Admittedly, art is somewhat like spit. It does not repulse or even worry is while it is still inside of us, but once it exits our body, it becomes disgusting.

The moon seems unawareof night's dark hittingon the damp warm rain misguiding owl's spitting A thunder light of loveraising hearts beatingwhile weather learns morefrom rain lovers meeting

How can I give up stalking when I have a family to feed? Get a job? I don't want to work for you, your work makes me puke, do you understand? This is the way I figure it: if a man works with you, he is always working for one of you, he is a slave and nothing else. And I always wanted to be myself, on my own, so that I could spit at you all, at your boredom and despair.

I spit out to my heart and my mind. when you collect them together, they can not show the resistance of an average dick.

The ground had opened up and spit out hell, Nell thought, and the detritus was Shiloh.

The dragon spits fire, what extinguishes its tears. When we live in rancor, we are born to be old. (Le dragon crache du feu, - Ce qui éteint ses larmes. - Quand on vit de rancune, - On naît pour être vieux.)

When you are fed with the spoon of betrayal, you can choose to spit it out and live or swallow it and die

I had a choice. My instincts told me to hurry up and give the choking man the Heimlich maneuver. My brain told me to stay still until he expired and chalk this one up to divine intervention.