She was the third beer. Not the first one, which the throat receives with almost tearful gratitude; nor the second, that confirms and extends the pleasure of the first. But the third, the one you drink because it's there, because it can't hurt, and b...
When I see him, his frame filling the doorway, I do not feel passion, excitement. I can't remember if I ever have. He makes me feel comfortable, like a favorite pair of shoes.
With a feeling of despondency so intense that it was almost pleasurable, he got out his guitar. So this was to be his condition now.What was he but a fragment of broken churned-up humanity washed up on this faraway shore? This was where his journey h...
Don't you think it's a small mystery that birds can twitter so loudly that they can hear each other's song from several miles away? Those tiny bundles are like living flutes, playing non-stop on themselves.
I took a bunch of pictures. You can see 'em on my MySpace page, along with my favorite songs and movies and things that other people have created but that I use to express my individualism.
In the moments when I feel like being truly happy is an impossible puzzle, one I'm not meant to figure out, if you have a best friend you can laugh with and a few good songs you're more than halfway there.
Dear heart, we embrace the song and the story and all our gifts because the world has such great need, and because the world exceedingly rejoices, and because there is no sadder thing than to leave this world having never really shown up.
A choir is made up of many voices, including yours and mine. If one by one all go silent then all that will be left are the soloists. Don’t let a loud few determine the nature of the sound. It makes for poor harmony and diminishes the song.
. . . This is not the same river at my fingertips. There are no paths, no sunken roads familiar in the forest, by which we can retrace our steps, by which we can escape by which we can reclaim and return, or hear the child’s song running in the tim...
I'm not so sure reading Scripture will keep us from having to face trouble as much as it will focus our attention on our Help in those times. The Bible's full of stories about good folks with troubles. Good folks. God-fearin' folks.
This song is for my Molly, who is the best fucking thing that´s ever happened to me. Also, for those suicidal idiots sending her fan mail asking her to run away with them, I will hunt you down and rip off you nuts.
Money Chiefs, loud and long notes are not songs. Silent snow wets Earth, seeds grow, flowers' honey purses seek neither wealth nor power, and the forest's quiet wisdom needs no wind to blow.
I once made a solemn vow that I could not keep... I am from this world. Even with all its failures and suffering it is still worthy of my best efforts... and wishing it was otherwise does not make it so." Eiij'lam told the king.
I once made a solemn vow that I could not keep... I am from this world. Even with all its failures and suffering it is still worthy of my best efforts... and wishing it was otherwisedoes not make it so." Eiij'lam told the king.
Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner?
As the song goes, 'You are lost and gone forever, oh my darling, Valentine.'" [...] I’m listening to someone give up. Someone I knew. Someone I liked. I’m listening. But still, I’m too late.
They could have fought against it, begged for another way or gone off the path in hopes of finding an easier passage. Instead, they looked upon the trail ahead, the rough ridge, now bound by thick snow, and they accepted the path they had chosen.
Some had come to look upon death as a mercy. Death meant warmth. Death was light. Life was cruel, cold, heavy and dark. Life was pain. Death was deliverance, and many would welcome it. Others doggedly clung to life and willed themselves to walk on.
They left their encampment with dirt-covered linen strewn about the abandoned grounds amongst clothes, shoes, children’s toys and other discarded belongings. The handcart wheels crunched over them, and the dry wheels screamed as the Willie Company ...
Do you ... still believe?' 'Our very presence here, a Polynesian goddess sitting next to a Zulu thunder god, listening to the song of a Greek siren, should be proof enough that religions can and do coexist.' He looked back at the cross over the entry...
Consider my Lover; the yellow church of his skin, the clean wells of his ears; How the notes of a song come to him like birds descending on a power line; How in his absence I am of two throats--each of them cramped.
