him

He desperately wants you to know Him. So many people believe in God, but they don't really know Him. And because they don't really know Him, they are lukewarm. The truth is, if you truly knew Him, you couldn't be lukewarm or halfhearted. If you remain lukewarm, maybe it's because you don't know who God really is.

You will find yourself with a beautiful boy and you will not want to stay in that room, with him, even though there is nothing more you can ask for in another human beingand there is nothing you can do about this.

He stood in a room, looking around, seeing thousands of himself. He banged the walls made of mirrors, but they wouldn't break. Thier laugh filled his heart and with fear, he curled up and sat there. And then She came out of nowhere and wrapped her arm around him. She held his hand, together they got up and walked towards a wall. He raised his head and looked at the reflections, but all he saw there was only him. She turned and smiled at him and touched the wall. It cracked and shattered into pieces. She inside him broke all the walls around him. He was free, he was not held and haunted by his reflections anymore.

His eyes were deep as ocean, and I found myself drowning in his lies.

I grew up not liking my father very much. I never saw him cry. But he must have. Everybody cries.

I think I created my particular stage persona out of my dad's life, and perhaps I even built it to suit him to some degree.

With Dad, he was the ultimate wildlife warrior, and we admired him more than anything.

Coercion, after all, merely captures man. Freedom captivates him.

The artist alone sees spirits. But after he has told of their appearing to him, everybody sees them.

If either player abandon the game by quitting the table in anger, or in an otherwise offensive manner; or by momentarily resigning the game; or refuses to abide by the decision of the Umpire, the game must be scored against him.

He took over anger to intimidate subordinates, and in time anger took over him.

Anger is implanted in us as sort of sting, to make us gnash with our teeth against the devil, to make us vehement against him, not to set us in array against each other.

My father was often angry when I was most like him.

Anger is a killing thing: it kills the man who angers, for each rage leaves him less than he had been before - it takes something from him.

That sense of a life in natural objects, which in most poetry is but a rhetorical artifice, was, then, in Wordsworth the assertion of what was for him almost literal fact.

My father and I have a very good relationship. We always got along. But I always scold him.

I had no romantic interest in Gable. I considered him an older man.

A realist, in Venice, would become a romantic by mere faithfulness to what he saw before him.