This is how you end up at The New York Post or the Committee on Social Thought, wondering where the parties went.
He blushes at the thought, wondering how little Ari Feinberg had ever become Allen Fein, Esq., in fancy oxblood wing tips.
The crowd will swell, the standard will rise, and one day a bunch of people will be watching the game without a second thought, wondering what we were fussing about, saying it was always destined to end up here.
I don't know anyone, even the biggest supporter of the arts, who hasn't in the quiet of his own thoughts, wondered if the fifty bucks he just donated to a local theater group might have been better spent buying a homeless person a couple of meals.
I absolutely agree that the popular technology of our era has crippled our ability to simply be -- to let our thoughts wonder, to make conversation with the person next to us, to be alone with ourselves.
My heart in my throat a sliver of my inner thoughts wondering if maybe I'm wrong and she's right—I decide to switch doctors, again (doctor-hopping, it's a code!).
I did my best to correct that thought, and wondered where I had failed her.
In the seventeenth century, European philosophers like Francis Bacon, René Descartes, and Gottfried Leibniz were fascinated by the ways in which natural languages clouded human thought, and wondered if an artificial substitute could more accurately capture the true essence of things.
After having these thoughts, I wondered at how fortunate I was to be accepted by such as a wonderful place.
