He got out of the van to see how many other suppliers were ahead of him and thus calculate, more or less accurately, how long he would have to wait. He was number thirteen, he counted again, no, there was no doubt about it. Although he was not a suspirations person, he knew about that number's bad reputation, in any conversation about chance, fate or destiny, someone always chips in with some...
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"Mates, he is my son, a dreamer, a fool, and stark mad, mind him not, he thinketh he is the King."
"I am the King," said Edward, turning toward him, "as thou shalt know to thy cost, in good time. Thou hast confessed a murder, thou shalt swing for it."
"Thou'lt betray me? Thou? An'I get my hands upon thee".
"Tut-tut!" Said the burley Ruffler, interposing in time to save the King, and...
At last the final act was at hand. The Archbishop of Canterbury lifted up the crown of England from its cushion and held it out over the trembling mock-King's head. In the same instant a rainbow-radiance flashed along the spacious transept; for with one impulse every individual in the great concourse of nobles lifted a coronet and poised it over his or her head and paused in that attitude.
And as I ponder the madness of Vietnam and search within myself for ways to understand and respond in compassion, my mind goes constantly to the people of that peninsula. I speak not now of the soldiers of each side, not of military government in Saigon, but simply of the people who have been under the curse of war for almost three continuous decades now. I think of them too because it is...
- Mirror, mirror on the wall, why am I gay?
- Because you are not ill!
- How come?
- Otherwise you'd be homophobic!