We were too rough at the edges to be a pop group.
The secret of grace is that it can be all right at the center even when it is all wrong on the edges.
We've had distressed edges. We've had culottes. We've had high waisted jeans, we've seen the heralding of the new bootcut back again. I'm so sorry to say this to you, but the only way forward is ultra-hipsters, you know? Like super-low cut, low-rider jeans, to the extreme.
A photograph has edges the world does not.
Life is lived on the edge.
Days go by when I do nothing but underline the damp edge of myself.
I’m just interested in people on the edges. I feel an affinity for people who haven’t had the best breaks in society. What I want to do more than anything is acknowledge their existence.
There are no edges to my loving now.
Where refugees seek deliverance that never comesAnd the heart consumes itself as if it would live,Where children age before their timeAnd life wears down the edges of the mind,Where the old man sits with mind grown cold,While bones and sinew, blood and cell, go slowly down to death,Where fear companions each day's life,And Perfect Love seems long delayed. CHRISTMAS IS WAITING TO BE BORN:In you, in me, in all mankind.
The world was not wheeling anymore. It was just very clear and bright and inclined to blur at the edges.
Imagine that the universe is a great spinning engine. You want to stay near the core of the thing - right in the hub of the wheel - not out at the edges where all the wild whirling takes place, where you can get frayed and crazy. The hub of calmness - that's your heart. That's where God lives within you. So stop looking for answers in the world. Just keep coming back to that center and you'll always find peace.
…beating time along the edge of thought.
People Expect Something New From Me All The Time. And That's Good It Keeps Me On The Edge
What matters most has an ultimate metallic quality of death. The chasuble and the wagon wheel, the razor and the prickly beards of shepherds, the bare moon, a fly, humid cupboards, rubble piles, the images of saints covered in lace, quicklime, and the wounding edges of the rooflines and watchtowers.
I had hopes for my rough edges. I wanted to use them as a can opener, to cut myself a hole in the world's surface and exit through it.
I suppose that the main drive is to find the edge of something and then throw myself over it.
Dead fields under a November sky, scattered rose petals brown and turning up at the edges, empty pools scummed with algae, rot, decomposition, dust.
If she was broken, she would slash him with her jagged edges, reckless as a drunkard with a shattered bottle.
I want to be the guy out there on the edge.
I'm still rough around the edges and need a lot of polishing.
