Too oft is transient pleasure the source of long woes.
Listen to the secret sound, the real sound, which is inside you. The one no one talks of speaks the secret sound to himself, and he is the one who has made it all.
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
It was their secret, a secret meant for just the two of them, and she'd never been able to imagine how it would sound coming from someone else. But, somehow, Logan made it sound just right.
Oft expectation fails, and most oft there where most it promises; and oft it hits where hope is coldest, and despair most fits.
Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes; They love a train, they tread each other's heel.
It seems like the rebellions never stop, in the city, in the compound, anywhere. There are just breaths between them, and foolishly, we call those breaths “peace".
I grew up in a super suburban place where the mundane middle-class issues were similar to what Ray Davies was singing about. All the topics he was singing about were middle-class woes and humanitarian woes - human-being woes.
Imprisoned in a cage of sound, even the trivial seems profound
You can never really know what a guru is as long as you are imprisoned by your own thoughts and circular ego.
Life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breaths away.
Living was okay, but it wasn't the breaths people took that measured a life. It was the moments that took those breaths away that mattered the most. And Dev did that every time he looked at her. Naked or not.
Our secret thoughts are rarely heard except in secret. No man knows what conscience is until he understands what solitude can teach him concerning it.
Imprisoned professors taught imprisoned students free theology.
The many woes that afflict out nation are rooted in the morally bankrupt paradigms of socialism, interventionism, and empire that have held our nation in their grip for decades and that the only real solution to such woes is libertarianism.
Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, The clamtrous lapwings feel the leaden death; Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare They fall, and leave their little lives in air.