If it rusts, it can never be trusted; if its owner fails to control it, it will cut him; yes, pride is like a blade.

Author.
Red like blood. White like bone. Red like solitude. White like silence. Red like the beastly instinct. White like a god's heart. Red like thawing hatred. White like a frozen, pained cry. Red like the night's hungry shadows. So shooting through the moon in a sigh is like radiant white, scattered red.
~That's me

I do not fight because I think I can win. I fight because I have to win.

~

What's the difference between a king and his horse? I don't mean kiddy shit like "One's a person and one's an animal" or "One has two legs and one has four." If their form, ability and power were exactly the same, why is it that one becomes the king and controls the battle, while the other becomes the horse and carries the king?! There's only one answer. Instinct! In order for identical beings to get stronger and gain the power they need to become king, they must search for more battles and power! They thirst for battle, and live to mercilessly, crush, shred, and slice their enemies! Deep, deep within our body lies the honed instinct to kill, and slaughter our enemies! But you don't have that! You don't have those pure, base instincts! You fight with your brain. You try to defeat your enemies with logic! And it doesn't work! You're trying to cut them with a sheathed sword! That's why you're weaker than me


~Quality reads:
Ralu ~ Mihu's blog

Template by Elle @ satellit-e.bs.com



“The flavour of my life!”
14 feb. 2011 15 feb. 2011 16 feb. 2011 17 feb. 2011 18 feb. 2011 27 feb. 2011 2 mar. 2011 3 mar. 2011 4 mar. 2011 12 mar. 2011 29 nov. 2011 9 dec. 2011 16 apr. 2012 18 dec. 2012 6 iun. 2013 7 iun. 2013 3 mai 2015 25 aug. 2016

CHAPTER #23 ~voragine
joi, 6 iunie 2013 || 6/06/2013 04:51:00 p.m.

Sonetul 66 (Sonnet LXVI)
Sătul de toate, moartea îmi invoc;
Văd vrednicul cerşind pentru mâncare,
Medalii pe distinsul dobitoc,
Credinţa răsplătită cu trădare;
Văd mantii aurite pe zălud,
Şi ţol de târfă pe virtutea pură,
Perfecţia o văd proscrisă crud,
Şi laşul văd puterea cum o fură;
Talentu-l văd de cenzori sufocat,
Ştiinţa uzurpată de prostie,
Dispreţuit ce e adevărat,
Şi rob la rău cel bun şi de-omenie. William Shakespeare
 (1609)
Durerea presărată de arșița naturii umane, care stă încovoiată-n turme infinite, lipsită de o concizie atunci când e întrebată de direcția-n care se îndreaptă, dar care totuși speră...lucru ce mă aduce la următoarea concluzie, pe care am s-o citez, iar, din Shakespeare: "Doamne, ştim ceea ce suntem, dar nu ştim ceea ce am putea fi."