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I didn't know the inner me was hungry, I said to Art. That's because it already starved to death.

Joe Hill

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Joe Hill
Inner
Already
Death
Art
Didn
Starved
Hungry

More quotes by Joe Hill

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I hope if there is another world, we will not be judged too harshly for the things we did wrong here—that we will at least be forgiven for the mistakes we made out of love.
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He understood that the ghost existed first and foremost within his own head. That maybe ghosts always haunted minds, not places. If he wanted to take a shot at it, he’d have to turn the barrel against his own temple.
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When you think about it, most of the good ideas came along to make sin a whole lot easier.
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Some things you didn't give away, no matter how much you owed.
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Sooner or later a black car came for everyone.
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A pamphlet, no matter how good, is never read more than once, but a song is learned by heart and repeated over and over. And I maintain that if a person can put a few common sense facts into a song and dress them up in a cloak of humor, he will succeed in reaching a great number of workers who are too unintelligent or too indifferent to read.
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She just knew that even when you had nothing, you still had love.
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I mean, when the world comes for your children, with the knives out, it's your job to stand in the way.
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I will be waiting by candlelight in our tree house of the mind.
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Aren't you going to tell me I'm not so bad? she asked. Mmm-no. I was thinking how every man loves a hot girl with a history of making mistakes. Because it's always possible she'll make one with you.
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Were talking about an attitude. Delayed gratification is there, planning, be able to give up something now to get something later.
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Terror is the desire to save your own ass, but horror is rooted in sympathy.
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Her sanity was a fragile thing, a butterfly cupped in her hands, that she carried with her everywhere, afraid of what would happen if she let it go-or got careless and crushed it.
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Already, though, she understood the difference between being a child and being an adult. The difference is when someone says he can keep the bad things away, a child believes him.
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Who knows what may lie around the next corner? There may be a window somewhere ahead. It may look out on a field of sunflowers.
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There's only room for one hero in this story-and everyone knows the devil doesn't get to be the good guy.
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You loved me as hard as you knew how. I'd give anything to go back and love you better.
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Horror was rooted in sympathy . . . in understanding what it would be like to suffer the worst.
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I remind myself that no one day of writing matters all that much. A story is built somewhat like a stalactite - one little drip of mud and grit at a time.
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Was there any human urge more pitiful-or more intense- than wanting another chance at something?
Joe Hill