The more hands your opinions have passed through, the more likely you are to regard them as your own.
We all come into this world with our little egos equipped with individual horns. If we don’t blow them, who will?
Knowing the answer does not oblige you to raise your hand.
Mute inglorious Miltons, flowers born to blush unseen and waste their sweetness on the desert air, are extinct, and I miss them.
We are what we fear to appear to be.