A Quote by Larry Klayman

I call upon all of you to wage a second American nonviolent revolution, to use civil disobedience, and to demand that this president leave town, to get up, to put the Quran down, to get up off his knees, and to figuratively come out with his hands up.
Each individual cat got up and did his thing. It wasn't like today where they come down and put down some nice linoleum so you don't get burnt up. I mean, we used to b-boy right in the middle of the park with broken glass everywhere! And you'd get up and you'd be all scratched and burised and bleeding and you would be ready to go right back in the circle. You'd just wipe the glass off your elbows and go right back in.
At one point, I didn't get out of bed for, I think, three months, and I went down to the bottom of the hill one day and I had to call somebody to get me to come back up - come pick me up because I couldn't physically walk up the hill.
I've got a hangover!" "No, you hit your head on the floor," Sophie said. Howl rose up on his hands and knees with a scramble. "I can't stay," he said. "I've got to rescue that fool Sophie." "I'm here!" Sophie shook his shoulder. "But so is Mis Angorian! Get up and do something about her!
If Snowden really claims that his actions amounted to genuine civil disobedience, he should go to some English language bookstore in Moscow and get a copy of Henry David Thoreau's 'Civil Disobedience'.
Blood trickled down his chin as he was hauled up onto his knees, the golden rope securing his arms behind him and his ankles together. Arthur looked up and saw the fizzing sparkling crown coming down. I’m Arthur Penhaligon, he thought desperately... The crown was wedged tightly upon his head- and Arthur fell silently screaming into darkness.
I think it's very sad, when you look at Barack Obama, as an example, lands Air Force One in China, and they don't want to put out stairs to get off the plane. And he has to use the stairs that mechanics use to get up and down to fix the plane. They wouldn't give him stairs.
The state says: "Well, in order for it to be legitimate civil disobedience, you have to follow these rules." They put us in "free-speech zones"; they say you can only do it at this time, and in this way, and you can't interrupt the functioning of the government. They limit the impact that civil disobedience can achieve. We have to remember that civil disobedience must be disobedience if it's to be effective.
Today, whether it is a student who holds a sit-in to get the army recruiters off his campus, or the mother of a dead soldier who refuses to leave the front gate of the president's ranch, we continue to be saved by brave people who risk ridicule and rejection but end up turning huge tides of public opinion in the direction of righteousness. We owe them enormous debts of gratitude. It is not easy to stand up for what is right, especially when everyone else is afraid to leave the comfortable path of conformity.
As the Honorable Elijah Muhammad said, 'justice lays down with you when you lay down, justice gets up with you when you get up.' The requirement of this universally applicable law is that you must do unto others as you would have done unto yourself. When you wake up, you wake up to that law that whatever you put out is going to come back.
Meanwhile someone is shining my head to get it dry to attach my top-hat to my head with toupee tape. I get into microphone and get back up into my dressing room for the rest of my costume. I get snapped into all these things and layers and bundled up. I walk downstairs to the pit. Someone hands me my baton (which lights up like a wand) and I watch the first three minutes of the show. Then I come up out of the pit and there I am.
Kids don't say, "Wait." They say, "Wait up, hey wait up!" Because when you're little, your life is up. The future is up. Everything you want is up. "Hold up. Shut up! Mum, I'll clean up. Let me stay up!" Parents, of course, are just the opposite. Everything is down. "Just calm down. Slow down. Come down here! Sit down. Put... that... down."
Do you have any idea how much I love you?” he asked. ”Enough to accept my apologies?” I suggested in a small voice. ”Heck no,” he said, and pushed off from the wall, stalking forward. When he reached me, he put his hands up and touched the sides of my neck with the tips of his fingers – as if I were something fragile. ”No apologies from you,” he told me, his voice soft enough to melt my knees and most of my other parts.
His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready To drop bombs, but he keeps on forgettin' What he wrote down, the whole crowd goes so loud He opens his mouth, but the words won't come out He's chokin', how, everybody's jokin' now The clocks run out, times up, over, blaow!
Try to imagine a man setting out for the day without a single prejudice. ... Inevitably he would be in a state of paralysis. He could not get up in the morning, or choose his necktie, or make his way to the office, ... or, to come right down to the essence of the thing, even maintain his identity.
I wanted to stimulate thought instead of throwing things out or try to give a perspective. I just put stuff up and it's up for two or three weeks and I get tired of it, so I take it down and put something else up.
Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form
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