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<span>Ignorance is our ammunition.</span>
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<div> —  <b>Søren Kierkegaard</b>, <i>Either/Or</i> </div><span>Even the richest personality is nothing before he has chosen himself, and on the other hand even what one might call the poorest personality is everything when he has chosen himself; for the great thing is not to be this or that but to be oneself, and this everyone can be if he wills it.</span>
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<div> —  <i>Darkdawn (Jay Kristoff)</i><br> </div><span>Promise you’ll meet me there. Promise you’ll come back to me.<br> Promises are for poets.</span>
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<div> —  <i>Darkdawn (Jay Kristoff)</i><br> </div><span>I am a daughter of the dark between the stars,“ she replied. "I am the thought that wakes the bastards of this world sweating in the nevernight. I am the vengeance of every orphaned daughter, every murdered mother, every bastard son.” Mia leaned forward and looked the man in the eye. “I am the war you cannot win.</span>
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<div> —  <i>Darkdawn (Jay Kristoff)</i><br> </div><span>But Mia was closing her eyes. Breathing deep. Feeling the fear melt off her bones as her passenger devoured it whole. In the space of a heartbeat, she was no longer a frightened girl dancing on razors. She was a destroyer. Shadow-forged. The blood of the night flowing in her veins, and the splinter of a fallen god burning dark inside her chest.</span>
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Défilé Automne-Hiver 1982-1983 Haute Couture     

- Yves Saint Laurent - Défilé Haute Couture (Editions La Martinière)

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<div> —  <p><i><a href="" target="_blank"><b>Winter</b></a></i></p><p><b>Ali Smith</b></p> </div><span>He apologises for passing on a sadness. <br> He blames his own sadness.</span>
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<div> —  <a href="">Winston S. Churchill</a> </div><span>Kites rise highest against the wind, not with it.</span>
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<div> —  Sir Naruto VII of the Leaf </div><span>Dattebayothe</span>
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<div> —  <a href="">Kahlil Gibran</a> </div><span>If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours. If they don’t, they never were.</span>
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<div> —  Robert Macfarlane, <i>Underland </i> </div><span>Perhaps stickiness is one of the defining experiences of the Anthropocene as it is lived, I think there on the beach. Each of us is impicated in the effects of the epoch, each of us an author of its making and its legacies. In the Anthropocene we cannot easily keep nature at a distance, holing it at arm’s length for adoration or inspection. Nature is no longer only a remote peak shining in the sun, or a raptor hunting over birch woods - it is also tidelines thickened with drift plastic, or methane clathrates decomposing over millions of square miles of warming permafrost. This new nature entangles us in ways we are only beginning to comprehend. As with the sticky strands of self-tightening silken plastic that drift down from the helicopters of the ‘New People’ at the end of John Wyndham’s premonitory novel “The Chrysalids” (1955) – originally titled “A Time for Change” – the more we struggle to distance ourselves from the Anthropocene, the more stuck we become.</span>
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‏"الحياةُ واسعة جدًا، لكن يضيّقها الإنسان على نفسِه عندما يظن أن سعادتهُ مرتبطةٌ بأشياء معينة .. غيّر مكانكَ قليلًا لترى الضوء"

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