Short Deep Thoughts Quotes & Sayings

You wouldn't want to trade the eternal loop of your life for an infinite loop in the world of ideas, would you? — Joe K.

God, please touch it. It hurts so bad," he growled, freeing himself from his pants. "I've been going mad every morning, knowing you were up here all naked and soft. I've got to have you now, baby. Let me have you or I'm going to lose my mind. I can't think. I can't think. — Tessa Bailey

The bad news: There is no key to the universe. The good news: It was never locked. — Swami Beyondananda

Don't liberal Democrats ever learn economic principles, or does their class warfare trump all else? — Cal Thomas

Having sex with friends seems like a very good idea until suddenly it doesn't. — Marshall Thornton

I have a clever and devious plan. — Steven Brust

Life shouldn't be measured in hours for the vagueness in which they exist, but moments; moments are memorable and we could easily say that a short life filled with a stock of extraordinary memories is worth a thousand times what a long, boring and loveless one is. — Emiliano Campuzano

You know, dramas are much more expensive to do than say a comedy, so any kind of deficit like that is picked up on when it comes time for them to pick up new shows. — Paul Guilfoyle

But say I could repent and could obtaine
By Act of Grace my former state: how soon
would higth recal high thoughts; how soon unsay
what feign'd submission swore: ease would recant
vows made in pain, as violent and void.
For never can true reconcilement grow
where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep:
which would but lead me to a worse relapse
and heavier fall: so should I purchase cleave
short intermission bought with double smart:
This knows my punisher; therefore as far
from granting here, as I from begging peace:
All hope excluded thus, behold in stead
of us out-cast, exil'd, his new delight,
Mankind created, and for his this World.
So farewell Hope, and with Hope farwel Fear,
Farewel Remorse: all Good to me is lost. — John Milton

I revise my suicide plan to slow death by morphling. I will become a yellow-skinned bag of bones, with enormous eyes. I'm a couple of days into the plan, making good progress, when something unexpected happens. I begin to sing. At the window, in the shower, in my sleep. Hour after hour of ballads, love songs, mountain airs. All the songs my father taught me before he died, for certainly there has been very little music in my life since. What's amazing is how clearly I remember them. The tunes, the lyrics. My voice, at first rough and breaking on the high notes, warms up into something splendid. A voice that would make the mockingjays fall silent and then tumble over themselves to join in. Days pass, weeks. I watch the snows fall on the ledge outside my window. And in all that time, mine is the only voice I hear. What — Suzanne Collins