sexta-feira, 2 de março de 2012

William Shakespeare

The man who has no music in himself,
He who moves not the gentle harmony of sounds,
Is ripe for treason, robbery, treachery,
His intelligence is warm as night,
Their aspirations dark as Erebus.
Beware of such a man, listening to music.
Some say that every night is a dream. But there is also no guarantee that all of those, only the summer. Basically, it does not matter. What really matters is not the night itself, are the dreams. Dreams that man dreams always, everywhere, at all times of the year, asleep or awake.

The weak, cowardly, indecisive and servant does not know or can know the generousimpulse that guides those who trust in himself, and whose pleasure is not to haveachieved the victory, if not feel able to conquer it.

Empty veins, our blood is cooled, we were early unwilling, incapable of giving andforgiving. But when we fill the channels and troughs of our blood with food and wine, the soul is much more malleable than father during these fasts.

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