The fruits of every laborer are bountiful, ripe and sweet just as the laborer’s input. The laws of compensation do not allow one to have a bumper harvest against poor sowing and maintenance… If you want a good opportunity you must be willing to put input which is beyond the opportunity demands going the extra mile. Dont play your self , you must go the extra mile

The fruits of every laborer are bountiful, ripe and sweet just as the laborer's input. The laws of compensation do not allow one to have a bumper harvest against poor sowing and maintenance... If you want a good opportunity you must be willing to put input which is beyond the opportunity demands going the extra mile. Dont play your self , you must go the extra mile

The fruits of every laborer are bountiful, ripe and sweet just as the laborer’s input. The laws of compensation do not allow one to have a bumper harvest against poor sowing and maintenance… If you want a good opportunity you must be willing to put input which is beyond the opportunity demands going the extra mile. Dont play your self , you must go the extra mile (Tare Munzara)

I wasn’t aware that was how I felt, either, until it was out. And now that I’ve said it like that, I’m not exactly sure it is how I feel. But this isn’t a piece of paper I can crumple up and throw away. they aren’t words I can cross out to start over. Now they’re out, and I know they’ll hang here, between us, maybe forever

I wasn't aware that was how I felt, either, until it was out. And now that I've said it like that, I'm not exactly sure it is how I feel. But this isn't a piece of paper I can crumple up and throw away. they aren't words I can cross out to start over. Now they're out, and I know they'll hang here, between us, maybe forever

I wasn’t aware that was how I felt, either, until it was out. And now that I’ve said it like that, I’m not exactly sure it is how I feel. But this isn’t a piece of paper I can crumple up and throw away. they aren’t words I can cross out to start over. Now they’re out, and I know they’ll hang here, between us, maybe forever (Terra Elan McVoy, Being Friends with Boys)