To move wild laughter in the throat of death? It cannot be; it is impossible: Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.
A lump rises in our throat at the sight of beauty from an implicit knowledge that the happiness it hints at is the exception.
It turns out that President Obama has acid reflux. He had a sore throat, went to the hospital, and they diagnosed it as acid reflux. Talk about irony -- it's not covered by Obamacare.
People decline invitations when they are "indisposed" physically, and I wish they would do likewise when they feel indisposed emotionally. A person has no more right to attend a party with a head full of venom than with a throat full of virus.
Sometimes the good guy rips out innocent people's throats. That's just something the world need to live with if it wants the good guy to keep saving the day.
We ourselves, though we're guilty of every sin, are not just a work of God: we're image. Yet we have cut ourselves off from our Creator in both soul and body. Did we get eyes to serve lust, the tongue to speak evil, ears to hear evil, a throat for gluttony, a stomach to be gluttony's ally, hands to do violence, genitals for unchaste excesses, feet for an erring life? Was the soul put in the body to think up traps, fraud, and injustice? I don't think so.
I started feeling this little lump in my throat, like you would feel if you have swollen glands or something like that, like you'd feel if you have a cold, so I didn't really think it was anything.
Je ne crois que les histoires dont les te moins se feraient e gorger. I only believe in histories told by witnesses who would have had their throats slit.
As the last drops fell from the glass to my tongue, I wondered - only for an instant - what perhaps I'd never know. What would it taste like, what would it feel like, if that liquid sliding down my throat was not champagne. But the elixir of life. Katheine Neville.
I would think that the drumstick is probably pretty good. Because you can put that anywhere. If you are a strong guy, you can put it in the throat, the nose, the mouth, the ear. It's also easily concealed. The guitar is pretty good, but you have to break it. And that's pretty difficult.
Clearing his throat, Kai murmured, "You have no idea how to dance, do you?" Cinder fixed her gaze on him, mind still reeling. "I'm a mechanic." His eyebrows raised mockingly. "Believe me, I noticed. Are those grease stains on the gloves I gave you?
One of life's best coping mechanisms is to know the difference between an inconvenience and a problem. If you break your neck, if you have nothing to eat, if your house is on fire, then you’ve got a problem. Everything else is an inconvenience. Life is inconvenient. Life is lumpy. A lump in the oatmeal, a lump in the throat and a lump in the breast are not the same kind of lump. One needs to learn the difference.
Globalization is the result of powerful governments, especially that of the United States, pushing trade deals and other accords down the throats of the world’s people to make it easier for corporations and the wealthy to dominate the economies of nations around the world without having obligations to the peoples of those nations.
A French traveler with a sore throat is a wonderful thing to behold, but it takes more than tonsillitis to prevent a Frenchman from boasting.
I'd hate to be a giraffe with a sore throat.
Place a padlock on your throat and hide the key.
There is a good deal of solemn cant about the common interests of capital and labor. As matters stand, their only common interest is that of cutting each others throat.
The news is not about news anymore. It's about protecting some people, destroying others and shoving a socialist agenda down the collective throats of America.
We slit the Catholic throat, stoned the poor on such slogans as wish you could hear and love is all we need.
She can play my guitar note for note, she likes to stick her tongue down my throat.
She said she wasn't afraid of Satan, in fact, she thought he was a joke. She said she'd tear his tail off and run her fist down his throat.
[In 1951] we were also told that the Russians could be parachuting from planes over our town at any time. These were the same Russians that my uncles had fought alongside only a few years earlier. Now they had become monsters who were coming to slit our throats and incinerate us. It seemed peculiar. Living under a cloud of fear like this robs a child of his spirit. It's one thing to be afraid when someone's holding a shotgun on you, but it's another thing to be afraid of something that's just not quite real.
Dreams were the worst. Of course I dreamed of food and love, but they were pleasant rather than otherwise. But then I'd dream of things like slitting a baby's throat, mistaking it for a baby goat. I'd have nightmares of other islands stretching away from mine, infinities of islands, islands spawning islands, like frogs' eggs turning into polliwogs of islands, knowing that I had to live on each and every one, eventually, for ages, registering their flora, their fauna, their geography.
You dwell in whitened castles with deep and poisoned moats and cannot hear the curses which fill your children's throats.
Sometimes...you can cry until there's nothing wet in you. You can scream and curse to where your throat rebels and ruptures. You can pray, all you want, to whatever god you think will listen. And, still it makes no difference. It goes on, with no sign as to when it might release you. And you know that if it ever did relent...it would not be because it cared.
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