The time is time. The place is anywhere. The voices speak to you across the air To say that once again a child is born. A child is born.
His voice, like a malted milkshake marinated for more than seventy years, has a slightly monotonous lilt - rather like a Hindu chanting Bagavad Gita.
And His that gentle voice we hear, Soft as the breath of even.
Science is like literature, a continuing dialog among diverse and conflicting voices, no one ever wholly right or wholly wrong, but a steady conversation forever provisional and personal and living.
To resist is to piss in the wind. Anyone who does, will end up smelling. Knowing this, why do I defy? Because my inner voice is yelling. There is a fist pressing against Anyone who thinks something compelling. Our intuit we're taught to deny Yes, our soul, we're told's for selling.
Some say I have a beautiful voice, some say I have not. It is a matter of opinion. All I can say, those who don't like it shouldn't come to hear me.
Your voice will come. We all go through the same thing. You cannot talk when you first arrive." He smiled. "It helps you listen.
The voice (sometimes an ominous rumble that sounds as though he's been gargling with pebbles, sometimes the bliss of Bailey's Irish Cream swirling lazily about a fine crystal goblet) crescendos almost imperceptibly.
And the multitude was silent, not a voice, not a sound was heard upon the hillsides, across the valleys where they stood.
Here is a list of fearful things: The jaws of sharks, a vulture's wings, The rabid bite of the dog's of war, The voice of one who went before. But most of all the mirror's gaze, which counts us out our numbered days.
I hope my work is recognizable as being by a woman, though I certainly would never deliberately make it feminine in any way, in subject or treatment. But if I speak in a voice which is my own, it's bound to be the voice of a woman.
Then a Voice said: "Behold this day, for it is yours to make. Now you shall stand upon the center of the earth to see, for there they are taking you."
In sorrow I am sending a feeble voice, O Six Powers of the World. Hear me in my sorrow, for I may never call again. O make my people live!
Of course, your voice always sounds better in the shower for some reason, maybe it's just the octaves or, I don't know, the water, I have no idea.
Evil's last voice croaked to me, "How did you know I was only bluffing?" Because he wept. Because he wept.