I just invented a new light that shuts off automatically when an ugly person walks in the room. Guaranteed to help them get laid. Darkness is the great equalizer. Blind and Deaf Magazine called my product, “Helen Kelleresque.
If you see me sitting at a dining room table with a clean plate and bowl in front of me, you’ll know it’s because I’m a starving artist. I’m also thirsty, as my cup is also empty.
Sin is a power; wherever it is given room, it will grow in strength, and it will take you where you do not want to go.
Together, in that room, our childhood notions of love melted away. We discovered love was not a fairytale. Sometimes there were no happy endings, and when there were, you needed to work like hell to keep the happiness alive.
Those teetering on madness hold keys to doors you know nothing about. You must ask yourself if these rooms are worth visiting—if in the end life would have made more sense having been in them.
Why is erasing desire seen as so important? If the subjugation of the self is the point of the self what's the point in having a self? It's like someone handing you a leaflet which says throw this leaflet away.
The landscape is best described as 'pedestrian hostile.' It's pointless to try to take a walk, so I generally just stay in the room and think about shooting myself in the head.
What have you done to your hair?” Mom’s broken voice said, pinning me back to this tiny hospital room. “Holy shit!” Icka patted her head as if searching. “You think the nurse stole it? She looked shady.
The kitchen of the Big House was always one of my favorite places. Airy and sunny. No modern cabinets or anything like that. Just a room full of windows, set into wise, worn walls.
If you were truly 'here for me,' you would have a Kahlua in one hand and Henry Cavill's number in the other. Since I'm not having drunken phone sex with Superman, there must be another reason you're darkening my living room.
If you want to write fiction, the best thing you can do is take two aspirins, lie down in a dark room, and wait for the feeling to pass.
If books could have more, give more, be more, show more, they would still need readers who bring to them sound and smell and light and all the rest that can’t be in books. The book needs you.
I dressed to their murmurs in the other room, their voices soft but strained, and I wondered if men ever talked like this, if their sorrows ever spilled into these secret cadences.
I can smell a whisper from two secret admirers away. Of all the Men’s rooms, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into this one.
I don’t mind waiting rooms. I’m waiting on the love of my life, so I may as well have a seat, right?
Losing someone is like when the sun comes through a window, moving across the room with each hour, until night falls and all you can do is try to remember the soothing shapes it made.
Everyone lies about writing. They lie about how easy it is or how hard it was. They perpetuate a romantic idea that writing is some beautiful experience that takes place in an architectural room filled with leather novels and chai tea.
Reading Shakespeare is sometimes like looking through a window into a dark room. You don't see in. You see nothing but a reflection of yourself unable to see in. An unflattering image of yourself blind.
I told her she should come back to my place because it’d just won sixth place in the Living Room Olympics, and sixth place is like double bronze.
Blood began to flow, at first cautiously, as if embarrassed by its appearance; a few thin red lines exploring the gravitational trajectory of its new terrain. Now it flowed faster, steadily staining her pale flesh a horrific red.
He turned and saw Becky, crying in the doorway of her house. What was he doing here? Turning back he saw flashing blue lights at the end of the road, and realised the ringing in his ears was the sound of approaching sirens.
