Of village: it is not called so because its inhabitants are of higher age on average; in fact, there is no connection between the words “village” and “age” whatsoever.
Adrian Mole's diary Easter Poor Jesus, it must have been dead awful for him. I wouldn't have the guts to do it myself.
Pärast Gutenbergi on ilmunud nii massimeedia, film, televisiooon, arvutid, satelliitside kui ka internet. Igal uuel arenguastmel ennustati raamatutele lõppu ja kokkuvõttes kirjastati üha väiksema vaevaga üha rohkem raamatuid kõige erinevamatel...
The mirror's light sparks in the eyes, And horrified, my lids drawn tight, I step back to that realm of night Where not a single exit lies... (Untitled: "I pass away this life of mine...")
The world's most primitive people have few possessions, but they are not poor. Poverty is not a certain small amount of goods, nor is it just a relation between means and ends; above all it is a relation between people. Poverty is a social status. As...
The age of recording is necessarily an age of nostalgia--when was the past so hauntingly accessible?--but its bitterest insight is the incapacity of even the most perfectly captured sound to restore the moment of its first inscribing. That world is n...
Is is seldom possible to say of the medievals that they *always* did one thing and *never* another; they were marvelously inconsistent.
She pulls a spare head from beneath a pile of shoes and raises it by the hair. It looks like one of those cheap, blue heads that botwhores keep for lonely sci-fi freaks who want to pretend they’re fucking the queen of Xenon.
I had a dream about you. We almost made love in the produce section of your local grocery store, but when I asked if you brought protection, you told me you’d forgotten the coupons at home.
My toothpaste tastes like baloney, so I brush my teeth with wheat bread. Guess what flavor my love is, and what kind of mechanical apparatus I use to make it.
Check a phone book out of a library. Inside is a foggy castle covered by a black leather glove, watched over by a shaggy gray dog. My name is written in numbers in the sky by the hand of Hans H. Handey.
It’s raining cats and dogs. Good thing meows and barks bounce off my umbrella, and I just poured a large cup of love in the left cup of your bra when you weren’t looking.
Our relationship is getting serious. I now know she likes Karaoke. Next she’ll tell me she loves coffee. And then she’ll say she loves me—but not as much as she loves coffee.
I told her I loved her, knowing she’d tell her I loved her and I wouldn’t have to tell her first face to face to see her reaction and feel rejection.
We were young and in love. Well, at least I was young. I was fourteen and she was ninety-four. She tried to act like she never remembered we were dating, probably due to her dementia.
A shower curtain would make a great dress. If I make it for you, will you make love to me? Before you answer, you should know that I’m a bring my own bathtub kind of guy.
I must have told her I loved her a thousand times. But none of that matters now that she has discovered that I told her best friend I loved her a thousand and one times.
I write music—for whales. You can’t hear it, but rest assured, it’s excellent. Mostly they’re love songs. Listen with your heart—but be careful, because my songs have an irregular beat.
I stepped on the bug to prove I love her, and show that I’d kill for her. Is there really any mystery as to why the guy she was talking to before me just disappeared out of her life?
I make love like I make money. Well, I would, if somebody would actually pay me to have sex with them. So here I am, broke and sexless.
I make love like I make sausages. And I don’t make sausages. At least not myself. I pay someone to make it for me. And sometimes I even pay for the sex that I’m paying someone else to make for me.
