Saturated Arrogance ...she rebuked those about her in darkness did she dwell a pathetic history all mortal man would tell..
A schoolmate of Matt Chandler's with the locker next to his: "I need to tell you about Jesus. When do you want to do that?
Then turn your eyes back on me, and tell me that Cathy and I are still children to be treated with condescension, and are incapable of understanding adult subjects.
Is Shimmer a floor wax or a dessert topping? Is an electron a wave or a particle? Slipstream tells us that the answer is yes.
So, what you’re basically telling me is death is boring but no worse than hanging out with family.
Trust your instincts, and make judgements on what your heart tells you. The heart will not betray you.
I want to spank you, but also want to know you want it. I need to hear it sweetheart, tell me you deserve it…
When something needs to be said, I'll say it even if the whole world grabs me by the neck and tells me to keep quiet.
Will you read this? I think maybe it sucks. Or maybe it's awesome. It's probably awesome. Tell me it's awesome, okay? Unless it sucks." — Nick
...they say a reformed roue makes the best husband, but, Oh! Didn't they tell you? Monsters can't be reformed...
There are two types of visions. Those that will happen no matter what, and those that can be stopped. Now more than ever, I wish I could tell them apart.
Only victors have stories to tell, we the vanquished were then thought of as cowards and weaklings whose memories and fears should not be remembered.
The thing is, I don't even hate cops. To tell you the truth, I actually feel a little sorry for them.
I tell you it's deadly when you start thinking your wife might be right.
Each drop that fell, had a story to tell. each smile that curved, said a million words. (Poem: Our Existence, Book: Ginger and Honey)
I want the difficult stories, the ones that aren’t easy to believe, the twisted ones, the sorrowful ones, the ones that need telling most of all.
An observer can’t tell if a person is silent and still because inner life has stalled or because inner life is transfixingly busy.
the flanger setting ... makes it sound as if the chord is being chewed over thoughtfully by a large genie accustomed to telling long, implausible stories
You’re not like other girls, you know that, right?’ Ed asks. ‘I’ve been aware of the problem,’ I tell him.
It would not do to tell other people, not just because they wouldn't believe but because they wouldn't care.
Memory is not a storage place but a story we tell ourselves in retrospect. As such, it is made of storytelling materials: embroidery and forgery, perplexity and urgency, revelation and darkness.
