Stained is about a lonely bookshop keeper, and her past comes back to haunt her. I play a femme fatale, schizophrenic serial killer. They offered me the part and I was like, "I'm just curious why you thought I would be perfect for this role," and the director (Karen Lam) said, "You have this look that, when you're smiling, you're really sweet, but when you're not smiling, you look like you could kill somebody. "
[The Fuhrer] is one of those lonely men of the ages on whom history is not tested, but who themselves are the makers of history.
Being single isn't the cause of loneliness, and marriage is not necessarily the cure. There are many lonely married people as well.
What a lonely species we are, searching for signals of life from other galaxies, adopting companion animals, visiting parks and zoos to commune with other beasts. In the process, we discover our shared identity.
But at least this got Mouth thinking about how his loneliness wasn't unique. We all suffered. And I guess we all had good times too. Man - if every person who ever felt lonely killed himself, the world would be littered with corpses. And far lonelier.
There's a hole in the world like a great black pit and the vermin of the world inhabit it and its morals aren't worth what a pig could spit and it goes by the name of London. At the top of the hole sit the privileged few Making mock of the vermin in the lonely zoo turning beauty to filth and greed. . . I too have sailed the world and seen its wonders, for the cruelty of men is as wonderous as Peru but there's no place like London!
A lonely man on a rainy night who cannot read.
I cry a lot. I'll cry because I see a person walking down the street looking lonely.
No matter how much you care about a person, you have to be able to know that you can sit down at night and be happy with who you are without that person. That's really hard when you're a lonely emo kid.
Home is in my hair, my lips, my arms, my thighs, my feet and my hands. I am my own home. And when I wake up crying in the morning, thinking of how lonely I am, I pinch my skin, tug at my hair, remind myself that I am alive. Remind myself to step outside and greet the morning. Remind myself that it’s all about forward motion. It’s all about change. It’s all about that elusive state. Freedom.
I would always be lonely, but no more alone.
If you feel lonely within your relationship, pay attention to this inner warning signal!
There was only the broad square with the scattered dim moons of the street lamps and with the monumental stone arch which receded into the mist as though it would prop up the melancholy sky and protect beneath itself the faint lonely flame on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, which looked like the last grave of mankind in the midst of night and loneliness.
It is really hard to be lonely very long in a world of words. Even if you don't have friends somewhere, you still have language, and it will find you and wrap its little syllables around you and suddenly there will be a story to live in.
The poem is lonely. It is lonely and en route. Its author stays with it. Does this very fact not place the poem already here, at its inception, in the encounter, in the mystery of encounter?
Each of us knew that the journey to exaltation would be long, strenuous, and sometimes lonely, but we also knew that we would not travel alone. Heavenly Father provides all who fulfill the prerequisites of faith, repentance, and baptism with a companion and guide, the Holy Ghost.
I've never been lonely. I've been in a room. . . I've felt suicidal, I've been depressed. I've felt awful. . . awful beyond all , but I never felt that one other person could enter that room and cure what was bothering me. . . or that any number of people could enter that room. In other words, loneliness is something I've never been bothered with because I've always had this terrible itch for solitude.
But loneliness is as delusive a belief in the pertinence of the world as is love: in choosing to feel lonely, as in choosing to love, one carves a space next to oneself to be filled by others - a friend, a lover, a toy poodle, a violinist on the radio.
Recreational talking is, along with private singing, one of our saddest recent losses. Like singing, talking has become a job for trained professionals, who are paid considerable sums of money to do it on television and radio while we sit silently listening or, if we're truly lonely and determined, call the station and sit holding the phone waiting for a chance to contribute our two cents' worth.
They say it's lonely at the top. It must be even lonelier at the tippy top.