A Quote by Miguel Syjuco

It kills me how these days everyone has clinical justification for their strangeness. — © Miguel Syjuco
It kills me how these days everyone has clinical justification for their strangeness.
Man's destructive hand spares nothing that lives; he kills to feed himself, he kills to clothe himself, he kills to adorn himself, he kills to attack, he kills to defend himself, he kills to instruct himself, he kills to amuse himself, he kills for the sake of killing.
I will find a way to you if it kills me if it kills me if it kills me (I think it might kill me).
I'm afraid that in the United States of America today the prevailing doctrine of justification is not justification by faith alone. It is not even justification by good works or by a combination of faith and works. The prevailing notion of justification in our culture today is justification by death. All one has to do to be received into the everlasting arms of God is to die.
Everyone is wounded. No one is healthy enough to never screw up, when you're in combat. But, I like to show that, and I like to show how people get back from that. You have to forgive each other. When you're in the middle of a long-term commitment, the essence of it is that everyone is going to have good days and bad days, and it's about how you continue to rejoin forces.
In Los Angeles, I feel connected to a hubbub of strangeness. And I enjoy that; I like strangeness.
I mean, whatever kills you kills you, and your death is authentic no matter how you die.
That got me thinking. Bon Jovi kills in Jersey. Just kills. We did Atlantic City this past winter and man, you wouldn't believe the intensity in that crowd. Can I just talk for a minute about how amazingly hot Heather is?
...Nameless, unknown to me as you were, I couldn't forget your voice!' 'For how long?' 'O - ever so long. Days and days.' 'Days and days! Only days and days? O, the heart of a man! Days and days!' 'But, my dear madam, I had not known you more than a day or two. It was not a full-blown love - it was the merest bud - red, fresh, vivid, but small. It was a colossal passion in embryo. It never returned.
Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image; but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye.
Having lived long enough to go at least once or twice around the block, I'm noticing that the strangeness is not receding The strangeness seems to be accelerating.
Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image, but thee who destroys a good book, kills reason its self.
Everyone has a bizarre childhood and unusual life experiences, whether they know it or not. There's no such thing as a normal childhood. What's useful in writing weird fiction is learning how to understand and articulate those moments of personal, particular strangeness.
Let me say this as clearly as I can: No matter how sharp a grievance or how deep a hurt, there is no justification for killing innocents.
One kills a man, one is an assassin; one kills millions, one is a conqueror; one kills everybody, one is a god.
I shall be a good politician. Even if it kills me. Or if it kills anyone else, for that matter.
The man who kills a man kills a man. The man who kills himself kills all men. As far as he is concerned, he wipes out the world.
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