I ordered a wake-up call the other day. The phone rang and a woman's voice said, 'What the hell are you doing with your life?'
The average, healthy, well-adjusted adult gets up at seven-thirty in the morning feeling just plain terrible.
Write what you love and love what you write.
It is well to be up before daybreak, for such habits contribute to health, wealth, and wisdom.
In God we trust; all others bring data.
What happens to the hole when the cheese is gone?
If you have only one smile in you give it to the people you love.
Old friends pass away, new friends appear. It is just like the days. An old day passes, a new day arrives. The important thing is to make it meaningful: a meaningful friend - or a meaningful day.
I've risen from the dead. Though sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, I feel like I've died. I swear I'm aging in dog years. But no, I'm not dead. It's funny how stuff like that gets started.
She says you're not awake until you're actually out of bed and standing up.
It's a mystery of parenthood that your son can give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a stray, worm-riddled dog, share a piece of re-chewed gum from a kid with bronchitis and pick his nose and eat it on a regular basis, yet won't sit next to his sister because of 'Girl Germs'.
The next morning dawned bright and sweet, like ribbon candy.
Outside, there was that predawn kind of clarity, where the momentum of living has not quite captured the day. The air was not filled with conversation or thought bubbles or laughter or sidelong glances. Everyone was sleeping, all of their ideas and hopes and hidden agendas entangled in the dream world, leaving this world clear and crisp and cold as a bottle of milk in the fridge.
I avoid that bleak first hour of the working day during which my still sluggish senses and body make every chore a penance. I find that in arriving later, the work which I do perform is of a much higher quality.
He got out of bed and peeped through the blinds. To the east and opposite to him gardens and an apple-orchard lay, and there in strange liquid tranquility hung the morning star, and rose, rilling into the dusk of night the first grey of dawn. The street beneath its autumn leaves was vacant, charmed, deserted.
I love the smell of book ink in the morning.
Sadness flies on the wings of the morning, and out of the heart of darkness comes the light.
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