The same word passed through three minds, simultaneously, philosophical, fatalistic, the eternal refuge of the Italian: Pazienza.
See, broken things always have a story, don't they?
I see a broken shell and I remind myself that something might have needed setting free. See, broken things always have a story, don't they?
I have noticed that teachers get exciting confused with boring a lot.
Each thread of life that you leave, will spin around your deeds and dictate your needs.
A pinch of praise is worth a pound of scorn. A dash of encouragement is more helpful than a dipper of pessimism. A cup of kindness is better than a cupboard of criticism.
Good friends, good whiskey, and good lovin', I want to thank you Lord.
I destroy because for me everything that proceeds from reason is untrustworthy. I believe only in the evidence of what stirs my marrow, not in the evidence of what addresses itself to my reason. I have found levels in the realm of the nerve. I now feel capable of evaluating the evidence. There is for me an evidence in the realm of pure flesh which has nothing to do with the evidence of reason. The eternal conflict between reason and the heart is decided in my very flesh, but in my flesh irrigated by nerves.