I am tired and sick of war. Its glory is all moonshine. It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, for vengeance, for desolation. War is hell.
And I exist, I roam but I don't sleep anymore I cry, laugh, scream but I don't remember why.
Where can you scream? It's a serious question: where can you go in society and scream?
Movies don't create psychos. Movies make psychos more creative.
Art is the act of doing work that matters while dancing with the voice in your head that screams for you to stop.
Was our life nothing more than a sequence of anonymous screams in a desert of indifferent stars?
It's hard for me to be serious. I can't really rub oil on me and go all the way with it [laughs]. I hear some screams and I laugh to myself. I always get a kick out of it. I'm three feet tall, basically.
I sing because I’ve forgotten how to scream.
Dear Hip Hop, we can't scream 'murder, misogyny, lawlessness' in our music & then turn around and ask for equality & justice.
You are the untold story. You are the impassioned truth wanting to scream its existence, to be forever trapped by a strong hand clapped firmly over the mouth of my soul.
He had black hair anybody could see was dyed, and even had one long piece wrapped around his head in that way some men did to fool no one into believing they weren't bald. I resisted a sudden strong urge to tug away that piece and scream peekaboo! at his bare crown underneath.
When you don't fit in, you become superhuman. You can feel everyone else's eyes on you, stuck like Velcro. You can hear a whisper about you from a mile away. You can disappear, even when it looks like you're still standing right there. You can scream, and nobody hears a sound. You become the mutant who fell into the vat of acid, the Joker who can't remove his mask, the bionic man who's missing all his limbs and none of his heart. You are the thing that used to be normal, but that was so long ago, you can't even remember what it was like.
Some make you sing and some make you scream. One makes you wish that you'd never been seen. But there's a shop on the corner that's selling papier mache, making bullet-proof faces, Charlie Manson, Cassius Clay. If you want it, boys, get it here, thing.
It was hard to reconcile the drumbeats and lifted voices in the night with my memories of flames and the screams of dying men. How could humanity range so effortlessly from the sublime to the savage and back again?
Laughter is just a slowed down scream of terror.
I have a face like a washrag. I sing love songs and carry steel. I would rather die than cry. I can't stand hounds can't live without them. I hang my head against the white refrigerator and want to scream like the last weeping of life forever but I am bigger than the mountains.
This is my living faith, an active faith, a faith of verbs: to question, explore, experiment, experience, walk, run, dance, play, eat, love, learn, dare, taste, touch, smell, listen, speak, write, read, draw, provoke, emote, scream, sin, repent, cry, kneel, pray, bow, rise, stand, look, laugh, cajole, create, confront, confound, walk back, walk forward, circle, hide, and seek.
Rincewind could scream for mercy in nineteen languages, and just scream in another forty-four.
Wine talks; ask anyone. The oracle at the street corner; the uninvited guest at the wedding feast; the holy fool. It ventriloquizes. It has a million voices. It unleashes the tongue, teasing out secrets you never meant to tell, secrets you never even knew. It shouts, rants, whispers. It speaks of great plans, tragic loves, and terrible betrayals. It screams with laughter. It chuckles softly to itself. It weeps in front of its own reflection. It revives summers long past and memories best forgotten. Every bottle a whiff of other times, other places, everyone...a humble miracle
What sounds good on the radio is really loud kick drums and loud snare drums, when everything's bombastic and in your face. It's the equivalent of a houseguest who screams all the time.
You are working up to Mr. Fantastic Fiction levels of Zombie Expert, which is like playing Guitar Hero on some level that actually melts the guitar controller, burning your fingers with searing hot plastic till you scream in pain. Only with words. And zombies.
I feel a particular sense of responsibility when you're taking something from the magazine directly and putting it in video. You can't be too flat. You need to have personality. You can't just scream out to the viewer. You need to have a fresh take on something or have a new look or have an interesting style, or be so raw that it resonates and is authentic. I think authentic is a good word. It's overused, I know, but I think it comes across in the video medium. If you can make a video authentic, it comes across.
Actors! The mechanics of cheap melodrama! That isn't death! You scream and choke and sink to your knees but it doesn't bring death home to anyone- it doesn't catch them unawares and start the whisper in their skulls that says- 'One day you are going to die.
What I said yesterday didn't mean anything! I love everyone in the flock! Plus, it was the Valium talking!" "Uh-huh. You just keep telling yourself that. You looove me." Max: (tries to punch him) "Pick a tree. I'll go carve our initials in it." Max: (screams and runs into bathroom)
And there's a cop over there." "What?" the boy said, glancing at the D.C. police officer that stood at the corner of the street, "You think that guys can do a better job protecting you than I can?" Actually, I thought Liz could have done a better job "protecting" me than he could, but instead I said, "No, I think if you don't leave me alone, I can scream and that cop will arrest you." Somehow the boy seemed to know it was a joke.
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