Well my gun fires seven different shades of shit so whats your favorite color punk

Can he love her Can the soul really be satisfied with such polite affections To love is to burn - to be on fire like Juliet or Guinevere or Eloise...

She leaned forward and caught at his hand pressing it between her own. The touch was like white fire through his veins. He could not feel her skin only the cloth of her gloves and yet it did not matter. You kindled me heap of ashes that I am into fire. He had wondered once why love was always phrased in terms of burning. The conflagration in his own veins now gave the answer.

They say a good love is one that sits you down gives you a drink of water and pats you on top of the head. But I say a good love is one that casts you into the wind sets you ablaze makes you burn through the skies and ignite the night like a phoenix the kind that cuts you loose like a wildfire and you cant stop running simply because you keep on burning everything that you touch I say thats a good love one that burns and flies and you run with it

Each of us is born with a box of matches inside us but we cant strike them all by ourselves

God used the element of faith to construct the earth and its inhabitants. Whatever he said it came to pass then dropped these elements in us to say whatever we want to also come to pass but sin and disbelieve has murdered the faith in us and need to be ressurected by purity and strong will power.

That night my mother had what she considered a wonderful dream. She dreamed of the country of India where she had never been. There were orange traffic cones and beautiful lapis lazuli insects with mandibles of gold. A young girl was being led through the streets. She was taken to a pyre where she was wound in a sheet and placed up on a platform built from sticks. The bright fire that consumed her brought my mother into that deep light dreamlike bliss. The girl was being burned alive but first there had been her body clean and whole.

When you tarry in the arena of prayer you become a highly inflammable christian to the devil

I had a dream about you painting the scene of a house fire. The clocks were melting and Salvador Dali was riding around in a clown car muttering something about irony.