If Christ is the head of the church and we are the body, lets be disciples who master the noise.
Have you ever started to wave at someone and then realized they weren’t really waving at you, so you abort and go for a head scratch instead? That’s how I felt.
You are not dead, until every person who knew you is dead as well." Where did I hear that? It doesn't matter. There is a village in my head.
I bet there are a lot of women out there who want to sleep with a guy who reads. And being the head of the reading foundation, I’m very well endowed.
Wait. . are they really going to—” “Head butt each other until one passes out or dies of blood on the brain? Yep. They really are.” “And they protect our queen and lands. How reassuring.
Too much sun after a Syracuse winter does strange things to your head, makes you feel strong, even if you aren't.
I let my face go blank and nodded slowly. "Yes. The trolls. Back. With me. Cannot form. Complete sentences." I shook my head. "Yeah, so not happening.
Finally, mercifully, the spasms subsided, as the old man’s head lolled back, his mouth hanging open, taking in deep, ragged breaths of stale, recirculated air.
This was the start of a period that blurs as I try to recall it. Incidents seem to cascade and merge. Events become feelings, fellings become events. Head and heart are contrary historians.
If I could explain a head in a barrel to the King, he thought, I can explain a man in a tanpit to a Bishop. But I'd sooner be more certain of the facts.
Maria, groaning for scraps, would drape his head on my feet as I ate, trying to camouflage himself as my napkin or the rug.
I don’t want any other girl.” He shook his head and took a step closer, cupping my face in his hands. “I belong with you and you belong with me.
The head has no answers, and the heart has no questions, Jack would say." Quoting his teacher and good friend Jack Kakakaway
We start our lives with blues . . . with music. It's our first language. It's the rhythm of the womb. It's your mama's heartbeat inside your head.
Yeah, but will it hurt?”’ I asked. “This is science, Zach,” Randy said, reassuringly, as he tilted my head back and lowered the lens to my eye. “Of course it will hurt.
The duchess turned on Eugène with one of those insolent stares that envelop a man from head to foot, flatten him out, and leave him at zero.
Okay. You’re the best Apollyon there is.” He tipped his head to the side and arched a brow. “I’m the only Apollyon there is right now.” I grinned. “You’re still the best.
8. The Cat Who Lived in the Palace The cat who lived in the Palace had been awarded the head-dress of nobility and was called Lady Myobu.
I shake my head. "Remember, Mother. There are no mistakes." She smiles through her tears, leaning in to kiss my cheek "No mistakes, my angel.
Joy, joy, joy! Past ages crowd on thee, but each one remembers, And the future is dark, and the present is spread, Like a pillow of thorns for thy slumberless head.
To stop us reading forbidden books they will have to burn every manuscript. But to stop us thinking forbidden thoughts they will have to cut off our heads.
