Identity is theft, don’t trust anyone whose state vector hasn’t forked for more than a gigasecond, change is the only constant, et bloody cetera.

I mean, in the end it wasn't up to me. The big things never are. Birth, I mean, and death. And love. And what love bequeaths to use before we're born.

Socialism provides safety in numbers. And that’s OK, if you don’t mind trading your name—your identity and individualism—for a number.

Maybe to feel superior in struggle was sensed, When people were aware to fight for identity.'-Terzanelle for Octavia Estelle Butler, poem by Marieta Maglas

At a certain point in his life he stopped searching for himself in everything that exists and gave in to temptations. Or, as you say, he sinned and later fled.

The easiest way to gain someone's trust is to deserve it. This should be pretty easy, assuming you're just being you and being real. Minimal effort too.

Ladies, no matter how hard you try, a man will never complete you. Only God can. And if you don’t know your identity in Him, you’ll be lost forever.

tu es noeud de relations et rien d'autre. Et tu existes par tes liens. Tes liens existent par toi. Le temple existe par chacune des pierres.(chapitre CLXXV)

I'm more a collector of identities and words that feel right to me. To me this is an inarguable point. I am who I say I am and that's not up for debate.

The closer you come to knowing that you alone create the world of your experience, the more vital it becomes for you to discover just who is doing the creating.

We are each what never leaves us, what we never seethe back ofis the self. But what loves usis at the back, as Eurydice wasescorting him outwithout his knowing.

The tension between people is palpable, and the ideal of what it means to be and look American becomes a preoccupation to folks around the country, including me.

Alan, you seem to think we won't like you unless you do things just like everyone else. Have you ever thought we might like you because you're different?

His words had tossed the book that was her life into the air and the pages had been blown into disarray, could never be put back together to tell the same story.

We are not what we do, we are not what we have, we are not what others think of us. Coming home is claiming the truth. I am the beloved child of a loving creator.