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Dream for an Insomniac

Frankie:
Just remember one thing: Anything less than mad, passionate, extraordinary love is a waste of time.
There are too many mediocre things in life to deal with and love shouldn't be one of them.
 
Z

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Гостин

Ripley: Ash, can you hear me? Ash?
Ash: [speaking in an electronic, distorted voice] Yes, I can hear you.
Ripley: What was your special order?
Ash: You read it. I thought it was clear.
Ripley: What was it?
Ash: Bring back life form. Priority One. All other priorities rescinded.
Parker: The damn company. What about our lives, you son of a bitch?
Ash: I repeat, all other priorities are rescinded.
Ripley: How do we kill it Ash? There's gotta be a way of killing it. How? How do we do it?
Ash: You can't.
Parker: That's bullshit.
Ash: You still don't understand what you're dealing with, do you? Perfect organism. Its structural perfection is matched only by its hostility.
Lambert: You admire it.
Ash: I admire its purity. A survivor... unclouded by conscience, remorse, or delusions of morality.
Parker: Look, I am... I've heard enough of this, and I'm asking you to pull the plug.
Ash: [Ripley goes to disconnect Ash, who interrupts] Last word.
Ripley: What?
Ash: I can't lie to you about your chances, but... you have my sympathies.
 
Член од
6 септември 2007
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Brenda Chenowith: We're all wounded. We carry our wounds around with us throughout life and eventually they kill us. Things happen that leave a mark in space, in time... in us.

Brenda Chenowith: All we have is this moment, right here, right now. The future is just a fucking concept that we use to avoid being alive today. So be... here... now.
 
Член од
6 септември 2007
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All Wives: (Quoting Daddy's Book) There is no death, there is only birth and birth and birth and birth. Consider the trees, that allow the birds to pirch and fly away, without calling them back. If your heart can be like a tree, you'll be close to the way. When the multitude laughs at you, you are blessed. This is what Daddy wants us to know: I depart as air. I shake my white locks at the runaway sun. I bequeath my self to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love. If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles. You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean, but I shall be good health to you nevertheless. Missing me one place, search another. I stop somewhere, waiting for you.
 

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