Her own misery filled her heart—there was no room in it for other people's sorrow.
When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred.
Danger, like a third man, was standing in the room.
It was a room full of ghosts, arranged in readiness for days that would never happen.
(Jeez, get a locked room on unsanctified ground, you two.)
She was made for untidy rooms and rumpled beds.
The malpractice for advice-giving is like five times as much as a craniotomy.
Maybe Cubism started this way. Memory re-arranging a face.
Safe, I decided, didn't leave much room for fun.
The whole room said, "Admire without touching anything and then get out.
Great. I'd been dumped in Hell's waiting room.
He would die in this room, buried alive by the weight of his life.
Nearly all men have weak hearts, in one way or another.
Sometimes I think my writing sounds like I walked out of the room and left the typewriter running.
99 percent of what you see is not what comes in through the eyes. It is what you infer about that room.
I'll put candles all over the room, then light then, and get to it. I call it my 'vibe in a bag.'
when you create a lifestyle from a dream, you provide no room left; for failure.
Nothing replaces being in the same room, face-to-face, breathing the same air and reading and feeling each other's micro-expressions.
There isn't much room for an outsider point of view in print any more.
One good thing about lovers is that they don't take up much room on public transport.
As a woman, I find it very embarrassing to be in a meeting and realize I'm the only one in the room with balls.