Ronaldson And Kuchler Quotes & Sayings

I play the way I do because it allows me to come up with the sickest sounds possible. That's the point now isn't it? — Jeff Beck

I've never had a message for anyone in my entire life. Except maybe to give out my room number. — Bon Scott

In addition to wreaking havoc on our bodies, anger close our inner door, making us feel isolated and distrustful, hindering communication. — Bill Vaughan

I will love you even when I am dust on the wind. — Nalini Singh

I got you again. We have to stop meeting like this. — Bella Jeanisse

There was much about him that was fine and beautiful, but he could never find the confidence he needed. — Haruki Murakami

It's the smell of life, Mother." Emily drew deep. "Gasoline, horses, the sweat of men, the perfume of women. — Rachel Hauck

There are many ties that bind, and as many walls that divide. Music and madness. Love and unending time. Race and war. Strum weaves together each element into a larger human tapestry of light and shadow, where a combination of fate and decision can define a family's legacy. — Nancy Young

Perhaps the greatest charm of tramp-life is the absence of monotony. In Hobo Land the face of life is protean - an ever changing phantasmagoria, where the impossible happens and the unexpected jumps out of the bushes at every turn of the road. The hobo never knows what is going to happen the next moment; hence, he lives only in the present moment. He has learned the futility of telic endeavor, and knows the delight of drifting along with the whimsicalities of Chance — Jack London

Comedy, such a lovely lady, she'll pick you up, you your feeling blue. — Adam Sandler

She assumes that skill will guide her fingertips, that shapely lines will uncoil out of the pencil the moment she starts. Surely talent is a thing curled deep inside, just waiting to be exercised, and at the slightest invitation it will stretch, shake itself, make itself known?
Talent, it seems, is not so insistent. — Gregory Maguire

Leopold did not have to touch it to know to whom it belonged. It was as familiar as his own palm. It was his rosary, lost when he fell from the train. He closed his eyes. Look how far I have fallen, my Lord . . . He remembered Bernard so bowed by sorrow, so stricken by grief. Over me . . . a traitor. — James Rollins