#sum

I used to murder people for money, but these days it’s more of a survival technique. ↗

— Jennifer Estep

#money #murder #pro-bono #summary #survival

The days were longer then (for time, like money, is measured by our needs), when summer afternoons were spacious, and the clock ticked slowly in the winter evenings. ↗

— George Eliot Middlemarch

#middlemarch #summer #time #winter #money

I turned on my heel and left the building. With only £4.76 in the bank, and my subscription to ‘Men Only’ due, things were looking bleak. Seeing that Keith Moore had apparently purloined Sting’s money, though at this time, he had not been yet convicted of the offence, it seemed to me that he was a better bet for a loan than Sting was. ↗

— James Berryman

#gordon-sumner #james-berryman #jim-berryman #mirage-publishing #rockstar-sting

A song she heard Of cold that gathers Like winter's tongue Among the shadows It rose like blackness In the sky That on volcano's Vomit rise A Stone of ruin From burn to chill Like black moonrise Her voice fell still... ↗

— Robert Fanney

#elf #elves #fantasy #luthiel #magic

Gimmerton chapel bells were still ringing and the full, mellow flow of the beck in the valley came soothingly on the ear. It was a sweet substitute for the yet absent murmur of the summer foliage, which drowned that music about the Grange when the trees were in leaf. ↗

— Emily Brontë

#nature #summer #music

Early Summer, loveliest season, The world is being colored in. While daylight lasts on the horizon, Sudden, throaty blackbirds sing. The dusty-colored cuckoo cuckoos. "Welcome, summer" is what he says. Winter's unimaginable. The wood's a wickerwork of boughs. Summer means the river's shallow, Thirsty horses nose the pools. Long heather spreads out on bog pillows. White bog cotton droops in bloom. Swallows swerve and flicker up. Music starts behind the mountain. There's moss and a lush growth underfoot. Spongy marshland glugs and stutters. Bog banks shine like ravens' wings. The cuckoo keeps on calling welcome. The speckled fish jumps; and the strong Swift warrior is up and running. A little, jumpy, chirpy fellow Hits the highest note there is; The lark sings out his clear tidings. Summer, shimmer, perfect days. ↗

— Marie Heaney

#fionn-mac-cumhaill #folklore #ireland #poetry #summer

If the music is amazing, you can get away with anything. ↗

— Brian Logan Dales

#advice #lyrics #music #musician #the-summer-set

August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time. ↗

— Sylvia Plath

#fall #nature #seasons #summer #time

Men who read it [beauty pornography] don't do so because they want women who look like that. The attraction of what they are holding is that it is not a woman, but a two-dimensional woman-shaped blank. The appeal of the material is not the fantasy that the model will come to life; it is precisely that she will not, ever. Her coming to life would ruin the vision. It is not about life. Ideal beauty is ideal because it does not exist; The action lies in the gap between desire and gratification. Women are not perfect beauties without distance. That space, in a consumer culture, is a lucrative one. The beauty myth moves for men as a mirage, its power lies in its ever-receding nature. When the gap is closed, the lover embraces only his own disillusion. ↗

— Naomi Wolf

#beauty #body-image #consumer #cosmetic-surgery #cosmetics

The paramount doctrine of the economic and technological euphoria of recent decades has been that everything depends on innovation. It was understood as desirable, and even necessary, that we should go on and on from one technological innovation to the next, which would cause the economy to "grow" and make everything better and better. This of course implied at every point a hatred of the past, of all things inherited and free. All things superceded in our progress of innovations, whatever their value might have been, were discounted as of no value at all. ↗

— Wendell Berry

#consumerism #environment #nature #technology #nature