In LA the blood dries at night. The streets never cool down. The sound of helicopters fills the ears and sends knee jerk shots of panic, paranoia and animal savagery through the veins of the shuffled extras too numbed by glamour overload to notice that there's not a single intersection in the entire city where you can stand and not be an animal waiting to see your own intestines slide down your leg from a stray bullet. In this city they kill for the fuck of it, fuck for the hell of it and live for no reason. If I could have a nickel for every siren I've heard go screaming into the distance to some scene, I'd still be here, still be looking out the window of my room, still laughing at the fact that I can't get my window open very far because the security bars get in the way.
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I thought at the beginning of the day, there might be two scores in the 60s today. The golf course is playing really difficult. It's fast now. As always, if there's no rain here, the golf course is completely different from Wednesday to Thursday. It somehow just dries out miraculously overnight.
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Poetry withers and dries out when it leaves music, or at least imagined music, too far behind it. Poets who are not interested in music are, or become, bad poets.
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Where self-interest is suppressed, it is replaced by a burdensome system of bureaucratic control that dries up the wellspring of initiative and creativity.
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Intellectual passion dries out sensuality.
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Love, like paint, can make things beautiful when you spread it, but it simply dries up when you don't use it.
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A tear dries quickly when it is shed for troubles of others.
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Nothing dries sooner than tears.
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Proverbs 17:22:
A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.
(NIV)
A happy heart is good medicine and a cheerful mind works healing, but a broken spirit dries up the bones. [Prov. 12:25; 15:13, 15.](AMP)
A merry heart doeth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones.
(KJV)
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