Well, I can throw a mean comeback, so there's that. I will crush them on wit.
In real life, you don't get a reset, and you don't get extra lives, and I got the crap pounded out of me.
I feel like I'm some kind of fugitive here, like I'm hiding from something. Maybe myself.
Here's a tip...If you leave a girl crying you're probably not doing your Don Juan routine right, asshole.
...freshly cut Christmas trees smelling of stars and snow and pine resin - inhale deeply and fill your soul with wintry night...
...I hear the sounds of melting snow outside my window every night and with the first faint scent of spring, I remember life exists...
...my dreams are tangled in images of stars and clouds and firelight - we go camping at night - it's my lucid dream of being with you...
...some nights I'd sneak out and listen to the radio in my Dad's old Chevy - children need solitude - they don't teach that in school...
The stars sparkled above the mist shrouded tents and caravans of the carnival. The night crackled with an odd vibration, as if a veil of peculiarity settled over the company.
But it was too late. I was down the steps and out the door, where the warm night air almost felt like forgiveness.
I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others--young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.
Scoot over, man. I don't like you that much." "Dick. That's not what you said last night." "Bite me.
Springtime blooms the starry tree Bearing fruit the mariners see. High by night and low by dawn The silver apple guides us home.
On a cloudless night, inky dark, with only a rind of a moon above, the Golem and the Jinni went walking together along the Prince Street rooftops.
Let come the forces of night! We will stand!" "We will get the hell out of here is what we will do," I muttered.
If last night proved anything, it's that life is a strong drink served up in an extremely short - and fragile - shot glass.
Father Sams, a mirthful shaman, looked at a nighted photograph of actress Lar Park Lincoln beneath his glass of bourbon con hielo.
I went to the little window and inhaled the country air. One could hear the breathing of the night, feminine, enormous. ("The Blue Bouquet")
You climbed into my window in the middle of the night. So, either you're some kind of Vampire or some kind of Perv. Which is it?
Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the ice weasels come.
A blanket could be used as a Portable Night Generator. Just stretch it over your head, blocking your eyes from the sun in the sky, and voila! Nighttime.
