I had a dream about you last night. It wasn't until after you sold me the talking car, I realized you were the world’s best ventriloquist.
I had a dream about you last night. We moved into a cabin in the countryside. I couldn't handle the spiders. You couldn't handle my drama. I moved back to the city.
I had a dream about you last night... you were crying over spilt ink screaming "the words, the what could have been beautiful words.
I had a dream about you. You were wearing Sylvester Stallone's sneer as pants, but his lips were saggy on your legs, so you had to wear a mustache as a belt.
Journalists justify their treachery in various ways according to their temperaments. The more pompous talk about freedom of speech and "the public's right to know"; the least talented talk about Art; the seemliest murmur about earning a living.
I feel something familiar about this place. This house…” I dragged out a hand and gestured towards it with my thumb. “I dream about it. I’ve been dreaming about it for years. Being in it.” I had her attention. “With you.
She realized it wasn't about the wedding; it was about the marriage. Her. Him. Together. She got married barefoot because all she cared about was him. That guy. And the throw-up shoes weren't going to stop that from happening.
If you also thinks it means I wake up every morning wondering what I did to deserve having you back in my life, well, you'd be right about that too.
This is about more." He arched, tilting a little. Billy set the weight swinging again. "Tell me what it's about." "Uh... It's... I... It's about everything. It's like you're inside me, like my bones.
And this evening when I close my eyes against the darkness and think about her, I'll imagine iridescent wings fluttering, if only for a moment, against cloudless blue skies.
Not only did I lie about lying, but I lied about lying about lying. And you’d better believe that’s the truth.
Success is not about your techniques, it’s not solely about the wisdom or the knowledge you have, it’s about your mindset and your actions.
If men only felt about death as they do about sleep, all terrors would cease. . . Men sleep contentedly, assured that they will wake the following morning. They should feel the same about their lives.
She wondered if she had grown obsessed with sex. She admitted to thinking about it almost all the time. ... "And if I'm not thinking about sex, I'm thinking about death," she added bitterly. "Sometimes both at the same time.
Never mind your intentions. Communication is about what others hear with your words.
But I was beginning to intuit that full-blown maturity was not so very different from childhood. Both states in their extreme were all about following the rules.
I had a dream about you. You told me my eyes were as pretty & blue as Windex. That was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me before.
I had a dream about you. I was a cat. You were a red dot. And even those times I caught you, we couldn't touch. But still I chased you anyway.
I had a dream about you. We sold love like a couple of roadside lemonade-stand vendors. Your love was organic, and mine was made with yellow tennis balls.
I had a dream about you. We were riding a beam of light to the edge of the galaxy. Then my flashlight battery went dead and Stephen Hawking’s robot voice said “game over.
I had a dream about you coming up with non sequiturs. You were a purple giraffe and I was an orange rhino. But we were eating liquid skittles.
