I don't want to be buried in the ground, rotting, with all those worms. What I would love is to have my body dropped where you have those big icebergs and the water is so cold and pure, to be eaten by a polar bear or a seal or an otter.
His scent engulfed me - fresh night air and evergreen. I buried my face in the hollow beneath his jaw as he shoved his Light into me- a terrible force of the sort I'd never imagined, hungry for distraction, intoxicating to the point of addiction.
Then the truth began to reveal itself, as it always does. truth seeks the light of day,needs it just like we need air, and so it finds ways to seep out of the sturdiest. most skillfully hidden boxes--even those buried deeply in the hearts of the dead...
Gorgeous George: Get back down or you will not be coming up next time. [watches as Mickey warms up] Gorgeous George: Oh, bollocks to you. This is sick. I'm out of here. Mickey: You're not going anywhere, you thick lump. [Pulls off his shirt] Mickey: ...
Andy Dufresne: Red. If you ever get out of here, do me a favor. Red: Sure, Andy. Anything. Andy Dufresne: There's a big hayfield up near Buxton. You know where Buxton is? Red: Well, there's... there's a lot of hayfields up there. Andy Dufresne: One i...
..if you could forget mortality... You could really believe that time is circular, and not linear and progressive as our culture is bent on proving. Seen in geological perspective, we are fossils in the making, to be buried and eventually exposed aga...
Buried deep within each one of us lies a treasure. It is our mission in this lifetime to find this treasure, but its exact location is known only by the dragon that guards it.
To feel physically comfortable with someone else's body is not a decision you make. It has very little thing to do with how two people think or act or talk or even look. The mysterious magnet is either there, buried somewhere deep behind the sternum,...
There are still Ava Maddoxes to find and sets to create and girls to kiss and colleges to attend. It's possible that someday I will hear a patsy Cline song and the heartbreak will barely register. It will be some distant, buried feeling. I won't reme...
(Witness also that when we talk about literature, we do so in the present tense. When we speak of the dead, we are not so kind.) You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect.
Conner hadn’t liked leaving the gravesite with his father still not buried. But he’d learned from his grandmother’s funeral that you have to go. It’s expected. Nobody hangs around the cemetary. Grief—a little or a lot—is tucked into your ...
We demand that sex speak the truth [...] and we demand that it tell us our truth, or rather, the deeply buried truth of that truth about ourselves wich we think we possess in our immediate consciousness.
That’s when I realized that certain moments go on forever. Even after they’re over they still go on, even after you're dead and buried, those moments are lasting still, backward and forward, on into infinity. They are everything and everywhere al...
A blanket could be used to keep your body warm. After all, your body starts cooling off rapidly once you die. But don’t worry, I’ll bury you someplace quiet, someplace sacred, someplace so secret the cops will never think to look there.
Izzy. My sister. She told me you liked me. me, liked me.” “ you, liked you?” Magnus buried his grin in the cat’s fur. “Sorry. Are we twelve now? I don’t recall saying anything to Isabelle . . .
The worker picked up Pakhom’s spade, dug a grave, and buried him - six feet from head to heel, exactly the amount of land a man needs.
Talking to strangers sounded like talking to no one, which Henry had some firsthand experience in- in real life. It was lonely. Almost as lonely as Lake View Cemetery, where he'd buried Ethel.
She said that one day they would be very old, that the world would be a different place, but it would always be their world, and that the time apart now would be a nightmare from which they would recover - desperation buried under years of happiness.
Jack’s face was now buried in his hands, his elbows still on his knees, and he hunched as he fisted his hair. “Ezra?” Evidence of his anguish to come was unmistakable in the catch of his voice. Ezra’s was solid. “Yes?” “Don’t let me k...
What killed people wasn't a bullet, a blade, a fist to the face. What killed people was a feeling. Left too long. Sometimes in the cold, frozen. Sometimes buried and fetid. And sometimes on the shores of a lake, isolated. Left to grow old, and odd.
I can't understand why dark northern soldiers and light ones are seperated into different brigades. The dead are all buried together in hasty mass graves, bones touching.
