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“Your salary is not love and your word is not love. Your clothes are not love and holding hands is not love. Sex is not love and a kiss is not love. Long letters are not love and a text is not love. Flowers are not love and a box of chocolates is not love. Sunsets are not love and photographs are not love. The stars are not love and a beach under the moonlight is not love. The smell of someone else on your pillow is not love and the feeling of their skin touching your skin is not love. Heart-shaped candy is not love and an overseas holiday is not love. The truth is not love and winning an argument is not love. Warm coffee isn't love and cheap cards bought from stores are not love. Tears are not love and laughter is not love. A head on a shoulder is not love and messages written at the front of books given as gifts are not love. Apathy is not love and numbness is not love. A pain in your chest is not love and clenching your fist is not love. Rain is not love. Only you. Only you, are love.”

“Your Saying "God is Most Great" does not mean that He is greater than something else, since there is nothing else alongside of Him, so that it could be said that He is greater than it. Rather, the meaning of Allahu Akbar is that He is much too great to be perceived by the senses or for the depths of His Majesty to be reached by reason and logic, and indeed, that He is much too great to be known by an other-than-Him for truly, no one knows God but God.”

“Your scars are beautiful,' he said, and there was a swift, swelling motion in my chest that couldn't be deflated no matter what my brain yelled at it. 'But I refuse to allow your body to be scarred again.' My heart started thumping once more. 'You say that like you mean it.' 'Because I do.”

“Your scars? Would you tell me if I asked?” “What I know. The bullet that nearly severed my spine.” He waited until she found it, until the pads of her fingers stroked over the spot like a caress. “Amsterdam. I know that but not why or who. The knife along my hip was Paris and one up by my shoulder blade, Egypt. I know where I was with each of them, but not why.” “I should have taken you to the hospital.” She was frowning again, he could tell by her voice. He wished he could see her face, but she was working on his buttocks and he lost his own voice as well as his ability to think straight. Little explosions were going off in his head— and his groin. His cock was hot and heavy and so full he was leaking. Her hands went to the backs of his thighs. Impersonal. He repeated the word silently over and over to himself. She would have done the same for anyone needing help. He’d have to kill any man she touched like this. His body should have been relaxed, not ready to take possession of hers. He was acutely aware of her every movement. Her breath. The swing of her hair. The beat of her heart. Her hands moving over his muscles, pressing deep, stroking and gliding. He knew she was wholly focused on what she was doing— not on him— and God help them both, he wanted her to notice him.”

“Your school can do much more about Potential Development. Many schools focus on grades. That's cool. You can focus on potential development. That's better! Cos you get more benefits. For one such students get good grades in line with their potential. Cos they will be learning skills that make them better in many ways. Your teachers have different abilities, skills, motivation and giftings. Many of which are very relevant for developing student potential. Many schools put those to use only during sports. They assign the "sport-ish" teachers to sports days. And leave other teachers to watch. What about listing areas you generally want your students to be developed in? Areas that are based on the school vision and mission statements. Then assign EACH teacher an area or sub area - the teacher directly or indirectly looks to develop students in his or her area. Some kind of division of labour. A focused kinda style for making students meet your expectations. Many times, you find that schools can do more.”

“Your scorn for mediocrity blinds you to its vast primitive power. You stand in the glare of your own brilliance, unable to see into the dim corners of the room, to dilate your eyes and see the potential dangers of the mass, the wad of humanity. Even as I tell you this, dear student, you cannot quite believe that lesser men, in whatever numbers, can really defeat you. But we are in the age of the mediocre man. He is dull, colorless, boring — but inevitably victorious. The amoeba outlives the tiger because it divides and continues in its immortal monotony. The masses are the final tyrants. See how, in the arts, Kabuki wanes and withers while popular novels of violence and mindless action swamp the mind of the mass reader. And even in that timid genre, no author dares to produce a genuinely superior man as his hero, for in his rage of shame the mass man will send his yojimbo, the critic, to defend him. The roar of the plodders is inarticulate, but deafening. They have no brain, but they have a thousand arms to grasp and clutch at you, drag you down.”

“Your second trial is tomorrow night,' he said neutrally. The gold and silver thread in his black tunic shone in the candlelight. He never wore another colour. It was like a stone to the head. I'd lost count of the days. 'So?' 'It could be your last,' he said, and leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms. 'If you're taunting me into playing another game of yours, you're wasting your breath.' 'Aren't you going to beg me to give you a night with your beloved?' 'I'll have that night, and all the ones after, when I beat her final task.' Rhysand shrugged, then flashed a grin as he pushed off the door and stepped toward me. 'I wonder if you were this prickly with Tamlin when you were his captive.' 'He never treated me like a captive- or a slave.' 'No- and how could he? Not with the shame of his father and brothers' brutality always weighing on him, the poor, noble beast.”

“Your secret behavior will be inherited by your children! If Nelson Mandela was a symbol of reconciliation; then reconciliation is our character. If Kwame Nkrumah was a symbol of unity; then unity is our character. If Patrice Lumumba was a symbol of patriotism; then patriotism is our character. If Robert Mugabe is a symbol of dictatorship; then dictatorship is our character. If Haile Selassie was a symbol of heroism; then heroism is our character. If Samora Machel was a symbol of socialism; then socialism is our character. If Julius Kambarage Nyerere was a symbol of justice; then justice is our character. We are the children of the African patriarchs! They are the fathers of the African nations! We have inherited their secret behaviors.”

“Your sect [the Jews] by its sufferings has furnished a remarkable proof of the universal point of religious insolence, inherent in every sect, disclaimed by all while feeble and practised by all when in power. Our laws have applied the only antidote to this vice, protecting our religions, as they do our civil rights, by putting all on equal footing. But more remains to be done.”

“Your self-defense becomes a self-defeat when you are doing it for selfish reasons! It's not about you and your pocket alone; let it be for the collective joy of your entire neighbourhood and beyond!”