Cry your grief to God. Howl to the heavens. Tear your shirt. Your hair. Your flesh. Gouge your eyes. Carve out your heart. And what will you get from Him? Only Silence. Indifference.
Through all this horror my cat stalked unperturbed. Once I saw him monstrously perched atop a mountain of bones, and wondered at the secrets that might lie behind his yellow eyes.
Her eyes narrowed, but she wasn't yelling. I think she liked me... kind of. The way a mother would like an annoying spastic two year old who belonged to someone else.
He sits next to me, the veins on his neck and arms seeming more prominent than they did earlier. His mouth compresses, igniting his eyes with esoteric light, pulling me into the magnetic undertow.
His eyes are piercing and intense, the stare they give me brimming with threat and interest, folding thick arms over a broad chest, rippling the muscles in his forearms and etching the tattoos down his arms into stark highlight.
The dragons live in the casino? Tee's eyes widened and alarm coursed through her. My God, it's like the Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Very helpful, I must say. Look at them in the eye and shout, and they understand every word..." (Mr. Warbeck in Sienna, talking about local Italians.)
Banned and lionised by drunken cactuses, eternally sanguine in black and white, raw like the majestic sex on her ruby red deathswoman mouth, silver-coated terror in her eyes.
True worship comes when we learn to close our eyes and focus only on Him.
Aubrey, crouching on a nearby counter, watched me with squinty eyes, apparently pondering why anyone would willingly immerse themselves in water ever, let alone for extended periods of time.
We're going to the Underworld," Izzy said. She bounced a little as she said it, her eyes bright and her tone implying that "the Underworld" was akin to "Candy Land.
Think of me that way," he continued. A slight shimmer glinted acrosse his eyes. "In a sense, I'm giving my life for those...I care about. A sacrifice you might say.
... and all we knew about her that we didn't know the night before was that she had eyes like pansies and skin like the moon.
One woman is smirking, and another is averting her eyes with disinterest. It’s just like what happens when I bring up politics with strangers.
I remember the fire, it burns bright, always around me. I close my eyes, and tears stream out. The tides of the past seize me, bear me out to sea.
They too, knew this beautiful and harrowing landscape; they'd had the same experience of looking up from their books with fifth-century eyes and finding the world disconcertingly sluggish and alien, as if it were not their home.
We don’t know anything about silent sages, buried knowledge, the eye of the mute poet, serene seers, yet how many talkative destroyers, prophets and ideologues, teachers and beautifiers there are on the other side.
When someone points out your past mistakes, look at them dead in the eyes and follow with, 'and I’d do it all again to have the life I have now.
But of bliss and glad life there is little to be said, before it ends; as works fair and wonderful, while they still endure for eyes to see, are ever their own record, and only when they are in peril or broken for ever do they pass into song.
Look up, greet sparks of fire with salted eyes, For he’s a burning atmospheric sigh: One blaze of liquid flame on midnight sky, Soft orbital decay, and last goodbye.
She blows a heavy breath, her eyes so full of tears that if she blinked, they'd fall. And then she does. She blinks. They fall. I break. - Cam
