Last night you sat there singing to me 'nothing to hide, believe what I say' and not ten hours later you're standin' in front of me lyin
In a world where thrushes sing and willow trees are golden in the spring, boredom should have been included among the seven deadly sins.
If I could tell you about Red I would sing to you of fire Sweet like cherries Burning like cinnamon Smelling like a rose in the sun
A bird cried jubilation. In that moment they lived long. All minor motions were stilled and only the great ones were perceived. Beneath them the earth turned, singing.
The Motion Picture Association of America wipes the sweat off its brow and sings the PG-13 song.
I enjoyed writing. Perhaps it was because I hardly heard the sound of my own voice. My written words were my voice, speaking, singing, ... I was there on the page
Come on, this is a real adventure I have here, screamed Mikolay again, this time more impatiently.I think someone is singing inside the wardrobe. Can you hear that?
I sit in my tree I sing like the birds My beak is my pen My songs are my poems.
There are any number of magical creatures, mostly female, whose singing can bring about horror and death. Sirens, undines, banshees, Bananarama tribute bands...
Night is the sleep of seven wax moths Dawn is the singing of five mermaids Noon is the scratching of three field mice Dusk is the shadow of a crow
And at night, when it breathes delicately from silence - I love listening to your voice. It is like a heavenly graceful singing of thousands of stars.
I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
We be light, we be life, we be fire! We sing electric flame, we rumble underground wind, we dance heaven! Come be we and be free!
Don’t be stupider than you need to be, I remind myself. Remember Calease? The last glowing girl you talked to tried to kill you.
My gaze lands on the digital clock on my nightstand as it flicks to 12:01 AM. Hours spent in Orane’s world, and one minute has passed in mine.
Old friend,' said Cadvan, filling another glass for himself and sniffing its rich smell. 'If we do not trust one another, we are already defeated.
Everyone calls him Blockhead No one sings his praises Or takes him to heart... That is the kind of person I want to be
All things are within the Circle. That is the very Center of what we believe. If all things are not enclosed, then there is no Circle.
He said he preferred to feel the earth sing through his feet, and that shoes stopped you from hearing the song of the earth.
Because all the brilliant ones- they can sing it and they can paint it, but they can't do it. You can't expect them to love you.
The crushed teapot in the rubbish of the bulldozed house will sing in your ears forever.
