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Little Bobby Jones of Atlanta is really a fine player, and shows every indication of becoming a tremendous great one, once he is master of himself, which must come with maturity.
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You always catch the wrong players.
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I feel like Josh, Michelle and Adam were all team players, who wanted to be a part of an ensemble.
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I'll get up there and I'll do my guitar solos in one of those space outfits.
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It may be a coincidence, but from the minute I took anti-depressants, I didn't pick up a guitar or a pen for seven years.
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The disenfranchised offspring, along with an entire ageless class of human discards, know only that they are doomed. They are drawn to spikes and pentagrams, gasoline, guitars screaming like whips, MIDI-programmed Thanatos, with sufficient amplitude to occupy that hollow space where consciousness once resided. These Dionysians obliterate themselves by removing filters, ultimately becoming insensate with sensation. This mode of behaviour originates in the superstitious belief that transcendence is acquired in the precise ratio by which reason is destroyed.
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I have no secrets; all of these things have been discussed at length in guitar magazines over the years but are far too elaborate to cover in one article.
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Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.
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A loud noise will get your fight-or-flight response going. This, over the years, can cause real cardiovascular damage.
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I am shy to admit that I have followed the advice given all those years ago by a wise archbishop to a bewildered young man: that moments of unbelief 'don't matter,' that if you return to a practice of the faith, faith will return.
