Soldier, scholar, horseman, he, As 'twere all life's epitome. What made us dream that he could comb grey hair?
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We held hands on the last night on earth. Our mouths filled with dust, we kissed in the fields and under trees, screaming like dogs, bleeding dark into the leaves. It was empty on the edge of town but we knew everyone floated along the bottom of the river. So we walked through the waste where the road curved into the sea and the shattered seasons lay, and the bitter smell of burning was on you like a disease.In our cancer of passion you said, 'Death is a midnight runner.' The sky had come crashing down like the news of an intimate suicide. We picked up the shards and formed them into shapes of stars that wore like an antique wedding dress. The echoes of the past broke the hearts of the unborn as the ferris wheel silently slowed to a stop. The few insects skidded away in hopes of a better pastime. I kissed you at the apexof the maelstrom and asked if you would accompany me ina quick fall, but you made me realize that my ticket wasn't good for two. I rode alone. You said,'The cinders are falling like snow.' There is poetry in despair, and we sang with unrivaled beauty, bitter elegies of savagery and eloquence.Of blue and grey. Strange, we ran down desperate streets and carvedour names in the flesh of the city. The sun has stagnated somewhere beyond the rim of the horizon and the darkness is a mystery of curves and line.Still, we lay under the emptiness and drifted slowly outward,and somewhere in the wilderness we foundsalvation scratched into the earth like a message. the untitled poem--afi
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Cold hearted orb that rules the night, Removes the colours from our sight Red is grey, and yellow white But we decide which is right. And which is an illusion.
Pinprick holes in a colourless sky, Let incipient figures of light pass by, The mighty light of ten thousand suns, Challanges infinity and is soon gone.
Night time, to some, a brief interlude, To others, the fear of solititude. Brave Helios, wake up your steeds, Bring us the warmth the countryside needs.
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For note, when evening shuts, / A certain moment cuts / The deed off, calls the glory from the grey.
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For us there is only one season, the season of sorrow. The very sun and moon seem taken from us. Outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the light that creeps down through the thickly-muffled glass of the small iron-barred window beneath which one sits is grey and niggard. It is always twilight in one's cell, as it is always twilight in one's heart. And in the sphere of thought, no less than in the sphere of time, motion is no more.
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Father Time is not always a hard parent, and, though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigour. With such people the grey head is but the impression of the old fellow's hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life.
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The great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever trees.
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Father Time is not always a hard parent, and, though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigour. With such people the grey head is but the impression of the old fellow's hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life.
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Men may not read the gospel in sealskin, or the gospel in morocco, or the gospel in cloth covers, but they can't get away from the gospel in shoe leather.
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The good grey guardians of art Patrol the halls on spongy shoes, Impartially protective, though Perhaps suspicious of Toulouse.
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The place is all awave with trees, Limes, myrtles, purple-beaded, Acacias having drunk the lees Of the night-dew, fain headed, And wan, grey olive-woods, which seem The fittest foliage for a dream.
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Spent my days with a woman unkind,
Smoked my stuff and drank all my wine.
Made up my mind to make a new start,
Going to california with an aching in my heart.
Someone told me theres a girl out there
With love in her eyes and flowers in her hair.
Took my chances on a big jet plane,
Never let them tell you that theyre all the same.
The sea was red and the sky was grey,
Wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today.
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Queer little twists go into the making of an individual. To supress them all and follow clock and calendar and creed until the individual is lost in the neutral grey of the host is to be less than true to our inheritance.... Life, that gorgeous quality of life, is not accomplished by following another man's rules. It is true we have the same hungers and same thirsts, but they are for different things and in different ways and in different seasons.... Lay down your own day, follow it to its noon, your own noon, or you will sit in an outer hall listening to the chimes but never reaching high enough to strike your own.
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Hey, what do you think drives all this grey matter up here Electricity. It's brain waves surfing on synaptic junctions. If your radio can go out because of sun spots, why can't your cerebellum It's all a matter of reception and it seems to me these signals are going to get crossed somehow. It's all logical.
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'Common sense is the guy that tells you that you ought to have your brakes relined last week before you smashed a front end. Common sense is the Monday morning quarterback who could have won the ball game if he had been on the team. But he never is. He's high up in the stands with a flask on his hip. Common sense is the little man in the grey suit who never makes a mistake in addition. But it's always someone else's money he's adding up.
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The world is grey, the mountains old, The forge's fire is ashen-cold; No harp is wrung, no hammer falls: The darkness dwells in Durin's halls; The shadow lies upon his tomb In Moria, in Khazad-dum. But still the sunken stars appear In dark and windless Mirrormere; There lies his crown in water deep, Till Durin wakes again from sleep.
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Or, my scrofulous French novel / On grey paper with blunt type! / Simply glance at it, you grovel / Hand and foot in Belial's gripe.
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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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Of old the world on dreaming fed; Grey Truth is now her painted toy....
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Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath; We have drunken of things Lethean; and fed on the fullnes...
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Red is grey and yellow white
We decide which is right
and which is an illusion.
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You know because I mean, I remember just in Europe -- in Finland -- I saw this very stately, older man -- grey-haired man and his wife, a grey-haired lady. And he's just sort of standing there and he just had his arms around her. Very emotional,
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Blue, green, grey, white, or black; smooth, ruffled, or mountainous; that ocean is not silent.
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Every silver lining has a touch of grey.
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I must be the mate of the man I had chosen; and if he would not come to my level, I must go to his.
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Jean Grey Mutation. It is the key to our evolution. It has enabled us to evolve from a single-celled organism into the dominant species on the planet. This process is slow and normally taking thousands and thousands of years. But every few hundred millennia, evolution leaps forward.
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She became the character she was playing in an Ibsen play; she'd stalk around with grey hair. She was also the meanest woman in the world.
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A lot of what appears to be progress is just so much technological rococo.
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Far better is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the grey twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.
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I had lived over twenty years without the legal right to be alone one hour M to have the exclusive use of one foot of space M to receive an un...
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