I have this really big face.
I was not a big comic-book reader.
I want a big church wedding.
The world is sick of big IT things that don't work.
I had to break up with Medusa. I just got sick of buying mice for her hair. I should have ended it sooner, but you try looking into those eyes.
In The Land of Poetry and Fighting, Efficiency rules the throne. I try to live here, so I shave my head because hair is dead and dead is inefficient.
Not enough," he said, letting her hair slip through his fingers. "If I kiss you all day, everyday, for the rest of my life, it won't be enough.
And then there was Lydia. Lydia who had hurtled into his life – into lives – with hair like fire, eyes like amethysts and a fuck-me scent so palpable that he’d betrayed the only woman he’d ever loved.
You yank my hair back even harder, creating a sudden hurt which nearly topples me over the edge of the precipice. “Look at me whilst you beg me, little one…
Tell her that you love her hair, that you love her skin, her lips, because, in truth, you love them more than you love your own.
Is she a good baby? People would ask me. Well, no, I'd say. That swirl of hair on the back of her head. We must have taken a thousand pictures of it.
He won't be one of those girlishly pretty men with curly gold hair...He'll be dark, dangerous, too. Brave, certainly, but not without flaws. I like my heroes human.
You know, darlin’, on the one hand you’re so damned feisty. And believe me; I like that in a woman. But, on the other…” he said, crossing to her and gently stroking her hair, “…you’re so damned shy.
Black funeral dress. Black heels. Black headband in my hair. Death has a style all it's own. I'm glad I don't have to wear it very often.
Shane kissed her one more time, lightly and softly, and fluffed her hair back from her face. “To be continued,” he said. “I hate cliff-hangers.” “Blame Eve.
She slid her fingers into his thick hair and melted while he kissed her as if there were no tomorrow. He tempted, he seduced, he enticed. And she willingly followed.
The throbbing shimmy spread through my hips and thighs. I could have sworn my body started to glow as if light were shooting from my fingertips and each strand of hair.
Let…it…go,” he whispers, his voice a fierce, harsh sound in my hair. “No. No!” The last word is screamed. “You have to. You can’t bleed it out. You can’t keep pretending, drinking it down.
Tell them there are no holes for your fingers in the masks of men. Tell them how could you ever even hope to love what you can't grab onto.
I had no contacts in, no make-up on, my hair was a frizzy state, my bum was on show for the whole world to see and, for the I also happened to be hanging upside-down from a tree.
Any curly-haired boy can write windswept ballads. You have to crush people's heads. That's the only way to make those fuckers listen.
