The evils of mortals are manifold; nowhere is trouble of the same wing seen.
It's a reflex. Hear a bell, get food. See an undead, throw a knife. Same thing, really.
He had the prettiest hair she had ever seen on a man: dark brown, almost black, and soft like sable, it fell down to his shoulders. She wondered what he'd do if she threw some mud in it. Probably kill her.
You snore worse. At least I don't turn into a lion in my sleep. " "I only did it once. " "Once was weird enough, thank you.
What do you do to your hair?" "Dust, hair gel, and a little gun oil. " "Ever thought of patenting the recipe?" "No.
He referred to you as his little snack. " "He's a sweetie.
There was something very comforting about him, and I was not sure if it was his easy manner or his complete immunity to my scowling.
Move onward and carry into practice.
He who says either that the time for philosophy has not yet come or that it has passed is like someone who says that the time for happiness has not yet come or that it has passed.
American mainstream is obsessed with black creative genius - be it music, walk, style - but at the same time puts a low priority on the black social misery which is the very context out of which that creativity flows.
Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.