Untitled Quotes

She winced and covered her ears as Eric,onstage, wrestled with his microphone. "Sorry about that, guys!" he yelled. "All right. I'm Eric, and this is my homeboy Matt on the drums. My first poem is called 'Untitled.'" He screwed up his face as if in pain, and wailed into the mike. "Come my faux juggernaut, my nefarious loins! Slather every protuberance with arid zeal!" Simon slid down in his seat. "Please don't tell anyone I know him." Clary giggled. "Who uses the word 'loins'?" "Eric," Simon said grimly. "All his poems have loins in them." 'Turgid is my torment!" Eric wailed. "Agony swells within!" "You bet it does," Clary said.

It's in the morning, for most of us. It's that time, those few seconds when we're coming out of sleep but we're not really awake yet. For those few seconds we're something more primitive than what we are about to become. We have just slept the sleep of our most distant ancestors, and something of them and their world still clings to us. For those few moments we are unformed, uncivilized. We are not the people we know as ourselves, but creatures more in tune with a tree than a keyboard. We are untitled, unnamed, natural, suspended between was and will be, the tadpole before the frog, the worm before the butterfly. We are for a few brief moments, anything and everything we could be. And then...and then -- ah -- we open our eyes and the day is before us and ... we become ourselves.

When questioning ourselves, we must identify, where we are heading to. Do we prefer our life to remain untitled. Will we stand bare and naked without dressing any expectations or do we decide to interact with the world around. Will we play a part on the stage of life or do we choose to remain simply a chapter without heading, an episode without caption, an untitled interval. ("Life untitled" )

I plead alignment to the flakes of the untitled snakes of a merry cow and to the republicans for which they scam: one nacho, underpants with licorice and jugs of wine for owls.

The problem with Marxism is the proletariat isn’t going to rise up against capitalism and consumerism. The only time they’ll rise up is during a commercial break to either go to the bathroom or grab more beer.


You have me like a drawing, erased, coloured in, untitled, signed by your tongue.

I love you today. I will love you tomorrow. I will love you always. Because when we are reborn, I will fall in love with you again and again and again." - Faye Hall, from an untitled script

So go ahead and make your way Back from the edge of yesterday No one knows what Can't be known 'Cause when you start You're all alone But take enough steps Take enough steps Take enough steps And someday Someday you'll be home ---Heather Wells, Untitled

One light feeds another. One strong family lends strength to more. One engaged community can ignite those around it. This is the power of the light we carry.

Untitled. Unfinished. UNRELEASED

You know, there's a place we all inhabit, but we don't much think about it, we're scarcely conscious of it, and it lasts for less than a minute a day. It's in the morning, for most of us. It's that time, those few seconds when we're coming out of sleep but we're not really awake yet. For those few seconds we're something more primitive than what we are about to become. We have just slept the sleep of our most distant ancestors, and something of them and their world still clings to us. For those few moments we are unformed, uncivilized. We are not the people we know as ourselves, but creatures more in tune with a tree than a keyboard. We are untitled, unnamed, natural, suspended between was and will be, the tadpole before the frog, the worm before the butterfly. We are, for a few brief moments, anything and everything we could be.

One of the most difficult things is to be friends with someone you love so immensely. It hurts. And the worst part is, you have to veil your pain with a smile. And every bit of that smile hurts too.

Excuses will always be made, and blame will always fall on the other. Though the truth is before you, your own love will forever blind you from it. I will not lose you just to prove a point, nor to shatter your heart with the reality before you. Instead I will smile. I will live. I will accept that it just is. I do not do this for them, but I will do it for you. I will do it because I love you." - from an untitled script

I remember When I was a star In the night A moving, burning ember Amid the bright Clouds of star fire Going deathward To the womb.   —JOHN WHITESIDE PARSONS, untitled

From sunset she appeared, Her cloak pierced by a bloom Of unfamiliar climes. She summoned me somewhere Into the northern gloom And aimless winter ice. And bonfire burned 'mid night, And with its tongues the blaze Did lick the very skies. The eyes flashed fiery light, And falling as black snakes The tresses were released. And then the snakes encircled My mind and lofty spirit Lay spread upon the cross. And in the snowdust's swirl To black eyes I am true, To beauty of the coils. (untitled: "From sunset she appeared")

When I was a boy of seven or eight I read a novel untitled "Abafi" — The Son of Aba — a Servian translation from the Hungarian of Josika, a writer of renown. The lessons it teaches are much like those of "Ben Hur," and in this respect it might be viewed as anticipatory of the work of Wallace. The possibilities of will-power and self-control appealed tremendously to my vivid imagination, and I began to discipline myself. Had I a sweet cake or a juicy apple which I was dying to eat I would give it to another boy and go through the tortures of Tantalus, pained but satisfied. Had I some difficult task before me which was exhausting I would attack it again and again until it was done. So I practiced day by day from morning till night. At first it called for a vigorous mental effort directed against disposition and desire, but as years went by the conflict lessened and finally my will and wish became identical.

The mirror's light sparks in the eyes, And horrified, my lids drawn tight, I step back to that realm of night Where not a single exit lies... (Untitled: "I pass away this life of mine...")

Let them look and talk, but take no shit. Ever. Don't ever let them see you stumble. There's strength in a smile. Even if is forced.

In Haiti, untitled rural and urban real estate holdings are together worth some 5.2 billion. To put that sum in context, it is four times the total of all the assets of all the legally operating companies in Haiti, nine times the value of all assets owned by the government, and 158 times the value of all foreign direct investment in Haiti's recorded history to 1995.

We can't change the world, and there is no other one.

Most people go through life dreading they'll have a traumatic experience. Freaks were born with their trauma. They've already passed their test in life. They're aristocrats.

Just live the way you want, Red. Whether you're the good guy or the bad guy in someone else's story, everyone becomes a villain at some point. It's only a difference in prospective.

Sometimes freedom means being the bad guy. Sometimes you gotta embrace the darkness they crate in you and make it your own. Words can hurt, wounds can fester, but even the most broken of bones can heal again, Red.

The tidal current runs to and fro in its unceasing service, crowded with memories of men and ships it had borne to the rest of home or to the battles of the sea. It had known and served all the men of whom the nation is proud, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John Franklin, knights all, titled and untitled--the great knights-errant of the sea. It had borne all the ships whose names are like jewels flashing in the night of time, from the Golden Hind returning with her round flanks full of treasure, to be visited by the Queen's Highness and thus pass out of the gigantic tale, to the Erebus and Terror, bound on other conquests--and that never returned. It had known the ships and the men. They had sailed from Deptford, from Greenwich, from Erith--the adventures and the settlers; kings' ships and the ships of men on 'Change; captains, admirals, the dark "interlopers" of the Eastern trade, and the commissioned "generals" of East India fleets. Hunters for gold or pursuers of fame, they all had gone out on that stream, bearing the sword, and often the torch, messengers of the might within the land, bearers of a spark from the sacred fire. What greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river into the mystery of an unknown earth!...The dreams of men, the seed of commonwealth, the germs of empires.

Wynn was born as all in your world are born. She is as she ever was, as she should be.

Believing is easy. Wynn's voice in his memory sounded so matter-of-fact, as if her words were the simplest of truths. Perhaps they were.

A mature wolf can watch and wait for hours, a cub not yet fully a wolf cannot. To him, a pebble is a diamond for a few moments; or a newly found feather becomes the sole thread on which the entire universe is suspended.

I am not just reading a book; I am invested in the book. If George, Denver, and Stephanie Brown don't get their shit together, I am never going to read another book again. Kit enjoys my commitment to their story, but we don't talk about it in front of Della. Della was a part of the Twilight mania, and after reading one chapter of Kit's untitled manuscript she asked if there were werewolves or vampires in the story. Kit shut her down real fast after that.

...in order to move forward, we cannot allow ourselves to forever dwell in the past.

the best time to start was last year. The second best time to start is right now.

They look at me, and they only see one part of me. One purpose. They will laugh whether I want them to or not. So I make them laugh.

Whoa, back the t-rex up

I spend 95% of my time persuading people to take action and just 5% of the time on the recipes.

Did he think I would listen and apologize, complying quietly like the girl of yesterday? Well unfortunately for him, she's no longer here, and he's stuck with me. They all are.

Always give more than you get, Red. If they knock you down once, get back up and bury them.

have been editorially supplied for works that Clemens left untitled. AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MARK

From an as of yet untitled work: '“Come on,” he guided her towards a diner down the street where throngs of young people ebbed and flowed in great flocks of individuality turned conformity. The ravers, the punks, the goths, the preps, the emo kids, the jocks, the freaks, the geeks, and so many others. They looked like schools of fish colliding and drifting in the barnacled reef of the grafittied club scene.

In your madness you said you loved me," she murmured shyly. His humor fled, and the smile left her lips as she continued, "You said it before, too. When the storm struck, I asked you to love me, and you said you did." Her voice was the barest of whispers. Ruark's gaze turned away from her, and he rubbed the bandage on his leg before he spoke. "Strange that madness should speak the truth, but truth it is." He met her questioning eyes directly. "Aye, I love you." The pain of longing marked his face with a momentary sadness. "And that is madness, in all truth." Shanna raised herself form his side and sat on her heels, staring down at him. "Why do you love me?" Her tone was wondrous. "I beset you at every turn. I deny you as a fit mate. I have betrayed you into slavery and worse. There is no sanity in your plea at all. How can you love me?" "Shanna! Shanna! Shanna!" he sighed, placing his fingers on her hand and gently tracing the lines of her finely boned fingers. "What man would boast the wisdom of his love? How many time has this world heard, 'I don't care, I love.' Do I count your faults and sins to tote them in a book?" ... "I dream of unbelievable softness. I remember warmth at my side the likes of which can set my heart afire. I see in the dark before me softly glowing eyes of aqua, once tender in a moment of love, then flashing with defiance and anger, now dark and blue with some stirring I know I have caused, now green and gay with laughter spilling from them. There is a form within my arms that I tenderly held and touched. There is that one who has met my passion with her own and left me gasping." Ruark caressed Shanna's arm and turned her face to him, making her look into his eyes and willing her to see the truth in them as he spoke. "My beloved Shanna. I cannot think of betrayal when I think of love. I can count no denials when I hold you close. I only wait for that day when you will say, 'I love." Shanna raised her hands as if to plead her case then let them fall dejectedly on her knees. Tears coursed down her cheeks, and she begged helplessly, "But I do not want to love you." She began to sob. "You are a colonial. You are untitled, a murderer condemned, a rogue, a slave. I want a name for my children. I want so much more of my husband." She rolled her eyes in sudden confusion. "And I do not want to hurt you more." Ruark sighed and gave up for the moment. He reached out and gently wiped away the tears as they fell. "Shanna, love," he whispered tenderly, "I cannot bear to see you cry. I will not press the matter for a while. I only beg you remember the longest journey is taken a step at a time. My love can wait, but it will neither yield nor change.

Untitled Either a snail's moist web of moonlight, or someone's hot breath at four a.m. when the night has been too much, has eaten you whole. This is my life. It has been sifted through the bones of my body, through blood. It is all that I have.

You're really not scared, are you? I can't see even a lick of fear in you, Red... Why is that? Every pleb in this school turn tail when they see me... Like they can smell the blood and death that surrounds me. But you... You're either completely stupid and bind, or you don't care. See. You're not one of the sheep here, Red. Maybe not quite a wolf yet either... but you're still different.

His room was a sickly dual-tone of crimson and charcoal, like an Untitled Rothko, the colours bleeding into each other horribly and then rather serenely. The overall effect was overwhelmingly unapologetic but it grew on you like a wart on your nose you didn't realise it was a part of your identity until one day it simply was. His room was his identity. Fiercely bold, avant-garde but never monotonous. He was red, he was black, he was bored, and he was fire. At least to me he seemed like fire. A tornado of fire that burned all in its wake leaving only the wretched brightness of annihilation. His room was where he charmed and disarmed us. We were his playthings. Nobody plays with fire and leaves unscarred. The fire soon seeps into chard and soot. The colours of his soul, his aura, and probably his heart if he didn't stop smoking.

We are not wise enough, we adults, to know what book will be right for any child at any particular moment, but the richer the book, the more imaginative, the more emotionally true, the more beautiful the language, the better the chance that it will minister to a child's deep, inarticulate fears.

Before 1802, cirrus, cumulus, and altostratus clouds hadn’t been given names. Untitled before 1802, the shapes were present in the sky, ethereal or ephemeral, presumably since the big bang, but un-designated, until they needed to be. Why then? The world hasn’t been fully seen, until it is named.

The rain started a few minutes later, a fine mist at first, growing more steady as the miles flew by. The Mercedes hummed along, following the ribbon of road. The night enveloped us, the darkness broken only by the lights on the dash. All the comforts of a womb with the technology of a jet airplane cockpit

Shut the freaking door! What the f is that?!" She shrieks. I scowl at her and she just shrugs. "One of the narcs touched me" I reply, prodding at the marred skin.

The challenge is to ask a two-part question: What next? What now? Asking is the hard part.

The analysis, based on past events, certainly seems sound. But following your instincts is the only way you’re going to do something unsound.

Bloggers around the world are discovering that it’s cheaper and faster and more effective to build their own media channels than it is to waste time arguing with the old ones.

I don’t remember writing most of these posts.

The moment I spot good in people, they instantly become better.

Nunca, nunca te sientas mal por hacer lo que te da alegría

Hurting excellence is one way in which mediocrity gives itself the moments of pleasure.

while luck may be more appealing than effort, you don’t get to choose luck. Effort, on the other hand, is totally available, all the time.

Bullet points are not the point.

This was the first time I knelt and with my lips, […] kissed the lit inwardly pink petaled lips. It was like touching a bird’s exposed heart with your tongue. Summer dawn flowing into the room parting the curtains–the lamp dimming–breeze rendered visible. Lightning, and then soft applause from the leaves … Almost children, we lay asleep in love listening to the rain. We didn’t ask to be born. — Franz Wright, “Untitled,” Earlier Poems (Alfred A. Knopf, 2007)

I don't listen to shit like that, Red. Petty gossip? I couldn't give two fucks. The only thing that interests me is blood, blades and my brothers. You're not like other wimp's here anyway, Red. They're too afraid to move, to bleed, and to be free. Where's fun in living like that? Sometimes freedom means being the bad guy. Sometimes you gotta embrace the darkness they crate in you and make it your own. Words can hurt, wounds can fester, but even the most broken of bones can heal again, Red.

The song continued and in the mists of the strange grove, a woman appeared. Her skin was as dark as the rich harvest earth, and white hair floated around her like a soft cloud in a clear winter sky. She wore a dress made of ice woven with the new blossoms of the first warm days of spring. Her eyes blazed as green as the fair golden days of summer, then turned gold like ripe fields of wheat. They glowed in the dim light as she watched him from her place atop a throne carved fro stone and the roots of a living tree.

Xavier stares past her with watery eyes. 'Why does the world feel the need to drop its weight upon my shoulders?' he barely whispers. His mother strokes his hair. 'Maybe it believes you can handle it,' she tells him. 'That though it is heavy, you are strong enough to carry it.

Want to watch a movie? Netflix is a better librarian, with a better library, than any library in the country. The Netflix librarian knows about every movie, knows what you’ve seen and what you’re likely to want to see. If the goal is to connect viewers with movies, Netflix wins.

At supper, she considered Winton and concluded that he was the most suitable of all her court of admirers. In addition to the things that impressed society, the title and the wealth, he was also handsome (though his friend Amesbury was handsomer, she had to admit). And he was a genuinely nice man. He was not a rank snob, as many of the nobility could be toward an untitled country squire’s daughter. Nor was he arrogant, condescending, indifferent or cruel. He did not drink to excess and according to all reports, didn’t gamble at all. He was entirely ideal. Felicity only wished she understood what he was talking about.

You always call me Red. Red this and Red that... why, it makes no sense! '" she said with panic in her voice, " It's because... you're everything that colour stands for... and more. Dangerous. Fearless... And a temptation... I shouldn't touch or want... but can't help coming back to... You're the salvation I never knew I needed. My Red" he responded.

By the time she had picked every visible corpse off her property, the heap included ants, beetles and cockroaches, different kinds of spiders, some bees, flies, a wasp, two fetid lizard skins and the brittle remains of their skeletons, six butterflies, a stick insect the length of her forearm, two dragonflies, a handful of crickets and other creatures that in the world of naming remained untitled. The collection measured a full hand deep. She paid no attention to the odour rising out of the bucket. The scent of decay was not offensive to her. It was the aroma of life refusing to end. It was the aroma of transformation. Such odour was proof that nothing truly ended, and she revelled in it as much as she did the cereus blossoms along the back wall of the house.

Gritting my teeth as if it requires actual physical strength, I push the memory of him dying in my arms down, deep down. It almost seems to fight me, to want to surge into the forefront of my mind, and I sigh. Long ago I came to the realization that painful memories are persistent. The agony of them stays with you much longer, sharper, and clearer than sweet memories, that soften and assume a hazy, rosy glow in your mind, almost as if they have been airbrushed. Remembrance of pain is different; there is no muting of colors, no blurring of edges. No, its colors remain stark and bold, a palette of vibrant primary reds, blues, and yellows; its edges stay defined and razor sharp. Years later it can still cut you as deeply, make you bleed as profusely, as the day it was formed. FROM AN UNTITLED WORK IN PROGRRESS

...there is something useful about the focal point of a story being an animal...I think it is very important right now, with regard to preservation of nature, to try to inhabit non-human perspectives and to, in some way, use fiction as the laboratory it should be. To explore things that are outside of the norms and not use it for the novel of manners or the thing that has been done before. (from Bloom Aftertalk interview)

I met an acquaintance on my way to a super market near our house and casually asked, “Hi, where are you going?" He looked at me, smiled and politely asked,"Why?” I was stunned. I didn’t have the reason and couldn’t make one. I just gave him a smile and moved on. When later I thought over it I realized that it was one of the most powerful responses to personal questions people tend to ask. I have since used it well and perhaps avoided many unnecessary conversations.

Paint in several colors was squeezed out of tubes and mixed and applied to woven fabric stretched on a wooden frame so artfully we say we see a woman hanging out a sheet rather than oil on canvas. Ana Teresa Fernandez’s image on that canvas is six feet tall, five feet wide, the figure almost life-size. Though it is untitled, the series it’s in has a title: Telaraña. Spiderweb. The spiderweb of gender and history in which the painted woman is caught; the spiderweb of her own power that she is weaving in this painting dominated by a sheet that was woven. Woven now by a machine, but before the industrial revolution by women whose spinning and weaving linked them to spiders and made spiders feminine in the old stories. In this part of the world, in the creation stories of the Hopi, Pueblo, Navajo, Choctaw, and Cherokee peoples, Spider Grandmother is the principal creator of the universe. Ancient Greek stories included an unfortunate spinning woman who was famously turned into a spider as well as the more powerful Greek fates, who spun, wove, and cut each person’s lifeline, who ensured that those lives would be linear narratives that end. Spiderwebs are images of the nonlinear, of the many directions in which something might go, the many sources for it; of the grandmothers as well as the strings of begats. There’s a German painting from the nineteenth century of women processing the flax from which linen is made. They wear wooden shoes, dark dresses, demure white caps, and stand at various distances from a wall, where the hanks of raw material are being wound up as thread. From each of them, a single thread extends across the room, as though they were spiders, as though it came right out of their bellies. Or as though they were tethered to the wall by the fine, slim threads that are invisible in other kinds of light. They are spinning, they are caught in the web. To spin the web and not be caught in it, to create the world, to create your own life, to rule your fate, to name the grandmothers as well as the fathers, to draw nets and not just straight lines, to be a maker as well as a cleaner, to be able to sing and not be silenced, to take down the veil and appear: all these are the banners on the laundry line I hang out.

Let's dispense with the nonsense, Victoria. This isn't a question of suitability, yours or his. You're perfectly capable of accustoming yourself to new circumstances.... and marrying a man of good fortune, though untitled, is not exactly a lordship." Vivien rolled her eyes and sighed. "It is so like you to analyze a situation until you've made it ten times more complicated than it really is! Just as Father used to do." "Father was a wonderful man," Victoria said, stiffening. "Yes... a wonderful, virtuous, lonely martyr. After Mama left him, Father retreated into his shell and hid from the world. And you stayed with him and tried to atone for everything that had happened by becoming exactly like him. You've been living in this same damned cottage, poring over the same bloody books. It's morbid, I tell you." "You don't understand-" Victoria began hotly. "Don't I?" Vivien interrupted. "I understand your fears better than you do. It's always been safer for you to hide here alone than take the chance of loving someone and have them leave you. *That's* what your real worry is. Mama abandoned you, and now you expect the same of anyone else you might love.

I`d rather share the glory of a hit than star by myself in a flop." - Kate Jackson

Silence, the breath inside the body of what is, sings an unbroken tone struck in the key of nil. This endless untitled exclamation implicit and from everywhere at once.

Vision is easy. Ideas are even easier. It's execution that separates the amateurs from the pros.

Your greatest enemy is your own relection

Waste is the antiproperty that becomes the possession of losers. It is the emblem of the untitled.

Humanity is always quick to condemn itself.

The time we decide humans are beyond, is the time we lose our humanity.

stupid, and

Universities no longer spend as much time bragging about the size of their libraries. The

work.

My walk to Alex’s study is like the green mile. I wonder what he’s going to say. This isn’t going to be fun. I step inside his study, but no one announces me, and he doesn’t notice. So I just stare. He’s writing something. With a quill and ink. The well is sitting next to his right hand. He’s so intent on whatever he’s writing he keeps at it for thirty seconds before he sees me. Long enough for me to see the way he narrows his eyes when he’s concentrating and the way he purses his lips. Long enough for me to wonder what it would be like to kiss him. Oh God, where did that come from? I hate him. Hate him. There’s no way I could possibly want to kiss him. He looks up at that instant, and I do my best to just smile right at him and not give away my thoughts. “Please sit,” he says, rising. I nod and sit down in the same fancy chair as before. The door stays open. I sit as erect as possible, my hands in my lap, my ankles crossed beneath me. Victoria must be rubbing off on me. Alex comes around to the front of his desk and rests on it, crossing one ankle over the other as he leans back. “What you did was overstepping your bounds.” I clench my teeth, hard, to stop from snapping back. I have to see where he’s going with this before I get angry. “You went behind my back and orchestrated one of the most ill-planned, riskiest schemes I’ve ever seen. I am shocked.” “But--” He puts his hand up to silence me. “I won’t tell you what I had to do to convince her father to consent to the new arrangement. You are lucky Mr. Rallsmouth will have the means necessary to support Miss Emily, as she will not be receiving a thing from her father from here on out.” All I hear is convince her father. So it worked?” A grin spreads across my features and I jump to my feet. “She’s going to marry Mr. Rallsmouth?” Alex pushes off the desk behind him and stands in front of me. “Have you not heard a word I said? You made grievous errors of judgment. You--” “But I was right! And thanks to me, she’s going to marry the love of her life!” He’s standing right in front of me, inches away. “You were not right! You interfered and it was not your place!” I clench my fists as my anger flares to match his. “You think nothing is my place because I’m some lowly, untitled girl! But someone had to do it, and you didn’t care to!” “You should not have gotten involved!” he growls. “You should not have forced me to!” I say, jabbing my finger into his chest. “You should have been there for her when she needed you!” In an instant, he closes the gap between us. His lips hit mine so fast I can’t even close my eyes. His hands find a place on either side of my face and pull me close, and for two-point-five seconds, I’m lost somewhere between closing my eyes and standing there, frozen. Somehow the eyes win out and I shut them, and my knees start to buckle as I press my lips into to his. I stop breathing and grip his sleeves with both hands to keep from falling straight over. His lips are warm and soft and… And then I realize what’s going on. Who I’m kissing. You’re not a lady, he’s said. It stings as much now as it did the moment he said it. He thinks I’m unworthy. What am I doing? I reel back and knock into the wall with a loud crash that makes him jerk his eyes open. “I, uh…” I stutter, then spin around so fast my skirts twist around my legs and I have to wait for them to swing around again before dashing out of the room.

Think for a moment about the work you've done over the last year. As subjective as it may seem, ask yourself: Which ones were the most effective? Chances are good that these pieces were so effective because they moved you first. The best works of art are the ones that don't set out to prove a point but that set out to tell a story, create a relationship; seek to put into words or pictures an unexplainable feeling. The best ideas must move you before they can move someone else. And so you must begin at your core.

Title (optional) untitled Stanzas (zip) Coda (blank)

It is about being resilient. I am resilient. Why would I not be? Where is the alternative? I need to respect my genes. Why I say this? Each one of us exists because we have the seed of resilience in our genes. We are descendants of those who survived hostile environments from millennia to millennia, generation to generation. Only some of us are not able to get in touch with the seed because we punish our mind and body by giving them too much of negativity and useless inputs. Yes, resilience is in our genes. If someone down the chain had not been resilient we won't be there at one end of the chain in the present..

Saying things using jargon, super phrases and big words to impress vulnerable minds to sell your work is a behaviour that can cause acute harm to your inner space. Mirror always knows. A life lived in deception finally results in super imbalance destroying physical and mental health. Spirit is non-existent there. Need to be super scared of days when one would be alone with only the past to look at.. Do things today to create more empowering memories to get stored in the past as useful resources while building a super robust future..

Genuine leaders make things better not just for themselves but for others, whether or not their contribution results in financial reward or popular recognition. (...) most people I think of leaders are untitled (...) they achieve greatness by working quietly in their organizations and communities, in their own lives, and in helping those around them.

Lies shroud in implicitly. Truth dawns in the light of simplicity in contrast to the vast power of life's force we are mere idiosyncrasies that it flaunts as it's uniqueness

His hair felt, when he bowed, the silence I could not describe.

Piglet has eyebrows.

Faith, mind, and the spoken word are the three most powerful weapons in existence. When untitled in truth, nothing can prevail against them.

Read a book, Motherf**er.

Bad news?" "The, you know, the scars. And the bent nose and the jaw." "Ah," she said. He continued quickly " I mean, you're still attractive. Still very attractive. I'm not saying you're ugly or anything ..." Valkyrie laughed, and it didn't hurt. "I knew someone once whose face was full of scars. and a more beautiful person I don't think I've ever met. And I know a woman with a flawless face and there have been times when I never wanted to see her again. What I'm saying is, Scorry, is that I don't really care about ugly or pretty. I'm just happy I'm healthy. And that's thanks to you.

Love, friendship, networking - these are all critical connections and the foundation of a healthy, happy life.

Traveling is the antidote to ignorance

Girl as a honeycomb— sickly sweet, riddled with empty spaces." - "Untitled

Men were odd creatures. The ones with war injuries could ride and dance more gracefully than they walked; the ones who’d never laid an improper hand on her could bestow a first kiss more sweet and intriguing than she’d ever imagined. The ones who bore the scent of home and happiness could be untitled, socially retiring, and raising orchard hogs in the shires. She

Вы должны отказаться от одежды не по размеру (к тому моменту, как вы похудеете, она выйдет из моды)

Sorry about that, guys!” he yelled. “All right. I’m Eric, and this is my homeboy Matt on the drums. My first poem is called ‘Untitled.’” He screwed up his face as if in pain, and wailed into the mike. “Come, my faux juggernaut, my nefarious loins! Slather every protuberance with arid zeal!” Simon slid down in his seat. “Please don’t tell anyone I know him.” Clary giggled. “Who uses the word ‘loins’?” “Eric,” Simon said grimly. “All his poems have loins in them.” “Turgid is my torment!” Eric wailed. “Agony swells within!” “You bet it does,” Clary said.

In stark contrast to William’s mother, Kate had never come close to moving in aristocratic circles, much less royal ones. She was an untitled commoner, a descendant of coal miners and factory workers. Kate’s mother, Carole, grew up partly in public housing and was working as a British Airways flight attendant when she met and married fellow airline employee Michael Middleton.

quotes are for dumb people who can't think of something intelligent to say on their own." - anonymous

Leadership is about knowing that best of everyone varies everyday...Not all days can turn out to be the same because you cannot be. Ramesh Sood

Glow on the face is a reflection of a mind that is filled with good thoughts...

I have been so rude with you. Aren't you angry?" He was a little surprised to see me stay calm. "Won't help. Better to spend energy to understand you and the reason of your behaviour than to waste it by getting angry.. I find former a better option..." I said..