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Quote of the day

Magical Realist Offline
“There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir: We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls, and calls each vagabond by name.”
― William Bliss


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[Image: ZfiQ0TY.jpg]

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Magical Realist Offline
“I want out of the labels. I don't want my whole life crammed into a single word. A story. I want to find something else, unknowable, some place to be that's not on the map. A real adventure. A sphinx. A mystery. A blank. Unknown. Undefined.”
― Chuck Palahniuk
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Magical Realist Offline
"The need for mystery
is greater than the need
for an answer."
~ Ken Kesey
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Magical Realist Offline
“Gliding o’er all, through all,Through Nature, Time, and Space,
As a ship on the waters advancing,
The voyage of the soul—not life alone,
Death, many deaths I’ll sing.”
― Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass


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[Image: kiVIzd4.jpg]

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Magical Realist Offline
“If Jesus had been killed twenty years ago, Catholic school children would be wearing little electric chairs around their necks instead of crosses.”
― Lenny Bruce


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[Image: A35j3Vj.jpg]

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Magical Realist Offline
"So our basic nature is actually naturally loving. It's tender. When we awaken - which is a very natural thing to do by the way, not special or strange - we're just coming back to this original, loving nature."
- Henry Shukman
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Magical Realist Offline
"So many people are shut up
tight inside themselves
like boxes,

yet they would open up,
unfolding quite wonderfully,
if only you were interested
in them."

Sylvia Plath, Johnny Panic and
the Bible of Dreams: Short
Stories, Prose and Diary Excerpts


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[Image: bOigR8u.jpg]

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confused2 Offline
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
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