Writing is like breathing, it's possible to learn to do it well, but the point is to do it no matter what.
Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.
For the shortest time, shorter than the shortest secon'd breath, you get to stand up to infinity. But eventually, and always, infinity wins.
I sat down at the table, took a deep breath, smiled at Detective Masterson, and nodded at Deputy Slalom. It was going to be a great summer. Normal.
Speech is the resuscitation breath for living corpses and the water of life for those who want to live forever.
When indeed it is in God we live, and move, and have our being. We cannot draw a breath without his help.
One day you do meet a man who kisses you and you can't breathe around it and you realize you don't need air.
making the most of every second, because seconds became minute sand minutes became precious when life could be taken in less than a breath.
Love is not a verb. Love is a noun. Love’s activity is people breathing, cells dividing, a dove taking a flight. This grammar of life not all can see.
I pause to catch my breath, looking around at all the toys he's paid for and never once enjoyed with his son.
The world of literature is a sacred mirror that shows not the reality around us but the dreams and fears that reality stimulates: It’s not where we live, but life itself.
I was dead unit you found me, though I breathed. I was sightless, though I could see. And then you came...and I was awakened.
Just because he's a spider doesn't mean he deserves any less concern!
The difference between the quest for the Holy Grail and someone saying ‘bring me a cup’ is the flavor text and the number of stops involved.
An oppressive odor of decay now mingled with the stench of mold and seemed to clutch at the very breath in their lungs.
One deep breath, one last step and out into oblivion where death held out its arms into a welcoming embrace.
Life is wonderful. It's a gift to be alive, to see the sun and breathe the air. And there isn't really anything else.
The train blows through town delivering reality, slapping my face and screaming, “You are alone” Rose colored memories drown, taking their last breath.
from the prose poem "The Universe Thrums on regardless" in my book SPAN. We are almost nothing in the night. Reduced to warm blobs and the sound of breathing. There is comfort in that.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
My heart was full of softening showers, I used to swing like this for hours, I did not care for war or death, I was glad to draw my breath.
