Mystery is just another name for superstition. I don’t understand how you, such an intelligent human being, can’t see that.
I wake up to Mystery and I spend my day in Mystery and I fall asleep to Mystery. Mystery is Beauty and Meaning.
Wait, aren’t you even going to try to define Mystery?
I fear Mystery. I can’t explain it.
It’s a well-known fact that there are four types of Mystery: existential, psychological, situational, and biological.
In Septuagint the word Mystery meant “secret counsel of God.” In Vulgate it was translated as sacramentum.
Oh yeah, I love a good Mystery. I’m always dying to find out who killed the stupid idiot.
I don’t understand the first thing about mathematics. It’s a Mystery.
Mystery is First and Last, Alpha and Omega, Yin and Yang, Heaven and Earth.
Take the Mystery out of it, and all the fun is gone.
Mystery gives, and Mystery takes away. We don’t know why, and we can’t know why.
There’s mystery, and then there’s Mystery. Don’t confuse the two.