“Evolution may have made some sense in Darwin’s days. But in the 21st century, evolution appears to be little more than the figment of a brilliant imagination. Although this imaginative concept has, in the years since Darwin, amassed a fanatical cult-like following, science, it is not. Science still needs to be proven; you can’t just vote ideas into “fact.” And especially not when they contradict facts.
One sign of the desperation of evolutionists to get their fallacious message across is their labelling of all disproofs of evolution as “Creationism,” even when no mention of Creation or a deity is made. Ironically, it’s evolutionists’ dogmatic adherence to concepts that are more imagination than fact that smacks of a belief in mystical, supernatural powers. What evolutionists have done, in effect, is invented a new god-less religion and re-invented their own version of creation-by-supernatural-means. However, the mere elimination of God from the picture doesn’t exactly make it science. “
She’s cinnamon on the tongue, and deep lung air, the space between heartbeats, and dreamless seconds. She’s gravity and bent light, years of inescapable regret. She’s a bruised tattoo and a muffled note sounding sad negation, baby skin, and straight flush vertigo; queen high, aphasia, and too much wine. The beginning’s whispered word and insomnia. She’s finish line sweat and denied kisses, dew wet roses and ropes bathed in starlight. She’s candle wax and burnt offerings, a razor wrist, the atom split, lightning dance and a tear of joy. She’s a child tickled too long and quivering lip. She’s dragon chasing smoke raised in prayer, a C4 bunny, three to a match and a bullet; to whom it may concern, sucking chest wound heartbreak. She’s crime in a $4 T-shirt and yesterday’s shorts. She’s her smile and walk, cricket comfort and lumbering grace, electrochemical shock therapy. She’s the fast right hand captured in unnatural acts. She’s unclean thoughts, and unrepentance, salvation offered only in darkness. She’s the better half of a timeless equation, π factored past infinity, an easy answer to an impossible problem. She’s unknown and unknowable, an unopened gift gathering dust, another man’s name on the tag.
This proves two things: Firstly, that God moves in extremely mysterious, not to say, circuitous ways. God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of any of the other players,* to being involved in an obscure and complex version of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won’t tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time. Secondly, the Earth’s a Libra.
— Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch
“The book was long, and difficult to read, and Klaus became more and more tired as the night wore on. Occasionally his eyes would close. He found himself reading the same sentence over and over. He found himself reading the same sentence over and over. He found himself reading the same sentence over and over. But then he would remember the way the hook-hands of Count Olaf’s associate had glinted in the library, and would imagine them tearing into his flesh, and he would wake right up and continue reading.”—Lemony Snicket, A Series of Unfortunate Events, Book One, Chapter Eight
Darcy: “Ms. Price.” Amanda: “Yes… We should celebrate. You asked me a question, I answered it, and we didn’t have an argument about it.” Darcy: “I did not ask you a question. I made an observation: Ms. Price. The confirmation of your identity was entirely superfluous, as a result we are now arguing about it, and therefore, you are wrong.” Amanda: “That’s so sweet, you’re actually trying to make me laugh.” Darcy: “Yes. It shall not occur again.” Amanda: “And you’re smiling.” Darcy: “No no, I only smile in private… when nobody is looking.”
“I sometimes think that people’s hearts are like deep wells. Nobody knows what’s at the bottom. All you can do is imagine by what comes floating to the surface every once in a while.”—Haruki Murakami (via thresca) (via enamour)