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"Auferre trucidare rapere falsis nominibus imperium atque ubi solitudinem faciunt pacem appellant.
Robbery, butchery, and theft -- they call these things empire, and where they create a desert, they call it peace." — 3 hours, 15 min ago
"Auferre trucidare rapere falsis nominibus imperium atque ubi solitudinem faciunt pacem appellant.
Robbery, butchery, and theft -- they call these things empire, and where they create a desert, they call it peace." — 3 hours, 15 min ago
“Knowing that it is the earth we tread, we learn to tread carefully, lest it be rent open. Realizing that it is the heavens that hang above us, we come to fear the echoing thunderbolt. The world demands that we battle with others for the sake of our own reputation, and so we undergo the sufferings bred of illusion. While we live in this world with its daily business, forced to walk the tightrope of profit and loss, true love is an empty thing, and the wealth before our eyes mere dust.”
― The Three-Cornered World
― The Three-Cornered World
“In cyberspace, everyone can hear you scream.”
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“Acknowledge beauty when you see it. Even if its appearance disturbs you, surely you can admire the skill that went into its design.”
― Alien: Covenant
― Alien: Covenant
“In the future, there will be opened a gateway and a road to a large and excellent science into which minds more piercing than mine shall penetrate to recesses still deeper.”
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“Analysis goes a step farther still, and assures us that those impressions of the individual mind to which, for each one of us, experience dwindles down, are in perpetual flight; that each of them is limited by time, and that as time is infinitely divisible, each of them is infinitely divisible also; all that is actual in it being a single moment, gone while we try to apprehend it, of which it may ever be more truly said that it has ceased to be than that it is.
To such a tremulous wisp constantly reforming itself on the stream, to a single sharp impression, with a sense in it, a relic more or less fleeting, of such moments gone by, what is real in our life fines itself down.”
― The Renaissance: Studies in Art and Poetry
To such a tremulous wisp constantly reforming itself on the stream, to a single sharp impression, with a sense in it, a relic more or less fleeting, of such moments gone by, what is real in our life fines itself down.”
― The Renaissance: Studies in Art and Poetry
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