truth-of-life

The one place where a man ought to get a square deal is in a court-room, be heany colour of the rainbow, but people have way to carrying their resentments right into a jury box.

Nobody Is PerfectWe__e all damaged in our own way. Nobody__ perfect. I think we__e all somewhat screwy. Every single one of us. _ Johnny DeppEverybody is perfect in their own way, and everybody matters. How does it feel when others don__ respect your own unique way of understanding? What happens when they try to change you according to their way? Everybody makes mistakes, and every mistake matters. How do you succeed when you don__ know what failure brings? Remember: feel comfortable and be happy in your own skin; have the courage to follow your own path confidently. Life is beautiful: there are no mistakes in life, only lessons to be learned.

No, sir. I make it a rule of mine: The more it looks like Queer Street, the less I ask.

The first step is always the hardest

It doesn__ really matter in the end. Most people I talk to don__ take writing seriously. If I tell them I__ an aspiring author, they get that __eah right_ look on their face, which is usually followed by __ood luck with that.

We all want to hear the truth, but we also a Speak that Always?

Trust is a word created by liars.

Silence is the fruit of occupation.

We are all fit for better things than we ever do

When a self-evident truth is presented, don't be surprised when self-centeredness fights back...

A secret to which truth has always initiated her lovers, and through which they have learned that it is in hiding that she offers herself to them most truly.

Unborn, never died, ever alive - thus is the Ultimate Reality. Of God. And of the Universal Self. As too, your own.

Why don't boys like girls as they are?' 'They bore easy cause the so deadhead. Sometimes they want you mami, sometimes sis, sometimes lovergirl. You game with boys you got to know who you are and not let them tell you'.

Truth doesn__ need to be defended. Truth just is.

In this month he had been too happy to sin much

Don't make the Divine a nincompoop's idea, of being a man-like entity. What you see here is merely a wandering whirlwind of Infinity.

I think of Lindsay in the bathroom of Rosalita__, and wonder how many people are clutching secrets like little fists, like rocks sitting in the pits of their stomachs. All of them, maybe.

In the struggle for life, a taste for truth is a luxury--or else a disability.