Picture a perfect picture, picture me in a pimp hat Picture me starting ****, picture me busting my gat Picture police man, they ain't got a picture of that Picture me being broke, picture me smoking a stack Picture me coming up, picture me rich from rap Picture me blowing up, now picture me going back To my mama basement to live, ****, picture that Where I'm from it's a fact, you gotta watch your back You wear a vest without a gat, you's a target, Jack Hustle hard, money stack, sell that dope, sell that crack Sell that pack, sell that gat, sell that pussy, holla back 50 Cent, too much Henny, man, I'm bent, I'm outta here.
"Inside The Life of Saint Teresa of Ávila, we found him musing philosophically: ‘There is an intelligence to the universe (of which we are fractal) and that intelligence has a character and that character is benign. Intends well toward all things. How could it not?’”
They **** you up, your mum and dad, they may not mean to, but they do They fill you with the faults they had, And add some extra just for you They were ****ed up in there turn By fools in old school hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy stern, And half at one another's throats. Life heaps misery on man, It rises like a tidal shelf. Get out quickly as you can, And don't have any kids yourself. Philip Larkin
Existence. Well, what does it matter? I exist on the best terms I can. The past is now part of my future. The present is well out of hand."
“The street is no longer measured by meters but by corpses ... Stalingrad is no longer a town. By day it is an enormous cloud of burning, blinding smoke; it is a vast furnace lit by the reflection of the flames. And when night arrives, one of those scorching howling bleeding nights, the dogs plunge into the Volga and swim desperately to gain the other bank. The nights of Stalingrad are a terror for them. Animals flee this hell; the hardest stones cannot bear it for long; only men endure.”
The Geat people built a pyre for Beowulf, stacked and decked it until it stood foursquare, hung with helmets, heavy war-shields and shining armour, just as he had ordered. Then his warriors laid him in the middle of it, mourning a lord far-famed and beloved. On a height they kindled the hugest of all funeral fires; fumes of woodsmoke billowed darkly up, the blaze roared and drowned out their weeping, wind died down and flames wrought havoc in the hot bone house, burning it to the core. They were disconsolate and wailed aloud for their lord's decease. A Geat woman too sang out in grief; with hair bound up, she unburdened herself of her worst fears, a wild litany of nightmare and lament: her nation invaded, enemies on the rampage, bodies in piles, slavery and abasement. Heaven swallowed the smoke.
