it. The pages were blank. “Take it,” she urged. “Record your deeds for study. Lo, the steps of your life mark the journey of your soul.”   I told her I couldn’t afford the book, but she smiled as if poverty were a blessing and said, “The price be one copper. Tis a wee price for salvation, Noble One.”   So I bought this journal. I hide it under my mattress. When I lie awake at night, I feel the journal beneath my back and think of the woman who sold it to me. Damn her. She plagues my soul. I promised to return the next night, but I didn’t. I promised to record my deeds. But I can’t. The price is too high.

Once you’ve sold your soul to the devil you can’t then ask for it back.

I can almost believe the rumors that say you’ve sold your soul to the devil when you look like that. (Sean) You can more than believe it, MacKaid. Harm her and I’ll introduce you to the devil myself. (Ewan)

But before I could come up with an answer, Tod appeared in the desk chair, where I'd sat minutes earlier. 'Hey. Am I interrupting something?' 'Yes,' Nash said. 'Get out.' But Tod was watching me, and I could tell from the angry line of his jaw that he'd been listening long before he showed himself. He'd heard what Avari had done to me. What Nash had let him do. 'You want me to go?' Tod asked me, his back to his brother. Nash implores me silently to say yes. Tod waited patiently. 'No,' I said, looking right at Nash. He scowled, and his shoulders sagged. 'Good.' Tod stood and kicked the rolling chair out of his way. 'I just checked on your friend in the straitjacket. But first...' The reaper swung before either of us realized what he intended to do. Tod's very sold first slammed into Nash's jaw. Nash's head snapped back. He stumbled into the wall. Tod shook his hand like it hurt. 'That's for what you let him do to Kaylee.

If you say the Rosary faithfully until death, I do assure you that, in spite of the gravity of your sins “you shall receive a never fading crown of glory.”42 Even if you are on the brink of damnation, even if you have one foot in Hell, even if you have sold your soul to the devil as sorcerers do who practise black magic, and even if you are a heretic as obstinate as a devil, sooner or later you will be converted and will amend your life and save your soul, if—and mark well what I say—if you say the Holy Rosary devoutly every day until death for the purpose of knowing the truth and obtaining contrition and pardon for your sins.

The wild. I have drunk it, deep and raw, and heard it's primal, unforgettable roar. We know it in our dreams, when our mind is off the leash, running wild. 'Outwardly, the equivalent of the unconscious is the wilderness: both of these terms meet, one step even further on, as one,' wrote Gary Snyder. 'It is in vain to dream of a wildness distinct from ourselves. There is none such,' wrote Thoreau. 'It is the bog in our brains and bowls, the primitive vigor of Nature in us, that inspires the dream.' And as dreams are essential to the psyche, wildness is to life. We are animal in our blood and in our skin. We were not born for pavements and escalators but for thunder and mud. More. We are animal not only in body but in spirit. Our minds are the minds of wild animals. Artists, who remember their wildness better than most, are animal artists, lifting their heads to sniff a quick wild scent in the air, and they know it unmistakably, they know the tug of wildness to be followed through your life is buckled by that strange and absolute obedience. ('You must have chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star,' wrote Nietzsche.) Children know it as magic and timeless play. Shamans of all sorts and inveterate misbehavers know it; those who cannot trammel themselves into a sensible job and life in the suburbs know it. What is wild cannot be bought or sold, borrowed or copied. It is. Unmistakeable, unforgettable, unshamable, elemental as earth and ice, water, fire and air, a quitessence, pure spirit, resolving into no contituents. Don't waste your wildness: it is precious and necessary.

In all those stories about people who sold their souls to the devil, I never quite understood why the devil was the bad guy, or why it was okay to screw him out of his soul. They got what they wanted: fame, money, love, whatever—though usually it turned out not to be what they really wanted or expected. Was that the devil's fault? I never thought so. Like John Wayne said, "Life's tough. It's even tougher when you're stupid.

In one way, at least, our lives really are like movies. The main cast consists of your family and friends. The supporting cast is made up of neighbors, co-workers, teachers, and daily acquaintances. There are also bit players: the supermarket checkout girl with the pretty smile, the friendly bartender at the local watering hole, the guys you work out with at the gym three days a week. And there are thousands of extras --those people who flow through every life like water through a sieve, seen once and never again. The teenager browsing a graphic novel at Barnes & Noble, the one you had to slip past (murmuring "Excuse me") in order to get to the magazines. The woman in the next lane at a stoplight, taking a moment to freshen her lipstick. The mother wiping ice cream off her toddler's face in a roadside restaurant where you stopped for a quick bite. The vendor who sold you a bag of peanuts at a baseball game. But sometimes a person who fits none of these categories comes into your life. This is the joker who pops out of the deck at odd intervals over the years, often during a moment of crisis. In the movies this sort of character is known as the fifth business, or the chase agent. When he turns up in a film, you know he's there because the screenwriter put him there. But who is screenwriting our lives? Fate or coincidence? I want to believe it's the latter. I want that with all my heart and soul.

Character is higher than intellect. A great soul will be strong to live as well as to think.

I would have sold my soul to be able to get your dreams back for you in that moment.

Suppose a white man should come to me and say, “Joseph, I like your horses. I want to buy them.” I say to him, “No, my horses suit me; I will not sell them.” Then he goes to my neighbor and says to him, “Joseph has some good horses. I want to buy them, but he refuses to sell.” My neighbor answers, “Pay me the money and I will sell you Joseph's horses.” The white man returns to me and says, “Joseph, I have bought your horses and you must let me have them.” If we sold our lands to the government, this is the way they bought them. — Chief Joseph Nez Perce We

If you want to kill me then go ahead, but remember the unspoken rule between us. You are mine, Liam. You belong to me. Your face, your body, your heart, your soul, you sold it to me and I sold mine to you. So if I die, you die. If you die, I die. As long as there is air in your lungs, there is air in mine. So don’t pretend, Liam. You’re not fooling anyone…not even yourself. So either let me go and kiss me, or kill us all and be done with it.”“If you want to kill me then go ahead, but remember the unspoken rule between us. You are mine, Liam. You belong to me. Your face, your body, your heart, your soul, you sold it to me and I sold mine to you. So if I die, you die. If you die, I die. As long as there is air in your lungs, there is air in mine. So don’t pretend, Liam. You’re not fooling anyone…not even yourself. So either let me go and kiss me, or kill us all and be done with it.

He sold his soul to a Soul Reaper—” “That was stupid.” “Yeah,” Raze said, without missing a beat, “we agree on that. Anyway—” “No, I mean, really stupid.” Revenant leaned against the doorframe and divided his unnerving attention between Raze and Slake. “I mean, it just seems obvious to me. Don’t sell your soul. Seriously. Who does that? What the fuck?

The day I accepted the symbiont, I thought the only thing left for me in life was my duty, but I was wrong.” He kissed my cheek. “I found you. You’re the bravest, craziest, most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen. When I look at you, I forget that my soul is sold already, that I have no right to feel the happiness I feel around you, to love you like I do.

It’s all cycles you see, and you don’t have to take it from me—Your soul already knows; The trick is outwitting the lies you’ve been unwittingly sold—

You say great artists sell their souls for their art?" "Maybe," she ventured. "That's true, I suppose. If you're doing it right, anyway. I've probably sold mine. Jack's certainly sold his. And you, I imagine." "I have not!" she said, anger showing clear in her eyes. "Not literally," he said hastily. "But we give up being a person to be an artist, don't we?

Ask her who means freedom, whose name is love. Do not inquire of your intellect, do not search backwards through world history. Your soul will not blame you for having cared too little about politics, for having exerted yourself too little, hated your enemies too little, or too little fortified your frontiers. But she will perhaps blame you for so often having feared and fled from her demands, for never having had time to give her, your youngest and fairest child, no time to play with her, no time to listen to her song, for often having sold her for money, betrayed her for advancement. . . . You will be neurotic and a foe to life---so says your soul---if you neglect me, and you will be destroyed if you do not turn to me with a wholly new love and concern.

It is you who are the basket cases. For every moment you hated your job, cursed your wife and sold yourself to a dream that you didn’t even conceive. For the times your soul screamed yes and you said no. For all of that. Your self torture.

Did you know that Sylvester Stallone’s script for the movie “Rocky” was rejected over 70 times? Jack Canfield’s and Mark Victor Hansen’s “Chicken Soup for the Soul” was rejected a 130 times and that Canfield was actually laughed at when he said that he wanted to sell 1 million books. His editor told him he‘d be lucky to sell 20,000. Well, the first book “Chicken Soup for the Soul” sold 8 million copies, the whole series about 500 million! Even J.K. Rowlings’ “Harry Potter” was rejected 12 times!

We’d like a list of what we lost Think of those who landed in the Atlantic The sharkiest of waters Bonnetheads and thrashers Spinners and blacktips We are made of so much water Bodies of water Bodies walking upright on the mud at the bottom The mud they must call nighttime Oh there was some survival Life After life on the Atlantic—this present grief So old we see through it So thick we can touch it And Jesus said of his wound Go on, touch it I don’t have the reach I’m not qualified I can’t swim or walk or handle a hoe I can’t kill a man Or write it down A list of what we lost The history of the wound The history of the wound That somebody bought them That somebody brought them To the shore of Virginia and then Inland Into the land of cliché I’d rather know their faces Their names My love yes you Whether you pray or not If I knew your name I’d ask you to help me Imagine even a single tooth I’d ask you to write that down But there’s not enough ink I’d like to write a list of what we lost. Think of those who landed in the Atlantic, Think of life after life on the Atlantic— Sweet Jesus. A grief so thick I could touch it. And Jesus said of his wound, Go on, touch it. But I don’t have the reach. I’m not qualified. And you? How’s your reach? Are you qualified? Don’t you know the history of the wound? Here is the history of the wound: Somebody brought them. Somebody bought them. Though I know who caught them, sold them, bought them, I’d rather focus on their faces, their names.

The old morality, which told us that selling the body is incompatible with giving the self, touched on a truth. Sexual feeling is not a sensation that can be turned on and off at will: it is a tribute from one self to another and—at its height— an incandescent revelation of what you are. To treat it as a commodity, that can be bought and sold like any other, is to damage both present self and future other. The condemnation of prostitution was not just puritan bigotry; it was a recognition of a profound truth, which is that you and your body are not two things but one, and by selling the body you harden the soul. And that which is true of prostitution is true of pornography too. It is not a tribute to human beauty but a desecration of it.

Listen to my last words anywhere. Listen to my last words any world. Listen all you boards syndicates and governments of the earth. And you powers behind what filth consummated in what lavatory to take what is not yours. To sell the ground from unborn feet forever - "Don't let them see us. Don't tell them what we are doing -" Are these the words of the all-powerful boards and syndicates of the earth? "For God's sake don't let that Coca-Cola thing out - " "Not The Cancer Deal with The Venusians - " "Not The Green Deal - Don't show them that - " "Not The Orgasm Death - " "Not the ovens - " Listen: I call you all. Show your cards all players. Pay it all pay it all pay it all back. Play it all pay it all play it all back. For all to see. In Times Square. In Picadilly. "Premature. Premature. Give us a little more time." Time for what? More lies? Premature? Premature for who? I say to all these words are not premature. These words may be too late. Minutes to go. Minutes to foe goal - "Top Secret - Classified - For The Board - The Elite - The Initiates - Are these the words of the all-powerful boards and syndicates of the earth? These are the words of liars cowards collaborators traitors. Liars who want time for more lies. Cowards who can not face your "dogs" your "gooks" your "errand boys" your "human animals" with the truth. Collaborators with Insect People with Vegetable People. With any people anywhere who offer you a body forever. To shit forever. For this you have sold out your sons. Sold the ground from unborn feet forever. Traitors to all souls everywhere. You want the name of Hassan i Sabbah on your filth deeds to sell out the unborn? What scared you all into time? Into body? Into shit? I will tell you; "the word." Alien Word "the." "The" word of Alien Enemy imprisons "thee" in Time, In Body. In Shit. Prisoner, come out. The great skies are open.

Do you think it’s fair? I sold my soul for this brand, and the protection it gives me. That’s what it says in the small print. Lots of people don’t read the small print, but I did. When you get your brand, you swear to align yourself body, mind, and soul to Milton Blake and Harrington Enterprises. Seems odd for a corporation to ask for your soul, but this is the apocalypse.

I got a kick out of those who whined about their soul. Worried they were losing it. Let’s get one thing straight, you didn’t lose your soul. You always knew where it was or where it went, you cannot lose something you gave away or sold or had broken past repair. Your soul was like your arm, you didn’t lose your arm. Your arm was either there or it wasn’t, and you usually knew why it wasn’t there

There are so many hammocks to catch you if you fall, so many laws to keep you from experience. All these cities I have been in the last few weeks make me fully understand the cozy, stifling state in which most people pass through life. I don't want to pass through life like a smooth plane ride. All you do is get to breathe and copulate and finally die. I don't want to go with the smooth skin and the calm brow. I hope I end up a blithering idiot cursing the sun - hallucinating, screaming, giving obscene and inane lectures on street corners and public parks. People will walk by and say, "Look at that drooling idiot. What a basket case." I will turn and say to them "It is you who are the basket case. For every moment you hated your job, cursed your wife and sold yourself to a dream that you didn't even conceive. For the times your soul screamed yes and you said no. For all of that. For your self-torture, I see the glowing eyes of the sun! The air talks to me! I am at all times!" And maybe, the passers by will drop a coin into my cup.

Shortly after becoming a Christian, I counseled a woman who was in a closeted lesbian relationship and a member of a Bible-believing church. No one in her church knew. Therefore, no one in her church was praying for her. Therefore, she sought and received no counsel. There was no “bearing one with the other” for her. No confession. No repentance. No healing. No joy in Christ. Just isolation. And shame. And pretense. Someone had sold her the pack of lies that said that God can heal your lying tongue or your broken heart, even cure your cancer if he chooses, but he can’t transform your sexuality. I told her that my heart breaks for her isolation and shame and asked her why she didn’t share her struggle with anyone in her church. She said: “Rosaria, if people in my church really believed that gay people could be transformed by Christ, they wouldn’t talk about us or pray about us in the hateful way that they do.” Christian reader, is this what people say about you when they hear you talk and pray? Do your prayers rise no higher than your prejudice? I think that churches would be places of greater intimacy and growth in Christ if people stopped lying about what we need, what we fear, where we fail, and how we sin. I think that many of us have a hard time believing the God we believe in, when the going gets tough. And I suspect that, instead of seeking counsel and direction from those stronger in the Lord, we retreat into our isolation and shame and let the sin wash over us, defeating us again. Or maybe we muscle through on our pride. Do we really believe that the word of God is a double-edged sword, cutting between the spirit and the soul? Or do we use the word of God as a cue card to commandeer only our external behavior?

I hit the streets first. So I knew what we were in for. I’m not a smart guy, but I can read a situation. To live in this world without a dime or a pot to piss in, you have to sell your soul or your body.” “I wouldn’t let them face that choice. I had six months to become the baddest motherfucker who ever lived. So I fucked up piles of people. I sold my soul, Livia, and I sold other people’s bodies. But when my brothers stepped out of our foster home for the last time, I had respect. Respect enough to keep their souls clean. I’m going to hell, Livia,” he said. “I’m going to hell for all three of us,” Beckett said defiantly. Only now did he pull his hand away.

Jackie, can you tell me if someone’s dead or not?’ “Who it be? Maybe I heard something.” “Miranda Lopez.” I pulled out the charm and balanced it on my fingertips, and then I realized the photo was probably a better likeness. I pocketed the milagro ad held up the Polaroid. “I find out for you if you get me a dime.” I sighed and put the photo away. “You can’t smoke crack. You’re dead. And even if you weren’t, I’m not gonna score for you. I’m a cop. “ “You so full of shit. You ain’t no cop neither.” “Would I be wearing this fucking suit if I wasn’t a cop?” “I don’t know. I always thought you sold cars or something.” I tucked my chin toward my chest and stomped toward my gate. Jackie couldn’t help me. And how dare she call me a used car salesman? I wasn’t always a dork in a blazer. Once upon a time I was actually cool. Until the Cook County Mental Health Centre, anyway. After that, I guess I kinda stopped caring.

Why did you help AgriGen for so long?" The doctor's eyes narrow. "The same reason you run like a dog for your masters. They paid me in the coin I wanted most." Her slap rings across the water. The guards start forward, but Kanya is already drawing back, shaking off the sting in her hand, waving away the guards. "We're fine. Nothing is wrong." The guards pause, unsure of their duty and loyalties. The doctor touches his broken lip, examines the blood thoughtfully. Looks up. "A sore spot, there. . . How much of yourself have you already sold?" He smiles showing teeth rimed bloody from Kanya's strike. "Are you AgriGen's then? Complicit?" He looks into Kanya's eyes. "Are you here to kill me? To end my thorn in their side?" He watches closely, eyes peering into her soul, observant, curious. "It is only a matter of time. They must know that I am here. That I am yours. The Kingdom couldn't have fared so well for so long without me. Couldn't have released nightshades and ngaw without my help. We all know they are hunting. Are you my hunter, then? Are you my destiny?" Kanya scowls. "Hardly. We're not done with you yet." Gibbons slumps. "Ah, of course not. But then, you never will be. That is the nature of our beasts and plagues. They are not dumb machines to be driven about. They have their own needs and hungers. Their own evolutionary demands. They must mutate and adapt, and so you will never be done with me, and when I am gone, what will you do then? We have released demons upon the world, and your walls are only as good as my intellect. Nature has become something new. It is ours now, truly. And if our creation devours us, how poetic will that be?" "Kamma," she murmurs. "Precisely.

She had come to analysis because she was, as she put it, “ruining her children.” ... “But you are so frustrating,” she said. “I want you to take something away from me, and you keep giving it back.” And what, I asked, was that “something” she wanted to give away? “The pain. The crazy,” she said. She said there was a little shrine, somewhere in the north of Brazil. The land was dry, the town impossibly poor, but people would travel for hundreds of miles to get there, to leave candles, gifts, and ex- voto offerings thanking the saint for answered prayers, for healing, for having rescued them from distress. “I bring you my worries. I bring you my tears. I bring you the dreams I have. I want to leave them here. I want to hang them on your wall and return home healed. But everything I give to you, you give back. You say, like you just said, ‘What is this “something” you want to give away?’ ” Years later I looked it up, the shrine. There were many like the one my Brazilian patient had described. One of them was a kind of cave or grotto, where pilgrims would leave little body parts carved from wood or wax: a foot, a breast, a head. From time to time the priest collected the wax objects and melted them down, making candles to be sold to other pilgrims. The walls and ceiling of the shrine were black with candle smoke and crowded with these suspended offerings. I think now that my Brazilian patient managed at least to give that away, the conjured image of a blackened shrine, hung with a jumble of body parts. I think that in the soul of each psychoanalyst such a place must exist, in spite of what we profess about our neutrality, our professional detachment. Perhaps something of what we receive can be melted down and sold back as candlelight— our costly illuminations— but other elements remain just as they appeared, the dreams nailed to the walls, the abandoned hearts and limbs, the soot of inextinguishable longing.

She looked down at the man. His face appeared different than the first time she had seen him, as if he'd fought some battle and won. A peacefulness stole over her, causing her to take a deep breath. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. His scent filled her mind and her fingers began to glide through his hair, exploring the shape of his head, then his temples, then down to the sharp plain of his cheekbones. "Come back, my duke," she whispered. "I have need to see thee fattened up and shouting orders." Suddenly she felt a touch on her cheek. Caught in the dreamlike spell, she turned into the hand without opening her eyes. As she had done, he caressed her cheek. Now his thumb ran along the line of her jaw. When fingers touched her lips, her eyes fluttered open. "Your voice saved me." His own was raspy and deep, but gratitude glowed in the dark pools that were his eyes. And he was even more devastatingly attractive with them open. Serena drew a sharp breath, wanting to get up, both trapped beneath his weight and that of his words. "Thou hast been very sick." She strained to right her senses. When she started to slide out from under his head, he grasped her hand with surprising strength. "Stay." "I must not. My father will be back soon." "Have we reached Philadelphia then?" "Yes. The others have already been sold. 'Tis fortunate thee wert so ill and escaped the soul-drivers, sir." As she spoke, she slid out from beneath his head and refilled his cup. "Here, have another drink, and thou wilt hear the tale." He smiled at her with such a look that she thought she might melt into the wood f the floor. "A long story, I hope. I would listen to your voice forever." Heat surged to her cheeks, her gaze dropping to the floor. Her mind told her how inappropriate it was to behave like this with a complete stranger. And yet, it was as if other parts of her- her heart, her soul, her very skin- knew him as deeply as she knew herself.

Sadly though, this side of heaven, we can only attempt to have a fore-shadow of the romance to come. Even the best marriages and the men and women who valiantly strive to follow the Bible’s model of marriage fall short. I am sure many of us have failed in obtaining the type of earthly relationship God planned and intended to display His love. Pre-marital sex, extra-marital sex, homosexuality, sex outside of a marriage covenant, and love-less, dysfunctional marriages are just the beginning. Many have been abused, sold, objectified, molested, even raped. All manner of perversion and depravity have marred the beauty God intended. We are broken, injured, hurt, marginalized, left feeling like so much less than what God requires. If you are one broken, please hear this: It should not have been. It was not God’s way or His will that you were treated like anything less than His highly valued, flawless beauty—His beloved. If you are one who lost your way and engaged in things beneath your royal standing, He died, arose and lives to forgive and restore. Yes, we know a good and solid Biblical marriage gives the closest representation of godly intimacy. But let’s get real for a minute. So few of us have ever experienced that for ourselves or grew up in homes where that was our example, we desperately need to trust God for our own healing and restoration in this area before we can ever hope to experience it in our relationships. I am convinced God’s priority for us is to learn about spiritual intimacy with Him. He can restore marriages, liberate from sexual addictions, save spouses, give us a godly man. But I think, for the most part, those things happen after we realize and accept our need for Christ. His priority will always be our spirit intimately one with His, because He puts the spirit above the flesh. We have to lay our souls bare and ask for His touch. God alone can reclaim our perception of intimacy for His holy and righteous glory. He can restore our hearts and minds to righteousness, clean and pure so we might experience holy intimacy through the Spirit until we see Him face to face in glory.

For me, that translated into fund-raising. I knew that I could and I would raise any amount of money to get that job done. Fund-raising to end hunger wasn’t just a job or a fad or a political statement for me. It was an expression of my own soulful commitment, and as such, I could only do it in a way that would call on people to reconnect with their own higher calling, or soulful longing, to be the kind of people they wanted to be, the kind of difference they wanted to make, and see how they could express that with their money. So rather than feeling that fund-raising was a matter of twisting arms for a donation or playing on emotions to manipulate money from contributors, it became for me an arena in which I was able to create an opportunity for people to engage in their greatness. It was in this soul-searching dimension of fund-raising, in these intimate conversations, that I discovered deep wounds and conflicts in the way people related to their money. Many people felt they had sold out and become someone they didn’t like anymore. Some were forcing themselves to do work that wasn’t meaningful. Many felt enslaved by their experience of being overtaxed by their government, or felt beaten down by their boss or by the burden of running a family business or employing others. Their relationship with money was dead—or, more accurately, dread—and there was hurt there. There was resentment. There were painful compromises, a kind of rawness. People were bruised and battered there. Not everyone, but many people were very unsettled and uncomfortable and just not their best selves in their relationship with money. They felt little or no freedom with money, no matter how much they had. This lackluster relationship with money wasn’t for lack of expert advice or practical tips. Money-management strategies were plentiful, but the concept of personal transformation was a stranger there. What became clear was that when people were able to align their money with their deepest, most soulful interests and commitments, their relationship with money became a place where profound and lasting transformation could occur.

to liberate the potential of your mind, body and soul, you must first expand your imagination.

Worry drains the mind of much of its power and, sooner or later, it injures the soul.

You’re so hungry for success, more. I can almost feel the crossroads looming... Do you know there’s a legend that certain musicians sold their souls to the devil for their skill? Johnson. Paganini.” Luiz laughed at the shift of Michael’s hips, the grind of Michael’s cock into his hand, released him to add, “And certain metal bands for money and fame.

If he doesn't want you fucking anyone else, that means he's jealous. And if he's jealous, that means he cares. And if he cares, then maybe he really never lied. And if he never lied, then you don't have to ruin everything. And if you don't have to ruin everything, then maybe you can admit out loud that you have most definitely, certainly, positively, absolutely, irrevocably sold your soul to Satan.

My dad used to warn me that the devil doesn't have horns and a pitchfork, he'll appear as the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. He'll make you laugh. He'll make you feel good. You'll do things you never thought you would, but he'll tell you it's okay. And before you know it, you've sold your soul to him.

Leave your wife and children, never have contact with them again, and I will give you a life of luxury. He sold his soul. And he’d done it with both eyes open.

You sold your soul to feed your vanity..

Literally sold his soul? Like, ‘Devil Went Down to Georgia,’ Robert Johnson at the crossroads—” “Like Mephistopheles and your namesake, or the violinist Niccolò Paganini, or the Rolling Stones, yes, exactly.” She paused. “Forget I said that last one.

Every time you fill up your car with gas that has its beginning as Saudi crude—and statistically, that should be about one in every five or six times you pull up to the pump—you’re contributing something like a dollar toward keeping Saudi royal heads attached to their necks.

Every being on this Earth, every object on this Earth has a soul. All souls flow into one; this is the Soul of the Universe. You see, John, when you nourish your own mind and your own spirit, you are really feeding the Soul of the Universe. When you improve yourself, you are improving the lives of all those around you. And when you have the courage to advance confidently in the direction of your dreams, you begin to draw upon the power of the universe. As I told you earlier, life gives you what you ask of it. It is always listening.

...unlike Aretha, [Al Green's] only rival vocally, Al never sold himself short in the studio. Where the albums follow the vagaries of genius, the hits exploit Al's personal production line, every one a perfect soul record and a perfect pop record in whatever order suits your petty little values. Brashly feminine and seductively woman-friendly, he breaks free in a register that darts and floats and soars into falsetto with startling frequency and beguiling ease. He's so gorgeous, so sexy, so physically attractive that only masochists want to live without him.

When I admire the wonder of a sunset or the beauty of the moon, my soul expands in worship of the Creator. Mahatma Gandhi It

You forget how your soul was mixed at birth, since the day they ripped your placenta, mixed, your soul with clothes that conceal your genitals and reveal what may be seen of them. Of you and of women who have grown accustomed to ripping their own collars and hanging portraits on walls. Of boys who have trained themselves to draw on walls and gravestones and cars in junkyards and to march in your name, also, like a loaf! So your soul was mixed: homogenized, fermented, kneaded, baked and sold at stores that violated health codes, forged—and used for illegal purposes, voted on— and eaten like a loaf.

Failures as people: millions of Americans felt that this description fit them to a T. Seeking a solution, any solution, they eagerly forked over their cash to any huckster who promised release, the quicker and more effortlessly the better: therapies like “bioenergetics” (“The Revolutionary Therapy That Uses the Language of the Body to Heal the Problems of the Mind”); Primal Scream (which held that when patients shrieked in a therapist’s office, childhood trauma could be reexperienced, then released; John Lennon and James Earl Jones were fans); or Transcendental Meditation, which promised that deliverance could come if you merely closed your eyes and chanted a mantra (the “TM” organization sold personal mantras, each supposedly “unique,” to hundreds of thousands of devotees). Or “religions” like the Church Universal and Triumphant, or the Reverend Sun Myung Moon’s Unification Church, or “Scientology”—this last one invented by a science fiction writer, reportedly on a bet. Devotees paid cash to be “audited” by practitioners who claimed the power—if, naturally, you paid for enough sessions—to remove “trauma patterns” accreted over the 75 million years that had passed since Xenu, tyrant of the Galactic Confederacy, deposited billions of people on earth next to volcanoes and detonated hydrogen bombs inside those volcanos, thus scattering harming “body thetans” to attach to the souls of the living, which once unlatched allowed practitioners to cross the “bridge to total freedom” and “unlimited creativity.” Another religion, the story had it, promised “perfect knowledge”—though its adherents’ public meeting was held up several hours because none of them knew how to run the movie projector. Gallup reported that six million Americans had tried TM, five million had twisted themselves into yoga poses, and two million had sampled some sort of Oriental religion. And hundreds of thousands of Americans in eleven cities had plunked down $250 for the privilege being screamed at as “assholes.” “est”—Erhard Seminars Training, named after the only-in-America hustler who invented it, Werner Erhard, originally Jack Rosenberg, a former used-car and encyclopedia salesman who had tried and failed to join the Marines (this was not incidental) at the age of seventeen, and experienced a spiritual rebirth one morning while driving across the Golden Gate Bridge (“I realized that I knew nothing. . . . In the next instant—after I realized that I knew nothing—I realized that I knew everything”)—promised “to transform one’s ability to experience living so that the situations one had been trying to change or had been putting up with, clear up just in the process of life itself,” all that in just sixty hours, courtesy of a for-profit corporation whose president had been general manager of the Coca-Cola Bottling Company of California and a former member of the Harvard Business School faculty. A

Character is higher than intellect. A great soul will be strong to live as well as to think.’ Your

I'm not sold on the idea of meeting anyone I haven't yet met...

All I’m saying is that to liberate the potential of your mind, body and soul, you must first expand your imagination. You see, things are always created twice: first in the workshop of the mind and then, and only then, in reality. I call the process ‘blueprinting’ because anything that you create in your outer world began as a simple blueprint in your inner world, on the lush picture screen of your mind.

This world will not recognize real people and their real struggle. Because the majority are fake here. They have sold their souls to live the life of luxury and comfort. They deal in the currency of glitz and glamour. They are driven by the pettiness of greed and patheticity of selfishness. They don't recognize honesty, integrity, and real struggle! But you do not become a cynic. You cannot give up on your idealism and integrity. Lend a hand to the poor and needy. Stand up for the Innocents. Be a voice for the voiceless in this world! Don't let them take away the real hero or real heroine in you! Believe in yourself. Never doubt your capabilities. Stay real and stay humble.

by the time this teacher was telling me that Wilberforce had set Africans free I already had some knowledge of the rebel slaves known as ‘Maroons’ across the Caribbean, and of the Haitian Revolution, so I had some idea that the enslaved had not just sat around waiting for Wilberforce, or anyone else for that matter, to come and save them. While it’s certainly true that Britain had a popular abolitionist movement to a far greater degree than the other major slaveholding powers in Europe at the time, and this is in its own way interesting and remarkable, generations of Brits have been brought up to believe what amount to little more than fairy tales with regard to the abolition of slavery. If you learn only three things during your education in Britain about transatlantic slavery they will be: 1. Wilberforce set Africans free 2. Britain was the first country to abolish slavery (and it did so primarily for moral reasons) 3. Africans sold their own people. The first two of these statements are total nonsense, the third is a serious oversimplification. What does it say about this society that, after two centuries of being one of the most successful human traffickers in history, the only historical figure to emerge from this entire episode as a household name is a parliamentary abolitionist? Even though the names of many of these human traffickers surround us on the streets and buildings bearing their names, stare back at us through the opulence of their country estates still standing as monuments to king sugar, and live on in the institutions and infrastructure built partly from their profits – insurance, modern banking, railways – none of their names have entered the national memory to anything like the degree that Wilberforce has. In fact, I sincerely doubt that most Brits could name a single soul involved with transatlantic slavery other than Wilberforce himself. The ability for collective, selective amnesia in the service of easing a nation’s cognitive dissonance is nowhere better exemplified than in the manner that much of Britain has chosen to remember transatlantic slavery in particular, and the British Empire more generally

The curious fact about Oxo cubes is that we have probably never really needed them. These little cubes of salt, beef extract and flavourings were, and I suppose still are, used to add ‘depth’ to stews, gravies and pie fillings made with ‘inferior’ meat. Two million are sold in Britain each day. Yet any half-competent cook knows you can make a blissfully flavoursome stew with a bit of scrag and a few carrots, without recourse to a cube full of chemicals and dehydrated cow. Apart from showing disrespect to the animal that has died for our Sunday lunch (imagine bits of someone else being added to your remains after you have been cremated), the use of a strongly seasoned cube to ‘enhance’ the gravy successfully manages to sum up all that is wrong about the British attitude to food. How could we fail to understand that the juices that drip from a joint of decent meat as it cooks are in fact its heart and soul, and are individual to that animal. Why would anyone need to mask the meat’s natural flavour? By making every roast lunch taste the same, smothering the life out of the natural pan juices seems like an act of culinary vandalism, and people did, and still do, just that on a daily basis.

If you sold your soul for once, there will never be a second TIME.

Worry drains the mind of much of its power and, sooner or later, it injures the soul. Worry causes your precious mental energy and potential to leak. Soon, you have no energy left. All your creativity, optimism and motivation have been drained, leaving you exhausted. Words are the verbal embodiment of power. If you want to live a more peaceful, meaningful life, you must think more meaningful, peaceful thoughts. The quality of your thinking determines the quality of your life. Solitude and quiet connect you to your creative source and release the limitless intelligence of the universe. Sunlight will release your vitality and restore your emotional and physical vibrancy. Unless you reduce your needs, you will never be fulfilled. Well-arranged time is the surest mark of a well-arranged mind. Those who are masters of their time live simple lives. A hurried, frenzied pace is not what nature intended.

The people who are riding with you doesn't mean they are with you, when you go down in your life only then you will find who is real to you. The souls which get sold to Status , Money , Position will side themselves when you are down . This should be enough to know and motivate you to become self-sufficient in your life!

We covered over your colorful earth with gray cement. We cut down trees and stripped the soil wherever we went. We scarred the hills for gold and coal, Blind with greed inside our soul, Our goal:To have complete control. Lord, have mercy. Can we be restored? Lord, have mercy. What of the lands of tribes and nations who lived here first? Who took the best with broken treaties, and left the worst? By whom were slaves bought, used, sold? Who valued humans less than gold? Who told us racist lies until our hearts went cold? Lord, have mercy. Can we be restored? Lord, have mercy The noise of traffic is drowning out the songbird’s song. Your voice within us is telling us that we’ve gone wrong. You call us from our selfishness, To be blessed—and to bless To turn to you, to begin anew. Lord, have mercy. Can we be restored? Lord, have mercy.

You sold your soul away, Bryce Quinlan. When it is your time, we shall come to rip it to shreds.” “It’s a date.

Bury all your secrets in my skin Come away with innocence and leave me with my sins The air around me still feels like a cage And love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage again So if you love me let me go And run away before I know My heart is just too dark to care I can't destroy what isn? t there Deliver me into my fate If I'm alone I cannot hate I don't deserve to have you Ooh, my smile was taken long ago If I can change I hope I never know I still press your letters to my lips And cherish them in parts of me that savor every kiss I couldn't face a life without your lights But all of that was ripped apart when you refused to fight So save your breath, I will not care I think I made it very clear You couldn't hate enough to love Is that supposed to be enough? I only wish you weren't my friend Then I could hurt you in the end I never claimed to be a saint Ooh, my own was banished long ago It took the death of hope to let you go So break yourself against my stones And spit your pity in my soul You never needed any help You sold me out to save yourself And I won't listen to your shame You ran away, you? re all the same Angels lie to keep control Ooh, my love was punished long ago If you still care don't ever let me know If you still care don't ever let me know

Do you realise what you’ve done, do you realise that you’ve sold your soul to me? And Millie’s, for that matter.

Don't make the mistake of thinking that your soul is an island, Ash. It's as much a part of the continent as your body is. It is immune to being bought and sold because the original owner will not release the title.

The saying, “They sold their soul to the Devil for fame,” has been proven to be accurate. Even if people initially gained fame due to their talents and skills rather than from outside assistance, they inevitably sold it later to maintain that elevated level of fame, fortune, and status.

The universe favors the brave. When you resolve to lift your life to its highest level, the strength of your soul will guide you to a magical place with magnificent treasures. — The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari

Doesn’t it almost take a special kind of evil—or ego, maybe—to seek the White House anymore? It’s damned near impossible to get to that level of power and influence without having sold bits of your soul.

In Los Angeles everybody wears a mask, telling stories that aren't quite the truth but aren't quite a lie. The warm weather makes it easy to stay. The strange thing is: you can feel your soul being bought and sold, little by little, piece by piece. You feel it dying, being taken away from you, dripping out of you. Especially at night, when it's a dark, starless sky. Night as you know it, and night as we know it...here...are two different things.

Bree, I would have sold my soul to be able to get your dreams back for you in that moment.

Your soul can neither be sold nor be bought. Your body has no power over your soul. Your body is only a vehicle to get the soul to its intended destination.

Your soul can neither be sold nor be bought.

Your soul can neither be sold nor be bought. Your body has no power over your soul.

Wall-to-wall drags with split-level minds, remote-control color TV souls and credit-card hearts. Play who-do-you-know and who-have-you-screwed. Blow your bourgeois blues, your nigger soul sold for a mess of materialistic pottage.

Have you sold your soul to the Shadow Bastard yet? What are you waiting for?

Many of the people who served God had to endure abusive environments to prepare them for their calling. One was Joseph, who was sold to be a bond-servant, whose feet they hurt in the stocks; the iron entered into his soul. Until the time came when his cause was known, the word of the Lord tried him (Ps. 105:17-19). It’s no different today. Our circumstances are connected with our calling. As the Lord placed Joseph in Egypt in the position to feed his brethren in time of famine, so he placed you in the position to serve the community. —Barsanuphius Your environment is given to maximize your discovery of what and who you are, to maximize your realization of your sin and need for God, to maximize your incentive to reach out to him and receive Christ in you, the hope of glory

Okay," says Henry, "if you sold your soul for one thing, what would it be?" Bea chews her lip. "Happiness." "What is that?" he asks. I mean, is it just feeling happy for no reason? Or is it making other people happy? Is it being happy with your job, or your life, or--" Bea laughs. "You always overthink things, Henry.

Worry drains the mind of its power and, sooner or later, it injures the soul.

He watched her again while she worked, his gaze unnervingly intense. Once the tea was steeped, she walked back over with it, passing him the mug. “Here,” she said. “This will help.” He nodded slowly, taking it from her as she sat down in a nearby chair. “You’re not what I expected.” “Let me guess.” She raised a brow, trying to feign indifference. “You expected the woman who sold her soul to Pysgod, becoming so cursed that she could not even bear her own children and then, in her rage, tried to murder the Ri of Ceffyl?” He cleared his throat, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Something like that.” “Be careful when you only hear the word of one man.

Every being on this Earth, every object on this Earth has a soul. All souls flow into one, this is the Soul of the Universe. You see, John, when you nourish your own mind and your own spirit, you are really feeding the Soul of the Universe. When you improve yourself, you are improving the lives of all those around you. And when you have the courage to advance confidently in the direction of your dreams, you begin to draw upon the power of the universe. As I told you earlier, life gives you what you ask of it. It is always listening.

All I’m saying is that to liberate the potential of your mind, body and soul, you must first expand your imagination. You see, things are always created twice: first in the workshop of the mind and then, and only then, in reality. I call the process ‘blueprinting’ because anything that you create in your outer world began as a simple blueprint in your inner world, on the lush picture screen of your mind. When you learn to take control of your thoughts and vividly imagine all that you desire from this worldly existence in a state of total expectancy, dormant forces will awaken inside you. You will begin to unlock the true potential of your mind to create the kind of magical life that I believe you deserve. From tonight onwards, forget about the past. Dare to dream that you are more than the sum of your current circumstances. Expect the best. You will be astonished at the results.

I’ve realized something very important, John. The world, and that includes my inner world, is a very special place. I’ve also come to see that success on the outside means nothing unless you also have success within. There is a huge difference between well-being and being well-off. When I was a hotshot lawyer, I used to snicker at all those people who worked at improving their inner and outer lives. ‘Get a life!’ I thought. But I have learned that self-mastery and the consistent care of one’s mind, body and soul are essential to finding one’s highest self and living the life of one’s dreams. How can you care for others if you cannot even care for yourself? How can you do good if you don’t even feel good? I can’t love you if I cannot love myself,” he offered.

Tom Wood - The Hunter and other Books in the series "Money, he had long ago discovered, was the world’s number one aphrodisiac." " But better I take what I might not need than find myself without what I do need." " Why do you do what you do?" "Once you’ve sold your soul to the devil you can’t then ask for it back." "Trust is earned." " You don’t like it, stop doing it. A simple statement, but true all the same." " People who wanted weapons had enemies and by supplying those people, he would count their enemies as his own." "....to give the teabags the best chance at working. The haemostatic tannins found naturally in tea would help stop the bleeding, reduce the chance of infection, and aid the healing process." "I am a shark. As soon as I stop swimming, I’ll drown.’ " Life flows like a river, and we must adapt to its ever-changing course." "They’re a nuisance. Pure vermin.’" '‘As are we all, madam,’ the man with blond hair said back. ‘But at least the pigeons have no pretence of grandeur." "I trust that you understand the consequences of showing yourself to be untrustworthy.’ "And there is no hearsay in a man’s eyes. There is only truth.’ ‘What truth do you see in mine?’ ‘I see a man of experience. I see a man without conscience. I see a man who sold his soul before he knew he possessed anything of value.’ "Do I need to be in a hurry to wonder how long I’ll be here?’ "Understanding and doing are two separate concepts.’ "Aren’t you glad to be alive?’ ‘Of course,’ Victor said. ‘Life is always preferable to the alternative.’ 'They say you get out of reading what you put in.’ BETTER OFF DEAD "....jobs could only be considered routine because of the preparation that went into them and the patience displayed in their execution. If corners were cut in the lead-up to the job – should any contingency not be considered and planned for – mistakes would surely follow." You don’t know it yet, and no one ever told me at your age, but eventually you’ll reach a point in life where you have no new thoughts; you experience no new sensations. Everything you do, everything you say, you’ve done and said a thousand times before. Swearing is an expression of anger. When we swear we’re admitting we’ve lost control. Reading is exercise for the mind. I believe in integrity and I believe in justice. I believe a man is only as good as his word and I believe that we are only treated as we allow ourselves to be treated. Forgiveness is against human nature. To forgive a wrong is to invite another. I believe in justice. No wrong should go unpunished.

Have You Sold Your Soul for a Weekend? Your soul is worth more than a weekend. The side effect of Slowlane institutionalization is numbed blindness, followed by ignorance.

Bill Walsh was not afraid of talent. He hired assistant coaches who were extremely good, and he did it with the expectation that they would move on—up to head coaching positions. And in fact, about fifteen of them did. He didn’t feel that you sold your soul to the company store. While you were a 49er, you were expected to give it your all, but Bill was very enlightened in the way he supported the lives and careers of employees beyond just what they could do for his team.

Heartache Fetish" Slip into my drink Sneak into my veins and knock me out cold Am I tripping are you bliss? Are we dreaming this? Don't wake me yet It's dripping from your lips And written on your wrists Can't be tamed [Hook] You're not in the room But you got me in a headlock Tied up Helpless Ready to be sacrificed and buried Love me, love me forever You force my spirit down your throat And leave me by the roadside, dying Pulled apart by your grace It leaves a burning taste And now I got my tongue-tied and tattooed [Hook] All that's left are my bones Dipped in gold Waiting to be sold To the first damn taker All that's left is your ghost And the fire burning up Your soul [Hook]

In other words, no matter what country you buy your oil from, Saudi Arabia determines world price by how much oil it chooses to produce.