I looked at him on the bed. He coughed once and a trail of brownish dead blood came out of his mouth and ran down the side of his chin. Then he stopped breathing. And I thought, I'll make sure I never end up here, either.
Trails are used by God to teach you humility and dependence on His grace rather than your own strength.
Now I stand before houses set on our secret trail, the haunt of arrowheads and lost Indians the color of small plums, rooms in which the new boys play, tamed by computers and a summer waste of games, where once, in these woods, we tasted wild fruit.
Man, do not pride yourself on your superiority to the animals, for they are without sin, while you, with all your greatness, you defile the earth wherever you appear and leave an ignoble trail behind you -- and that is true, alas, for almost every on...
I sigh. “But if you’d talked to Jules—if she could hear you . . .” My voice trails off. “Then you wouldn’t feel quite so crazy?” Oliver asks gently. “Can’t you believe in me, if I believe in you?
The man breathed deeply with his eyes shut and his speech trailed off. Nick approached the patient with the syringe in hand, nodding. He turned the machine up now, almost all the way, and then proceeded with the injection. "I think you're about ready...
The only way you can truly get to know an author is through the trail of ink he leaves behind him. The person you think you see is only an empty character: truth is always hidden in fiction.
The trail of lime trees outside our building is still a public loo. …where else are they supposed to go to the toilet in a city where public toilets are about as common as UFO sightings?” (pp.281-82)
Our lips connected and for one brief, amazing moment Dean melted into me. His hands trailed up my back, pulling my body closer. His lips were warm and soft, lingering against mine, and then suddenly…gone.
I followed the trail out of the room, invigorated by the possibility of reinventing my own body. The meaning was mine, as long as I was with those who had the vision and vocabulary to understand my creation.
Social tools leave a digital audit trail, documenting our learning journey—often an unfolding story—and leaving a path for others to follow.
Outside, the sky was clear, stars gleaming in its ebony vastness like celestial fireflies. It was bitterly cold, and Hywel's every breath trailed after him in pale puffs of smoke. The glazed snow crackled underfoot as he started towards the great hal...
Be careful. As if something’s going to jump us in a library.” “You might be surprised.” “What do you mean?” “You know how people say a book is really gripping?” “Don’t tell me…” Cat trailed off. “Libraries can be dangerous.
The purple, formalized, iridescent, gelatinous bladder of a Portuguese man-of-war was floating close beside the boat. It turned on its side and then righted itself. It floated cheerfully as a bubble with its long deadly purple filaments trailing a ya...
They could have fought against it, begged for another way or gone off the path in hopes of finding an easier passage. Instead, they looked upon the trail ahead, the rough ridge, now bound by thick snow, and they accepted the path they had chosen.
What is a parent, really, but somebody who picks up the things a child leaves behind - a trail made of stripped off clothing, orphaned shoes, tiny bright plastic game pieces, and nostalgia - and who hands back each of these when its needed?
This dream the world is having about itself includes a trace on the plains of the Oregon trail, a groove in the grass my father showed us all one day while meadowlarks were trying to tell something better about to happen.
There was the woman I was before my mom died and the one I was now, my old life sitting on the surface of me like a bruise.
I'd never had a mind for math. ... It was a logic that made little sense to me. In my perception, the world wasn't a graph or a formula or an equation. It was a story.
19. All possibilities I will attempt And as I am here now, Knowing what I know now, I have faith in myself That I will succeed And I will succeed. And I will succeed.
When my father, Ronald Reagan, was running for president in 1980, my mother, Nancy, traveled with him on the campaign trail, but she did not give speeches or even many interviews. She never stood in front of a group of reporters and expounded on her ...
