As they galloped and began to stir up a small breeze, the king said, “’Tis hard to ride across the graves of those you’ve killed with no reverence or concern for their memory,” and his closest riding companion replied, “You’re not the king.”



While he lived in the city, one man said he experienced a “traumatic loss of brain,” by middle age.



This one barbaric warrior and artist, with the rise of each new sun, would push his fortunes and luck as far as possible and then push them some more, until his mother would call him in for the day.  (Whenever he didn’t have a mother, or she was out of town, or for some other reason didn’t call him in for the day, he’d do it himself.)



are a kind of
plagiarism of acts.



One guy had so many thoughts that they sent a committee around to talk to him.


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