Without grace there is no hope, but with it there is no shortage.

For most men, time moves slowly, oh so slowly, they don't even realize it. But time has revealed itself to me in a very special way. Time is a rushing, howling wind that rages past me, withering me in a single, relentless blast, and then continues on. I've been sitting here passively, submissive to its rage, watching its work. Listen! Time, howling, withering!

I'm a picker, I'm a grinner, I'm a lover and I'm a sinner. I play my music in the sun.

I have already prepared my counter proposal. It reads thusly: you may strategically place your wonderful lips upon my posterior and kiss it repeatedly!

They tried stoning me, my dear. It did not work.

Without grace there is no hope, but with it there is no shortage.

There was much bitterness in the family. There were even those who would liked to have considered Barnabas Collins dead. But he lived on. He lived on-and outlived his enemies.