hope somebody likes it

I saw this post yesterday and it inspired me, so I did this! @theirglassofteaat221b hope you don’t mind!!

Also, note that this wasn’t beta’d so if you guys find any mistakes pls tell me!!

Sherlock and John had been woken up my Sherlock’s phone ringing. John was on his back with Sherlock’s legs over his hip and his hand on his chest. Both groaned and shifted a bit, not pleased with being woken up. Sherlock’s head naturally gravitated towards John’s neck, and John wrapped his arm around Sherlock. 

The phone didn’t stop ringing, and so Sherlock turned around and got his phone from the bedside table. It was Lestrade calling, he needed help with a case. Sherlock couldn’t be more thrilled, and he rapidly got out of bed and dressed in less than ten minutes. With Sherlock standing next to their bed, fully dressed, John (still lying down) looked at him for second or two. 

“Love, calm down. Didn’t Lestrade said we didn’t need to hurry?" 

"Don’t say nonsense. It’s a case, John! We need to go, get out of bed,” he said while lowering himself down to give John a kiss. John smiled, he was just about to ask Sherlock for his missing good morning kiss, but as always, the detective beat him to it. 

The cab ride there was quiet, but their hands were locked on each other’s all the time, John’s thumb caressing softly, feeling Sherlock’s skin. 

“So, did Lestrade said what the case was about?" 

"No, don’t care. It’s good to be out of the house for a case." 

"You didn’t seem too bothered about staying inside for these last couple of days.” John looked at Sherlock, smirking. 

“Not so much, no,” Sherlock said this and then gave John’s lips a small kiss, but he seemed to ask for more, so the next kiss was filled with promises and intent. 

The last few days had been amazing. Sherlock and John had just finished investigating a case, and so John had been preoccupied in giving Sherlock his much-needed care after every case. That also included, of course, endless hours spent on the bed, making Sherlock laugh and blush and moan. God, John loves to make Sherlock blush, to see the contrast between the pink and the pale white of Sherlock’s face. 

That was happening now, in the cab, when John understood the intent in the kiss and reciprocated. When they both parted, they looked at each other and joined their foreheads together. 

God, Sherlock thought, I want to marry this man. I want to wake up by his side every day for the rest of my life. I want to be taken care of by him every time I end a case. I want his hands on mine forever. I want to hear him say yes on the altar and I want to be introduced to people as Sherlock Watson. Yes, I want his name, I want to have him any way I can. 

Emotions overcame him, he couldn’t stop smiling. 

“What are you thinking about?” John whispered. 

“You.” Simple enough of an answer, John thought. 

The cab arrived at its destination and Sherlock stepped out, leaving John to pay the fare. The crime scene was inside a house, and he could see Lestrade and his team waiting outside for him, police tapes surrounding the place and officers protecting the perimeter. 

Walking in the direction of the crime scene, Sherlock felt distracted. All he could think about was how his name would sound with ‘Watson’ at the end. That made him blush once again. He could hear John running behind him, and so he swept these thoughts out of his mind. Tried, anyway. Curious, what love does to one’s mind…Concentrate, you have a case to solve. 

By this time, John was already by his side. As they both were ready to cross the police line, an officer stopped them. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” He yelled at them. 

“Where’s Lestrade?” Sherlock said with the most boring tone of voice he could ever find. “Tell him Sherlock Watson is he-" 

The realization came over him as he said that word and he stopped in time, wondering how could he be so careless. They were only together for a few weeks, John wouldn’t be happy about his. Oh god, I’m so stupid! 

The police officer stared at him, waiting and unsure of what to do, clueless about what really happened. Sherlock didn’t have the courage to look at John, not now. 

"Hmm… sorry,” He said with a lump in his throat, “tell Lestrade Sherlock Holmes is here and make yourself useful,” Sherlock snapped at the young man with bitterness in his words, thinking it could cover for the worry his voice really transpired. As he watched the poor man running to the house, Sherlock stared at it and not once glanced at John, who was at his side. He could hear John’s footsteps on the pavement and his breathing. 

“‘Sherlock Watson, then?” There was an emphasis on the last name and Sherlock almost shivered at that. 

“It was nothing. Forget about it,” Sherlock delivered in a cold attitude, not wanting to prolong this conversation any longer. 

John put himself in front of him. “You know what? I think that could work nicely.” His voice was soft and sweet. Sherlock couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Now, Sherlock’s eyes looked for John’s in a hurry and all he could find in them was understanding and wanting. John was smiling like a child. 

Something broke the connection between them and John went back to where he was standing. The young officer had come back and with him was Lestrade. 

“Sorry about that, he’s new around here,” Lestrade said glancing a defying look to the new officer, “thanks for coming, but I don’t know if you’re going to find this one interesting." 

He was right, it was a rather easy case and Sherlock and John were back at the house a few hours later. The afternoon passed and Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking about anything else. Later that night, when they were already in bed snuggling with each other, Sherlock spoke soft like a whisper into John’s ear, "Were you serious about what you said, this morning?" 

"Sherlock, Love, of course. I was serious." 

There was not a shrink of doubt in his voice. He shifted so he was looking down on Sherlock, his hand on Sherlock’s curls, drawing circles on his scalp. 

"Look, I know this – us – is relatively new. But Sherlock, I know for a fact I don’t want to spend another day without you. It’s you, Sherlock, it has always been you. So…why wait? If you want to be called Sherlock Watson, let’s bloody do it then." 

This filled Sherlock with a warm, cosy feeling inside his belly. He didn’t know what to respond, so he did it in another way. He kissed John with everything he had, his hands all over John like he was trying to memorise every single curve on John’s body. 

"I love you, John." 

John stared into Sherlock’s eyes, "I love you too, more than anything.”

I would love for you to tell if you liked it or not, and possibly give some constructive criticism!!

@consultingbeekeepers @fellshish @inevitably-johnlocked @gimmelovethatlast @notaboutcake


I’ve got a pig! I’ve got a pig! *talking to the pig* Are you alright?
Joe in the animal hour of the #24HourJoe


Scorbus is cute af, Rose is single and bitter
(Cursed Child what? Never heard of it)

platoapproved  asked:

writing prompt: cisco and wally try to pull a lighthearted prank on iris, things don't go as planned

“Holy shit.” 

“You said that.”

“Holy fucking shit.”

“You said that, too,” Wally nods resolutely. In times of crisis, he likes to make a little game of tallying the amount of swears Cisco can fit into a minute. Last count, 23. 

Keep reading

I wrote something!! For @hollyand-writes​, who prompted me with: F!Fenhawke prompt from that list you put up (if you’ve got time to write a ficlet!) “With my help, your flirting will be much more socially acceptable.”

I was inspired I guess: 

Why, oh why had she encouraged her mother to give a party like that. No, not a party, a ball. A ball! Hawke is still trying to get used to being rich at all but her mother has embraced the riches of the nightmarish expedition like she’s never been a malnourished refugee, begging to be let into the city gates.

Now she is holding court at the fireplace, laughing as some wealthy widower is flirting with her. She is dressed in a glittering gown that would have paid for the whole ship fare from Lothering to this city.

Hawke is currently questioning if the trip was worth it at all if it has to end with her being trapped in layers upon layers of starched folds. As much as the dress tries to show all of her humble cleavage, it also has a high collar, starched to the point of feeling like wood and it is scratching her chin whenever she turns her head.

Because of that, she has to turn her whole body to address the young man who offers his name and a glass of white wine. She would prefer red wine but apparently, red wine is too strong for ladies and it was hard enough to convince the young man to bring her any wine at all.

She takes a sip and puts on her nicest smile as she addresses the nervous young man. “Serah Desjardin, was it?”

“Desjardins, Serah Hawke, Marlon Desjardins” he repeats, emphasizing the S at the end. “Of the Desjardins of Lydes, Orlais. You might come across that name again some time, as my family is extensive and keen on travelling.”

“That is wonderful.”

The young man looks at her with his glass of red wine stuck half way on its way to his lips. “What is?”

“Travelling?” Hawke answers, heat crawling up her neck. This is the third young man, trying to strike up a conversation with her and he at least brought her a glass of wine, so she is trying her best, but… she knows that she’s failing. “Travelling is so rewarding, to see what Thedas is made of, the people, the land…”

Desjardins takes a big gulp of his wine and Hawke sips again, a tiny sip with her lips pursed. She’s adhering to the clear instructions by her mother that a distinguished daughter of the House of Amell does A) not drink Ale and B) only takes the tiniest sips. With pursed lips. There was a whole lecture about lips and the correct pursing thereof and Hawke is pretty sure that she will get cramps around her mouth tonight from all the pursing.

The young man has emptied his glass — oh how she envies him — and thankfully hides his burp behind a hand. “Well, travelling in Thedas is not quite as romantic as you seem to think. Half of Thedas is fleeing from the Blight or something and you can’t stop the carriage for five minutes anywhere without some dirty child or knifeear begging you for food.”

Red spots appear in her vision. “How unfortunate for the people who had made a living in the country, growing the food we all eat, that they didn’t have the means to stay on their farms.” She has to call on all of her self control to not punch him in the face for ‘knifeear’.

“Yes, it’s unfortunate but there’s plenty of ways to get to places like Kirkwall without harassing innocent travellers — ”

— the stem of Hawke’s wineglass snaps in half between her fingers and the bulb tips over, falls, and shatters on the ground. Shards scatter all over her feet and her silken shoes. Small spots of blood appear where a shard has cut the delicate material and pierced the skin on her feet.

Desjardins stares at her feet with a look of disgust and then turns his nose up and raises his hand. “Servant? Servant, please.”

The remains of the glass stem crunch in her hand as she gets ready to punch that nose all the way to the Deep Roads. But a hand on her arm and a deep and calming voice in her ear stops her.

“It is unadvisable to punch one’s guests with a fist full of broken glass,” Fenris murmurs into her ear.

“Are you sure?” she replies through clenched teeth.

“Very,” Fenris says with a chuckle. He takes her arm and leads her out of the ballroom into the kitchen. He holds her hand over the kitchen sink and opens it slowly. The white glove is already colored in a bright red from the cuts in her hand, just like the tops of her shoes. Fenris pulls the long glove down from her elbow and pumps ice cold water over it.

“Mistress Hawke!” Orana yells out when she sees the blood rinsing off.

“Not mistress, Orana,” Hawke says quietly.

“I’m sorry, Serah, but what happened?”

“Nothing terrible, I was trying to flirt with some orlesian kid and he turned out to be an ass.” She slips out of the shoes and hands them to Orana with the stained glove. “I don’t know if you can fix this somehow but I would be grateful if you could. My mother is going to make me chase the cows when she sees these shoes like that.”

“Of course, Serah Hawke, I know just what to do.” She gathers everything in a towel and hides it in a lower cupboard. “I’ll get to it after the party, so that your mother doesn’t get suspicious if she doesn’t see me bring in the food.”

“Good thinking, Orana, thank you.” Hawke tiptoes to the other side of the kitchen, to the stairs that will take her up to her room without having to cross the ballroom again. Fenris follows her, his bare feet just as quiet as hers. “I could almost be a Rogue, don’t you think?” Hawke says, just as she trips over a broom and sends it down the stairs with loud clattering.

“You’d be perfect for diversion tactics,” Fenris deadpans.

Hawke sighs. “With my luck, this will not be the last catastrophe of the evening.”

“I would hardly call a fallen broom a catastrophe.” Fenris follows her in her room and closes the door behind him.

“No, I meant that stupid, arrogant, good for nothing, rich stink nose of an orlesian cow’s ass down there.” She throws off the starched jacket with its stiff collar and vows to herself to burn it later. The dress looks better like this anyway, it falls softly over her shoulders and the red fabric is a nice contrast to her dark hair. In her closet she finds another pair of flimsy shoes. She can only hope that her mother will be distracted by all the glittering nobles around her and not look at her feet too closely.

“What is it with you and the cows?” Fenris has an amused smile on his lips as he stands there next to her door like a guard.

“Fereldan farmgirl, remember?” She slips into the shoes and crosses over to him. Stopping in front of him, she stares into his green eyes. She is slightly taller than him but she always feels dwarfed by his control and strength. “I guess, I have to get back down there now.”

He swallows, his eyes dropping to her lips before meeting her eyes again. “Yes, probably.” He smiles at her. “But you might want to avoid flirting with orlesians.”

She groans. “I could arm wrestle all of them in my sleep but talking to them?”

Fenris chuckles. “Maybe I can help.”


“At least, with my help, your flirting will be much more socially acceptable than that.”

Hawke clenches her fists and sighs. “Alright, what should I talk about?”

Fenris grins. “First and foremost, you should not talk but listen. Make the man feel important by listening intently, asking him questions about what he does.”

“But I don’t care!” she groans out. “They’re all so boring.”

“Ask me.”

“About what?”

Fenris bows towards her, one leg stepping behind him, his back perfectly straight. Hawke is astonished how perfectly aristocratic he looks.

“Serah Hawke, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Fenris. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Hawke struggles to get her knees to bend to the kind of curtsy that her mother has taught her. “The pleasure is all mine, Serah Fenris. What brings you to Kirkwall?”

Fenris gives her an encouraging smile and then falls back into his role. He stands straight, his head held high and it is a stark contrast to his usual stance of being ready to fight at all times. “I’m collecting books on elven and Tevinter history and I’m hoping to find a few rare pieces for my collection here.”

“Oh, how interesting,” Hawke says. “Have you found anything yet?”

Fenris interlaces his fingers and nods. “Yes, I saw a few promising places at the market this morning and I plan to return to it tomorrow. Would you like to accompany me for that?”

Hawke isn’t sure if this is part of the game or if he’s really asking her to go with him, just them, without the others. It would be a first. “Yes, I would love to,” she rushes to say before the moment passes.

Fenris blushes and opens his mouth but closes it again without speaking.

“Ehm,” Hawke stammers, “what do I do if I don’t know what to say anymore?”

Fenris swallows. “You could always ask for a dance.”

Hawke holds her hand towards him. “Would you like to dance with me, Serah Fenris?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he says and his voice has a new rasp to it. He takes her hand and holds it out to the side and wraps his other arm around her waist, pulling her close. The music from the ballroom is muted but still loud enough for them to hear.

He takes a careful step forward and Hawke lets herself be steered by his lithe form pressed against her. He leads her in a slow circle around herself, holding her so close that she couldn’t stray away from his steps if she wanted.

But she doesn’t want to step away. She doesn’t care for the party downstairs, where her mother is probably already looking for her. She wants to stay here, in Fenris’ strong arms, guided around her room to the faint sound of music. She leans into him, closing her eyes as her cheek rests against his ear.

She has never danced like this before.

The music stops and Fenris twirls her out of his arms and pulls her back again. She laughs, slightly dizzy from the spin and he holds her so that she doesn’t stumble. She catches a glimpse of his eyes and her heart stops for a beat. She can’t put into words what she sees in them but they pull her towards him like a force.

Their lips connect, softly, fleeting, barely more than a dash of wind across a rose petal.

They both freeze.

It can’t be more, not now, they both know. But it’s more than she has ever hoped for.

“We must go back downstairs,” he mumbles against her lips.

“I know.” She lets her lips stay open, softly pressing forward. She feels him hesitate but then he presses back, his lips open like hers.

The music downstairs swells up again and the moment shatters. They both step back, and Hawke takes a deep breath. She holds out her arm for Fenris to take.

He wordlessly takes it and leads her out of the room and down the stairs. When a group of elegantly dressed men turn around to look at her, her lets go of her arm and retreats into the background like a bodyguard.

He watches her, how she charms the men, her flirting obviously improved. Occasionally she glances over to him, giving him a smile that nobody else ever gets from her.

That is enough. It’s more than he has ever thought possible for someone like him.

I hope you like it @hollyand-writes. :D

anonymous asked:

An older teenage Ork enters your temple, seeking atonement for the life their herd made them live. What advice, if any, would you give them?

Brother Andrew looks around him at the temple.  He always loves visiting the old sites; such history and community displaying the continuity of his faith.  A few parishioners greet him.  He is not here enough to remember all of their names, but he has mental notes reminding himself who they are; “Recently Widowed,” “Lost a Child,” “Insincere Dinner Invitation,” “Sickly Farmer.”   He hopes it is not cynical to recognize that while the faces change from year to year and decade to decade, the hearts do not.  Some people come for guidance, others for charity, still others looking for little more than social standing or business contacts.  While the people may change and the surfact circumstances may vary, he looks at the ornate depictions around him of stained glass and statues, and he is comforted by their consistency; unchanged since he was a small child.

He notices other attendants whispering to each other and looking pointedly at a corner of the narthex.  He notices that a young ork is standing quietly to himself, while the humans around him give each other raised eye brows and knowing glances.  But Brother Andrew sees no sign of the bloodlust or terror that are supposed to be the hallmark of that people.  He sees no pillager or rampager or render of flesh… he sees only a broken child, looking for comfort in a place whose hallowed rafters have doubtlessly rung with a condemnation of ork-kind.  Brother Andrew is again reminded that the places where he finds comfort don’t always offer comfort to others.

The ork stands before a statue, barely daring to look at it.  Wet eyes attempt to bore a hole straight through the marble floor it seems, and Brother Andrew wonders if the rarity of ork tears would make them a potent addition to some mystic potion.  As the cleric walks beside the ork, the other parishioners seem to hold their breath to listen in.  Brother Andrew looks at the statue before them and asks aloud, “Do you know her name?”

The ork startles at the words, and then waits to see if the cleric adds anything else.  This is not the first time he has been addressed in the temple, but it is the first time the voice was this gentle.  The ork clenches his jaw, reluctant to leave his spot, but knowing that an altercation would only prove how unfit he is to be here.

“Justice,” he finally admits.

“Yes,” says Brother Andrew.  “She’s pretty famous.  You can’t miss her with those scales of hers.  She’s always got them around somewhere.  You know what they’re for?”

“She weighs the deeds of mortals, to see if their good deeds outweigh their evilness.  If not…” 

Brother Andrew interrupts him, “Enough about her.  Did you know she has a sister?”

The ork turns to the cleric for the first time.  He was not expecting a change of subject, nor for the cleric to look so suggestive.  The small audience that was watching him and Brother Andrew would find Justice the perfect topic to point out to an ork, and the penitent knows it.  Justice is why he is here.  Justice is why he is fearful of this place, but Justice is also why he is drawn here.  He knows which way his own scales lean; he knows his own personal history and what Justice demands of him; he remembers the screams and blood and the fury.  And for all those reasons, he knows what Justice demands.

“What’s your name, son?”

“…Adrud.” Nobody in this place had ever asked his name before.

“Well Adrud, let me show you another statue.  If you’ve got a thing for Justice and swords, you’ll probably like this one.  It’s actually one of my favorites.”

Adrud turns hesitantly to follow Brother Andrew.  He knows this is all the precursor to condemnation.  He knows this will eventually lead to a reminder of what the orks have done, of what he has done, and why he deserves retribution.  But by his own actions he has earned that condemnation.  He deserves no less than judgement.  He has condemned himself as much if not more than anyone else.  

As the pair travel across the floor to the transept, Brother Andrew ignores the gasps and whispers as people watch an ork enter the space reserved for the faithful.  Some assume he is escorting the ork out of the temple and are grateful, while others are disappointed he is being so gentle with the brute.  All are relieved when they turn the corner and are out of sight.  

In the eastern transept, Brother Andrew stops and looks at another statue.  Adrud steps alongside him and looks up.

“Like I said, she has a sister. She’s not one of the headliners; few will write songs in her name, and nobody is going to war in her honor.  But Clementia is one of my favorites.”

“Clementia…?”  The ork had never heard the name before.

“Yeah, sometimes it’s translated as ‘Mercy’ or ‘Forgiveness.’  Or ‘Redemption.’  She and Justice are sisters, but sometimes they don’t really get along.“

The young ork looks at the sword and staff held by Justice.  “Where are her scales?”

“Oh yeah, a lot of people miss that at first.  Look under Clementia’s left foot.”  The scales under Clementia’s foot were broken and discarded.  “Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to Justice.  She definitely has her place.  Without her, we couldn’t have a civilized society.  But the same goes for her sister.  The trick is knowing that, sometimes, the scales aren’t actually helping, and you just have to throw them away.”

“But… but then how… didn’t you say her name was ‘Redemption?’“

“Oh yeah, absolutely.  So how do you achieve redemption if you don’t have a scale?  That’s the trick, isn’t it?  See, actual redemption isn’t about doing enough ‘good’ stuff that it makes up for the ‘bad’ stuff.  The truth is, nobody could ever get ‘redeemed’ that way.  No amount of good deeds will bring a person back to life if they’ve been murdered.  No amount of good deeds will erase a victim’s trauma after being attacked.  I mean sure, if you steal some money you can give that much money back, but violence… violence doesn’t work that way.”

The ork once again turns his face downward as his eyes begin to well up.  “So… there’s no hope.”

“What?!  Of course there’s hope.  They’d toss me out on the street and suspend my preacher’s license if I ran around telling people ‘there’s no hope!’  Of course there’s hope!  And that’s it right there.”  With that he pointed at the broken scales beneath Clementia’s foot.  “The hope is to stop playing with the scales.  The hope is to stop weighing and re-weighing and re-re-weighing your sins, hoping that maybe someday you’ll make up for it.”

The ork’s face looked at Brother Andrew in confusion.  “But… isn’t that a little too… easy?”

Brother Andrew smiled, “Oh absolutely it is.  And it’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do.  See, Justice demands that our sins and guilt be weighed and that punishment is meted out.  And you can live your life in service to Justice, and many do.  But, as the sacred text says, ‘…All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.‘  Living your life in service of Clementia is nothing like living it in service of Justice. But that is the choice you have to make.

“You have to admit that you can’t do anything to make up for your past misdeeds.  You can’t undo all those terrible things, and you have to admit that you’ve got to stop trying.  To truly be redeemed, you realize that you aren’t the one that tips Justice’s scales.  You must rely on somebody else to take away the scales, break them under foot, and say that you are good enough just as you are.”

Adrud looked at Clementia; the desperate pleading in her face, the gentle but firm touch in her fingers, and the defiant steadfastness of her stance over the scales.  “Does she have devotees?”

“Absolutely.  Come, I’ll introduce you to some of your brothers and sisters.”


make me choose

itisanews0undtrack asked: rory/jess or rory/dean

anonymous asked: luke/lorelai or rory/jess

The Devil’s Bite

I finished the first chapter of my vigilante au fic for Long Exposure!  You can find it on AO3 Here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10546786

Brief summary:  Slightly older Mitjo stumble upon their powers in a similar way but separately, they haven’t seen each other since middle school, Mitch never moved back.  After months, getting used to their powers, the two take very… very different paths, and are on the road to clashing, it’s inevitable… just like the enemies to lovers resolution i love planned! 


Funny Quotes on Music

From cmuse.org. Enjoy!

  1. “A composer is a guy who goes around forcing his will on unsuspecting air molecules, often with the assistance of unsuspecting musicians. — Frank Zappa
  2. “I want to do a musical movie. Like Evita, but with good music.” — Elton John
  3. “Music is moonlight in the gloomy night of life.” — Jean Paul
  4. “Talking about music is like dancing about architecture.” — Steve Martin
  5. “A gentleman is someone who can play the accordion, but doesn’t.” — Tom Waits
  6. “I don’t deserve a Songwriters Hall of Fame Award. But fifteen years ago, I had a brain operation and I didn’t deserve that, either. So I’ll keep it.” — Quincy Jones
  7. “The musician is perhaps the most modest of animals, but he is also the proudest. It is he who invented the sublime art of ruining poetry.” — Erik Satie
  8. “All the good music has already been written by people with wigs and stuff.” — Frank Zappa
  9. “To achieve great things, two things are needed: a plan and not quite enough time.” — Leonard Bernstein
  10. “I’ve been imitated so well I’ve heard people copy my mistakes.” — Jimi Hendrix
  11. “My personal hobbies are reading, listening to music, and silence.” — Edith Sitwell
  12. “I can’t listen to that much Wagner. I start getting the urge to conquer Poland.” — Woody Allen
  13. “Life can’t be all bad when for ten dollars you can buy all the Beethoven sonatas and listen to them for ten years.” — William F. Buckley, Jr.
  14. “Beethoven’s last quartets were written by a deaf man and should only be listened to by a deaf man.” — Thomas Beecham
  15. “The world must be filled with unsuccessful musical careers like mine, and it’s probably a good thing. We don’t need a lot of bad musicians filling the air with unnecessary sounds. Some of the professionals are bad enough.” — Andy Rooney
  16. “Andrew Lloyd Webber’s music is everywhere, but so is AIDS.” — Malcolm Williamson
  17. “All music is folk music. I ain’t never heard a horse sing a song.” — Louis Armstrong
  18. “Money doesn’t talk, it swears.” ― Bob Dylan
  19. “Competitions are for horses, not artists.” — Bela Bartok
  20. “When an instrument fails on stage it mocks you and must be destroyed!” ― Trent Reznor
  21. “I never had much interest in the piano until I realized that every time I played, a girl would appear on the piano bench to my left and another to my right.” — Duke Ellington
  22. “Let me be clear about this: I don’t have a drug problem, I have a police problem.” — Keith Richards
  23. “When I was a little boy, I told my dad, ‘When I grow up, I want to be a musician.’ My dad said: ‘You can’t do both, Son.” — Chet Atkins
  24. “I don’t like country music, but I don’t mean to denigrate those who do. And for the people who like country music, denigrate means ‘put down’.”— Bob Newhart
  25. “Music makes one feel so romantic – at least it always gets on one’s nerves – which is the same thing nowadays.” —Oscar Wilde
  26. “I know [canned music] makes chickens lay more eggs and factory workers produce more. But how much more can they get out of you on an elevator?” — Victor Borge
  27. “It’s easy to play any musical instrument: all you have to do is touch the right key at the right time and the instrument will play itself.” — Johann Sebastian Bach
  28. “Rock ‘n’ roll will never die. There’ll always be some arrogant little brat who wants to make music with a guitar.” — Dave Edmunds
  29. “I stole everything I ever heard, but mostly I stole from the horns.” — Ella Fitzgerald
  30. “Get up from that piano. You hurtin’ its feelings.” — Jelly Roll Morton
  31. “To listen is an effort, and just to hear is no merit. A duck hears also.” — Igor Stravinsky
  32. “To get your playing more forceful, hit the drums harder.” — Keith Moon
  33. “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words.” — Victor Hugo
  34. “Jazz will endure just as long people hear it through their feet instead of their brains.” — John Philip Sousa
  35. “We consider that any man who can fiddle all through one of those Virginia Reels without losing his grip may be depended upon in any kind of musical emergency.” — Mark Twain
  36. “Sometimes we pee on each other before we go on stage.” — Trent Reznor
  37. “Dogs smoke in France. “— Ozzy Osbourne
  38. “Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.” — Maya Angelou
  39. “Nothing soothes me more after a long and maddening course of pianoforte recitals than to sit and have my teeth drilled.” — George Bernard Shaw
  40. “In order to compose, all you need to do is remember a tune that nobody else has thought of.” — Robert Schumann
  41. “I think John would have liked Free As A Bird. In fact, I hope somebody does this to all my crap demos when I’m dead, making them into hit songs.” — George Harrison
  42. “Nothing separates the generations more than music. By the time a child is eight or nine, he has developed a passion for his own music that is even stronger than his passions for procrastination and weird clothes.” — Bill Cosby
  43. “One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.” — Bob Marley
  44. “The piano has been drinking, not me.” — Tom Waits
  45. “Classical music is the kind we keep thinking will turn into a tune.” — Kin Hubbard
  46. “There are some experiences in life which should not be demanded twice from any man, and one of them is listening to the Brahms Requiem.” — George Bernard Shaw
  47. “Wagner’s music is better than it sounds.” — Mark Twain
  48. “In the end we’re all Jerry Springer Show guests, really, we just haven’t been on the show.” — Marilyn Manson
  49. “Rock journalism is people who can’t write interviewing people who can’t talk in order to provide articles for people who can’t read.” — Frank Zappa
  50. “Too many pieces of music finish too long after the end.” — Igor Stravinsky
  51. “There are two golden rules for an orchestra: start together and finish together. The public doesn’t give a damn what goes on in between.” — Thomas Beecham
  52. “Lesser artists borrow, great artists steal.” — Igor Stravinsky
  53. “There’s nothing like the eureka moment of knocking off a song that didn’t exist before – I won’t compare it to sex, but it lasts longer.” — Paul McCartney
  54. “Do I listen to pop music because I’m miserable or am I miserable because listen to pop music?” — John Cusack
  55. “Last night at Carnegie Hall, Jack Benny played Mendelssohn. Mendelssohn lost.” — Harold C. Schonberg
  56. “Beethoven always sounds to me like the upsetting of a bag of nails, with here and there an also dropped hammer.” — John Ruskin
  57. “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” — Friedrich Nietzsche
  58. “I smash guitars because I like them.” — Pete Townshend
  59. “I once sent him a song and asked him to mark a cross wherever he thought it was faulty. Brahms returned it untouched, saying ‘I don’t want to make a cemetery of your compositions.’ ” — Hugo Wolf
  60. “I love Wagner, but the music I prefer is that of a cat hung up by its tail outside a window and trying to stick to the panes of glass with its claws.” — Charles-Pierre Baudelaire