Women
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“Protection is a sign of preserving intelligence, while bodies can be dispensed. For what is the difference between two models of differing appearance, and two wounded men on the battlefield whose severity of injury is also differed?” – Modern Romanticism If intelligence can be saved, then we have no need for seeing difference of forms
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“No man will cry over sentimentality. He will, however, weep when the boulder during the present, buries him further into the earth. The guilt, harbored upon his shoulders, docked as a ship within his heart, overloaded with the cargo of self-disappointment, offers him the curse of blame for what he could not protect. Competence is,
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“There are disgraces in this world. Of those sorts who would dishonor an importance, place ambition above it, and never share an empire for which all that has been built, is now meant to be something of equal purpose; they are wretches. Let slip through the fingers the objective petulance that does not ever come
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“There comes a moment between a daunting pair for both sets of eyes, when something occurs from nothing. That is love. That is what nothing can observe, other than the two who came to comprehend what they felt.” – Modern Romanticism There are far too many scientific research studies attempting to predict or to replicate
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“To perhaps the political realm or even the marketing realm, truth is like silver, malleable enough to be twisted into a different shape. Each person will look upon that shape, see something different, though only because the sculptor to truth has molded it that way.” – Modern Romanticism Truth is deceptive to the eye of
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“The life or beauty none so flawed is a lie none so truthful.” – Modern Romanticism Beauty is the image of any one person, so flawed as to consider their errors, their lack of accountability and responsibility. To the person who claims they are entirely beautiful or wholly without error, while in fact possessing ugliness,
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Staring noonDead to the centerOf falsehoods in the sun.Ripping moonFrom the center of pale,Dead to the cadaverStill letteredFor the passingOf paintedRed-wiped kisses. She calls a strike,A final deed to the ruptureOf several forgotten seeds.Hold one hand,Release another.Stay what will,Place her to the thrillOf loving Hell,To the whispering soundOf her tolling spell. She pulls the sheet,For




