If the Father begat the Son, he that was begotten had a beginning of existence: and from this it is evident, that there was a time when the Son was not. It therefore necessarily follows, that he had his substance from nothing.
His kiss held his heart. It broke hers.
If that happens to us," she whispered, unable to wrap her mind around the idea of a life so long and so full of tragedy, "if we feel ourselves, who we are together, becoming lost in time, I don't want to Sleep. I want to say good-bye when I'm still me and you're still you.
Dmitri clearly gives good. . . blood.
To be haunted by my heart is no threat.
You try to leave and I will hunt you down. " Relief poured through her, but she smacked at his thigh with the back of her brush. "Like a rabid dog? Very romantic.
You," she managed to say hoarsely," are a very bad kitty cat.
You simply cannot do a sitcom by committee. It will not work. You've got to have one or two clean, creative voices in charge, and there's got to be some faith by the studio and network in those people to make the right choices.
Classic author moment, "Oh dear, did I kill that character or not?
The northern ocean is beautiful,. . . and beautiful the delicate intricacy of the snowflake before it melts and perishes, but such beauties are as nothing to him who delights in numbers, spurning alike the wild irrationality of life and baffling complexity of nature's laws.
The right to freedom of association is fine, but why shouldn't the cops be allowed to mine your social network to figure out if you're hanging out with gangbangers and terrorists?