I believe more in the scissors than I do in the pencil.
The thing with high-tech is that you always end up using scissors.
The intellect always cuts and divides like a pair of scissors. The heart sews things together and unites like a needle. The tailor uses both.
To sculpt a head of hair with scissors is an art form. It's in pursuit of art.
A witty vicar once said that a good marriage is like a pair of scissors with the couple inseparable joined, often moving in opposite directions, yet always destroying anyone who comes between them. The trick is for the blades to learn to work smoothly together, so as not to cut each other.
Regarding the debate about faith and works: It's like asking which blade in a pair of scissors is most important.
I often shoot with scissors in my eyes.
The scissors cut the long-grown hair; The razor scrapes the remnant fuzz. Small-jawed, weak-chinned, big-eyed, I stare At the forgotten boy I was.
I always know where the scissors are.
Red tape will often get in your way. It's one of the reasons I often carry scissors!
Never run with scissors or other pointy objects.
For the first time ever I was taking the family on the road. We stayed with my in-laws, which on life's list of experiences ranks right below sitting in a tub full of scissors.
Face the fact that there's only one sure-fire way to erase credit card debt. By picking up a big, shiny pair of scissors and cutting your wife in half.
I am quite content to go down to posterity as a scissors and paste man for that seems to me a harsh but not unjust description
A single man has not nearly the value he would have in a state of union. He is an incomplete animal. He resembles the odd half of a pair of scissors.
I know - I'll play you for it," Alice suggested. "Rock, paper, scissors." Jasper chuckled and Edward sighed. "Why don't you just tell me who wins?" Edward said wryly. Alice beamed. "I do. Excellent.
I'm working on my own life story. I don't mean I'm putting it together; no, I'm taking it apart. If you'd wanted the narrative line you should have asked earlier, when I still knew everything and was more than willing to tell. That was before I discovered the virtues of scissors, the virtues of matches.
I always carry a pair of scissors around with me to cut things out of magazines.
You always need a bit of low-tech.You always need a pair of scissors, it seems to me. You can do better things.... The high-tech, somehow, you do have to combine it with low-tech things.
It wasn't only that you didn't see him anymore, meet him anymore. You saw his absence and encountered it as something tangible. His not being there was like the sharply outlined emptiness of a photo with a figure cut out precisely with scissors and now the missing figure is more important, more dominant than all others.
To make a poem, take one newspaper, one pair of scissors, snip the words one by one and put them in a bag. Shake gently, draw them out at random, and copy them conscientiously... DADA est mort. DADA est idiot. Vive DADA!
Mine, said the stone,mine is the hour.I crush the scissors,such is my power.Stronger than wishes,my power, alone.Mine, said the paper,mine are the wordsthat smother the stonewith imagined birds,reams of them, flownfrom the mind of the shaper.Mine, said the scissors,mine all the knivesgashing through paper'sethereal lives;nothing's so properas tattering wishes.As stone crushes scissors,as paper snuffs stoneand scissors cut paper,all end alone.So heap up your paperand scissor your wishesand uproot the stonefrom the top of the hill.They all end aloneas you will, you will.
Well, no. I was getting into trouble messing around with it for roles. So one night I went home, cut it down with a pair of scissors and then got in the bath and shaved it all off. I've never looked back.
But as the scissors snip-snapped through her hair and the razor shaved the rest, she realized with a sudden awful panic that she could no longer recall anything from the past. I cannot remember, she whispered to herself. I cannot remember. She's been shorn of memory as brutally as she'd been shorn of her hair, without permission, without reason... Gone, all gone, she thought again wildly, no longer even sure what was gone, what she was mourning.
She felt like a fictional character who'd escaped the book in which her creator had carefully and kindly trapped her, taken a pair of scissors to her outline and leaped, free.
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