A Quote by Pete Wentz

The stars crossed and The Boy wished he could have hung himself on them. — © Pete Wentz
The stars crossed and The Boy wished he could have hung himself on them.
I deeply wished I could make the stars all come down and breathe them; disappear in them
As I traveled from one country to another, no one knew anything about me. So I could be anybody, I could speak as I wished, act as I wished, dress as I wished
As I traveled from one country to another, no one knew anything about me. So I could be anybody, I could speak as I wished, act as I wished, dress as I wished.
I can honestly say that, growing up, it never crossed my mind that I could ever make anything. I could write articles about things, which is why I wanted to be a professor. I loved watching movies and writing about them and teaching them, but it never crossed my mind that I could make something.
He wished that they could go through life like this. That he could physically put himself between Eleanor and the world.
Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of the stars to cross.
Stars, everywhere. So many stars that I could not for the life me understand how the sky could contain them all yet be so black.
He wished he could relieve himself of his doubts and guilts half as easily.
And I could see this boy doing his homework and thinking about my sister naked. And I could see them holding hands at football games that they do not watch. And I could see this boy throwing up in the bushes at a party house. And I could see my sister putting up with it. And I felt very bad for both of them.
With equal passion I have sought knowledge. I have wished to understand the hearts of men. I have wished to know why the stars shine. And I have tried to apprehend the Pythagorean power by which number holds sway about the flux. A little of this, but not much, I have achieved.
When he hung up on Nancy Reagan, that's when he crossed his final threshold.
His mother called such people ignorant and superstitious, but his father only shook his head slowly and puffed his pipe and said that sometimes old stories had a grain or two of truth in them and it was best not to take chances. It was why, he said, he crossed himself whenever a black cat crossed his path.
I have known men who thought the object of conversion was to cleanse them as a garment is cleansed, and that when they are converted they were to be hung up in the Lord's wardrobe, the door of which was to be shut, so that no dust could get at them. A coat that is not used the moths eat; and a Christian who is hung up so that he shall not be tempted, the moths eat him; and they have poor food at that.
When you reach the stars, boy, yes, and live there forever, all the fears will go, and Death himself will die.
Who will cry for the little boy, lost and all alone? Who will cry for the little boy, abandoned without his own? Who will cry for the little boy? He cried himself to sleep. Who will cry for the little boy? He never had for keeps. Who will cry for the little boy? He walked the burning sand. Who will cry for the little boy? The boy inside the man. Who will cry for the little boy? Who knows well hurt and pain. Who will cry for the little boy? He died and died again. Who will cry for the little boy? A good boy he tried to be. Who will cry for the little boy, who cries inside of me?
There once was a girl who found herself dead. She peered over the ledge of heaven and saw that back on earth her sister missed her too much, was way too sad, so she crossed some paths that would not have crossed, took some moments in her hand shook them up and spilled them like dice over the living world. It worked. The boy with the guitar collided with her sister. "There you go, Len," she whispered. "The rest is up to you.
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