Taste my tears and tell me I don’t have the saltiest love you’ve ever licked. My love for you is like a liquid potato chip.
I've never been high. Writing is my drug of choice. You don't ever have to come down from that kind of high, I tell ya. And, best part is, it's free.
Guilt at least has a purpose; it tells us we’ve violated some ethical code. Ditto for remorse. Those feelings are educational; they manufacture wisdom. But regret—regret is useless.
Well, can you tell her that?" He looked down at his feet. "I will. I will." Guy-speak for, "I plan to keep avoiding her until she gives up.
Someone owns trillions and keeps simple. I would. Someone reads all minds and looks average. I would. Someone knows the future and doesn't tell. I would.
If I tell you not to follow me, it ain't because I hate you, kiddo. I just don't want you feel dissapointed...when seeing the truth.
Perhaps she would have liked to confide all these things to someone. But how tell an undefinable uneasiness, variable as the clouds, unstable as the winds? Words failed her—the opportunity, the courage.
And still you'll hesitate to tell him, won't you? Why? Because you're a woman? Is your destiny such a small thing then? To keep your legs open and your mouth shut?
We might give her presents, tell some tales, but would she ever be able to really understand what the journey had been like for us?
There was no keenness in the eyes; they seemed rather to be shedding love than making observations; they had the liquid look which tells that the mind is full of what it has to give out, rather than impressed by external objects.
At least tell me you won? And that the scratches and dings were totally worth it." "Of course. They're always worth it," he says with a hidden meaning that only the two of us could ever understand.
The most wretched people in the world are those who tell you they like every kind of music 'except country.
Maybe that's what growing up is. When you can't be who you are and do what everyone's telling you to do at the same time anymore. - Rowie from Sister Mischief
I was born to catch dragons in their dens / And pick flowers / To tell tales and laugh away the morning / To drift and dream like a lazy stream / And walk barefoot across sunshine days.
Logic only tells us what's there; it can't really address what isn't. Even the most devoted empiricist must admit that we have no hope of understanding the universe. Some things are unknowable.
Once upon a time, a king came to earth to tell stories, and the stories contained the mystery of eternal life.
I can tell you that solitude Is not all exaltation, inner space Where the soul breaths and work can be done. Solitude exposes the nerve, Raises up ghosts. The past, never at rest, flows through it.
I think all artists struggle to represent the geometry of life in their own way, just like writers deal with archetypes. There are only so many stories that you can tell, but an infinite number of storytellers.
You can tell people the truth, but they'll never believe until the event. Until it's too late. In the meantime, the truth will just piss them off and get you in a lot of trouble
Any self-defense class worth its salt will tell you that you don’t pull out a weapon unless you intend to use it. The same should apply to ballsy remarks.
After telling me about her job, she asked me, “What do you do?” I sighed softly and asked rhetorically, “It’s sad. What do you do?
