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The great thing about Weeds is that everything we do is never quite serious enough to be taken seriously. It always has humor behind it, and it think it makes it definitely more fun for the audience.
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I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods: I envy not the beast that takes His license in the field of time, Unfetter’d by the sense of crime, To whom a conscience never wakes; Nor, what may count itself as blest, The heart that never plighted troth But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; Nor any want-begotten rest. I hold it true, whate’er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; ‘Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.
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I did experiment with ***** when I was a youth.
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When Christ at Cana's feast by pow'r divine, Inspir'd cold water, with the warmth of wine, See! cry'd they while, in red'ning tide, it gush'd, The bashful stream hath seen its God and blush'd.
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I feel like I'll never get over red carpets. They're so bizarre and awkward.
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I'm a Red-baiter; I'm a witch-hunter if the witches are Communists.
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I reduced painting to its logical conclusion and exhibited three canvases: red, blue, and yellow. I affirmed: this is the end of painting.
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Red, of course, is the colour of the interior of our bodies. In a way it's inside out, red.
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Shaking herself, Petunia looked around. Several of her sisters had been talking to her, but she hadn't heard them. "And that answers our questions about why he gave himself up," Poppy was saying, a smile turning up one corner of her mouth as she looked at Petunia. "Now if everyone could please avoid saying his name [Oliver], so that Petunia doesn't drift off again...?
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The poppies hung Dew-dabbled on their stalks.
