Your wallet will be stolen, you'll get fat, slip on the bathroom tiles of a foreign hotel and crack your hip.
Nothing could be closer than the present, yet nothing slips away faster.
Man has it all in his hands, and it all slips through his fingers from sheer cowardice.
The guitar's still around me. I slip it off and put it down. I want to feel him. To feel his breath on my neck. The warmth of his skin. To feel something other than sadness. Hold me, I tell him silently. Hold me here. To this place. This life. Make me want you. Want this. Want something. Please
Time is not outside us, but inside. Only we live with past, present, and future, and the present is too brief to experience anyway; it is retained afterward and then it is either codified or it slips into amnesia.
Her heart began to ache, and she felt the numbness slip away. Misery welled up inside her. She clamped down on it, trying to hold onto the deadness that had blanketed her emotions for the past few days.
When the oldest Chatwin, melancholy Martin, opens the cabinet of the grandfather clock that stands in a dark, narrow back hallway in his aunt’s house and slip through into Fillory...it’s like he’s opening the covers of a book, but a book that did what books always promised to do and never ac tually quite did: get you out, really out, of where you were and into something better.
One has just been sent out as a biblical dove, has found nothing green, and slips back into the darkness of the Ark
I have tennis shoes with little rhinestones that I slip on if I exercise. But I always wear heels, even around the house. I'm such a short little thing, I can't reach my kitchen cabinets.
He grinned. “Busted. I’m a monster. Jev is my deceptively harmless — and shockingly handsome — alter ego.” “And I’m on top of it,” she announced with witty triumph. “Is that a Freudian slip?” His bluntness caught her off guard. A self-conscious blush rose in her face.
Not enough," he said, letting her hair slip through his fingers. "If I kiss you all day, everyday, for the rest of my life, it won't be enough.
Just because of that one disastrous blind date she had last year, where the guy turned out to be fifty-nine, not thirty-nine (He claimed it was a typo. Yeah, I’m sure his finger just happened to slip two spaces to the left).
She could smell the boy spice beneath the thrift-store aroma of his jacket, and the rubbing and the smell began to work to soften her -- like butter before you add sugar, in the first steps of making something sweet. It was her first experience of how bodies could meld together, how breath could slip naturally into rhythm. It was hypnotic. Heady. And she wanted more.
I must know, he thinks. It must be clear to me. There is a world which is closed to him, a world of shadings, gradations, nuances, and subtleties. He is a genius and yet he is too explicit. June slips between his fingers. You cannot posses without loving.
In the middle of all this, as Sean slips out of his jacket, he looks over his shoulder at me and he smiles at me, just a glancing, faint thing before he turns back to Tommy. I'm quite happy for that smile, because Dad told me once you should be grateful for the gifts that are the rarest.
We are here to witness. There is nothing else to do with those mute materials we do not need. Until Larry teaches his stone to talk, until God changes his mind, or until the pagan gods slip back to their hilltop groves, all we can do with the whole inhuman array is watch it.
Everything changes. The more I try to hold on to the moment, the more it slips through my fingers.
We're always supposed to be happy and positive. There's something about letting yourself slip into that vulnerable space because you can really feel things there. It helps you grow as a person. I tend to enjoy being in a vulnerable space, in a weird way.
When everyone just shook their heads, he unbuttoned his shirt and, oh good Lord, shrugged out of it, bunching it up to slip beneath her head like a pillow. Don’t look at him, she told herself. Don’t look— She looked. Sweet Jesus.
Death comes to me again, a girl in a cotton slip, barefoot, giggling. It’s not so terrible she tells me, not like you think, all darkness and silence. There are windchimes and the smell of lemons, some days it rains, but more often the air is dry and sweet. I sit beneath the staircase built from hair and bone and listen to the voices of the living. I like it, she says, shaking the dust from her hair, especially when they fight, and when they sing.
The best stories I have heard were pointless, the best books those whose plot I can never remember, the best individuals those whom I never get anywhere with. Though it has been practised on me time and again I never cease to marvel how it happens that with certain individuals whom I know, within a few minutes after greeting them we are embarked on an endless voyage comparable in feeling and trajectory only to the deep middle dream which the practised dreamer slips into like a bone slips into its sockets
The words in this book are all phooey. When you say them, your lips will make slips and back flips and your tongue may end up in Saint Looey!
Reality is, you know, the tip of an iceberg of irrationality that we've managed to drag ourselves up onto for a few panting moments before we slip back into the sea of the unreal.
The grief in her green eyes slips then hardens and, for an instant, Pendleton sees the woman she has become and has no right being, not at sixteen.
It may seem that every time someone offers you a hand up, they just let go and you slip further down.
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