To these upland woodsmen, the Devil is as real as you or I. More so; they have not seen us nor even know that we exist, but the Devil they glimpse often in the graveyards.
How far does a pretence of feeling, maintained with absolute conviction, become authentic?
Woman has the been the antithesis in the dialect of creation quite long enough.
Time is a man, space is a woman.
Sometimes the lengths to which I'll go for money appall me.
First place, what is this soul of which you speak? Show me its location in the human anatomy and then I might believe in it.