A Quote by Helen Rowland

In love, somehow, a man's heart is always either exceeding the speed limit, or getting parked in the wrong place. — © Helen Rowland
In love, somehow, a man's heart is always either exceeding the speed limit, or getting parked in the wrong place.
I love driving fast. I grew up in Germany; we have the Autobahn here, where we can drive without a speed limit. And throughout my 20s, I always had fast cars, and I always went to the maximum. Like, my average cruising speed was 250 km/hr.
I could not see the speedometer, and was not accustomed to travelling in an open vehicle, but I estimated that we were consistently exceeding the speed limit. Discordant sound, wind, risk of death—I tried to assume the mental state that I used at the dentist.
Just because you put higher-octane gasoline in your car doesn't mean you can break the speed limit. The speed limit's still 65.
I can't see a problem with imposing fines on drivers who violate traffic safety laws. The speed limit is the speed limit. A red light means stop. These things haven't changed since people got their driver's licenses.
Every year, Messi seems to reach his limit, but he always ends up exceeding that. He is the best.
I do all of my good thinking at over 65 miles per hour. The speed limit is, luckily, the same speed as my brainstorming speed.
The beautiful thing about driving was that it stole just enough of his attention - car parked on the side, maybe a cop, slow to speed limit, time to pass this sixteen-wheeler, turn signal, check rearview, crane neck to check blind spot and yes, okay, left lane.
Every man is a damn fool for at least five minutes every day; wisdom consists in not exceeding the limit.
To love the one who loves you, To admire the one who admires you, In a word, to be the idol of one's idol, Is exceeding the limit of human joy; It is stealing fire from heaven.
Speed is the form of ecstasy the technical revolution has bestowed on man. As opposed to a motorcyclist, the runner is always present in his body, forever required to think about his blisters, his exhaustion; when he runs he feels his weight, his age, more conscious than ever of himself and of his time of life. This all changes when man delegates the faculty of speed to a machine: from then on, his own body is outside the process, and he gives over to a speed that is noncorporeal, nonmaterial, pure speed, speed itself, ecstasy speed.
I was born with the wrong sign In the wrong house With the wrong ascendancy I took the wrong road That led to The wrong tendencies I was in the wrong place At the wrong time For the wrong reason And the wrong rhyme On the wrong day Of the wrong week Used the wrong method With the wrong technique Wrong Wrong.
The fact remains that getting people right is not what living is all about anyway. It's getting them wrong that is living, getting them wrong and wrong and wrong and then, on careful reconsideration, getting them wrong again. That's how we know we're alive: we're wrong.
The penalty for exceeding the time limit is the forfeiture of the game.
I made a couple of friends when I was a teenager who said I was funny. I used to send them very long texts; it was on a Nokia and always exceeding the text limit. But if I was making jokes in a group nobody was listening.
I am a patriot, and I protest speed limits by exceeding them.
If you were to press your heart close up against somebody else’s heart eventually your hearts will start beating at the same time. And two little babies in an incubator, their hearts will beat at the same time. Love that. So if you have somebody in your life that is prone to anxiety, like myself, and if you happen to be a calm person, you could come up and hug me heart to heart and my heart hopefully would slow to yours. And I just love that idea. Or maybe yours would speed up to mine. But either way, we’ll be there together.
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