If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.
Then he told Perry that love was like the waves in the sea, gentle and good sometimes, rough and terrible at others, but that it was endless and stronger than the sky and the earth and everything in between.
Morning coffee is my preferred method of starting my evening. I make love all the time half the time. That half is night. Wake me up when it’s ready.
There was an eerie quiet about last night, like death sleeping on the beach of Lake Erie. I woke up with sand in my shoes and tiny coffins on my feet.
I've never been in love. I've dreamt of it day and night, but my heart is like a fine piano no one can play because the key is lost.
I cleaned out my belly button last night, and I found the meaning of life. Gosh, I wonder how long it’s been hidden there.
Last night your thin walls invited me to the party next door / reminded me I am a quiet person in a quiet life.
You know, a cell phone's like a guy; if you don't plug him in every night, charge him good, you got nothing at all.
The night before I’m murdered,” said the voice over in my head, “will be at noon.” I’d better write and mail all my love letters in my mannequin handwriting.
I don’t understand the game of Cricket. But I do get the game of Noisy Night Insect.
Last night my girl and I were knocking boots, but it won’t happen tonight, because earlier today I went out and bought a doorbell.
Last night I stayed up late talking about tomorrow, and today I regret it because I was way off (by about 24 hours).
Black clothing makes me look skinnier. If I wear all black at night, and turn out the lights, I look so skinny that I disappear.
Sunday nights I get about two inches of sleep. But I make do, because that’s all the erection I can muster.
I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.
The night before, I'd gone overboard with my Lila poems, and maybe it's true that I was hoping that in them he'd see the genius of me, the beauty of my words in his hands.
Some seek the comfort of their therapist's office, other head to the corner pub and dive into a pint, but I chose running as my therapy.
On such a night,’ I thought, ‘were ill and good, Bright and unlovely; precious, tawdry, All mingled into one And pressed against my heart.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
He has never understood that sometimes real love requires one to let the beloved go. Probably he never will.
My idea of a fun night was diving into a massive pile of To Be Read pile of books stacked near my dresser... I was the girl who loved everything geeky.
