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“You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise.”
Watch the little things; a small leak will sink a great ship.
Music is the language of the soul.
Two possibilities exist: either we are alone in the Universe or we are not. Both are equally terrifying.
I hold it to be the inalienable right of anybody to go to hell in his own way.
The thought manifests as the word. The word manifests as the deed. The deed develops into habit. And the habit hardens into character.
“You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise.”
Watch the little things; a small leak will sink a great ship.
Music is the language of the soul.
Two possibilities exist: either we are alone in the Universe or we are not. Both are equally terrifying.
I hold it to be the inalienable right of anybody to go to hell in his own way.
The thought manifests as the word. The word manifests as the deed. The deed develops into habit. And the habit hardens into character.