When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.
I would suggest that our imagination is a tiny shard of God__ infinite genius that we have within us simply because we were created in God__ image.
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I would suggest that our imagination is a tiny shard of God__ infinite genius that we have within us simply because we were created in God__ image.
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True evil is unlikely to receive an invitation from us, so it clothes itself in just enough truth to make itself look appealing and then it looks to unpeel us.
And so to tame Christmas we spin myths to temper the story, we create our own caricatures to speak our own lines into the script, we gift ourselves to enhance an adventure now lagging, and we think we__e on a grand adventure when we__e completely forgotten what an adventure is.
Imagination doesn't always make you long for what you cannot have, but rather thrive in what you do not have.
To be blessed and yet permit gluttony to blind me to the blessings is to banish myself to a life of unrelenting poverty even though I might be utterly engulfed in the embrace of a million marvelous blessings.
If I had a single wish, I would wish sixty seconds of total depravity upon myself. For one of the greatest gifts of all is to have __othing_ so that I can finally learn how to appreciate __verything_.