So when? You know things are moving. You’re changing, your fellow Dead are changing, the world is ready for something miraculous. What are we waiting for?
My friend "M" says the irony of being a zombie is that everything is funny, but you can't smile, because your lips have rotted off.
We are beautiful because we are sons and daughters of God, not because we look a certain way.
You should always be taking pictures, if not with a camera then with your mind. Memories you capture on purpose are always more vivid than the ones you pick up by accident.
The really essential factors of success in any undertaking are money and opportunity, and as a rule, the man who can make the first can make the second.
Music? Music is life! It’s physical emotion - you can touch it! It’s neon ecto-energy sucked out of spirits and switched into sound waves for your ears to swallow.
What's wrong with people?" she says, almost too quiet for me to hear. "Were they born with parts missing or did it fall out somewhere along the way?
I wish I could read what she's written there. Instead, I pretend the letters are stars. The words, constellations.
The burning red taste of blood floods my mouth. The sparkle of life sprays out of his cells like citrus mist from an orange peel, and I suck it in.
Are we all just Dark Age doctors, swearing by our leeches? We crave a greater science. We want to be proven wrong.
LORD ILLINGWORTH: The soul is born old but grows young. That is the comedy of life. MRS ALLONBY: And the body is born young and grows old. That is life's tragedy.
Men say they know many things; But lo! they have taken wings, — The arts and sciences, And a thousand appliances; The wind that blows Is all that any body knows
In working-class France, when an apprentice got hurt, or when he got tired, the experienced workers said "It is the trade entering his body.
For lunch, we drove into the hills and parked in the dappled shade of a big sycamore, its powdery white bark like a woman's body against the uncanny blue sky.
When I die, remember to remove my body from the cooler before you start making the hunch punch. But by all means, do get drunk on my memory.
If you try to buy my body, I’ll sell you my shadow. My shadow would make a great day laborer, because it’s solar powered.
When you're writing a whodunit, the dead body is the most important character. It's the pivot point around which the plot spins.
I admit, that the brain does not govern the body as well as one might wish- else all men would be saints and hell would be empty of lechers.
Yoga is not a religion. It is a science, science of well-being, science of youthfulness, science of integrating body, mind and soul.
I’d use my shadow as a blanket, but it’s too cold. It’s a shame, because it’d fit snuggly over my body.
What is man’s shared IQ? And more important, how thick should my body armor be to protect myself against it?
