Exhaled Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
you-read-too-much-daemon-exhaled-slowly-theres-no-such-thing-as-that-jennifer-l-armentrout
after-sixtyone-years-together-she-simply-clutched-my-hand-exhaled-sara-gruen
mel-exhaled-why-are-you-forcing-me-into-voicereason-role-you-know-that-never-works-out-for-us-kresley-cole
she-inhaled-worry-she-exhaled-prayer-mary-lou-quinlan-author-mary-lou-quinlan
he-was-exhaled-his-great-creator-drew-his-spirit-as-sun-morning-dew-john-dryden
why-am-i-covered-in-feathers-i-asked-confused-he-exhaled-impatiently-i-bit-pillow-or-two-stephenie-meyer
as-i-kissed-her-heat-her-body-increased-it-exhaled-wild-untamed-fragrance-gabriel-garce-merquez
early-bright-transient-chaste-as-morning-dew-she-sparkled-was-exhaled-went-to-heaven-edward-young
it-is-not-only-by-pores-skin-that-this-aqueous-emaciation-takes-place-a-considerable-quantity-humidity-is-also-exhaled-by-lungs-at-each-antoine-lavoisier
it-was-perfect-spring-afternoon-air-was-filled-with-vague-roving-scents-as-if-earth-exhaled-sweetness-hidden-flowers-ellen-glasgow
he-exhaled-loudly-raked-hand-through-sable-brown-hair-he-always-kept-stylishly-messy-look-rose-you-dont-have-to-keep-up-with-hardtoget-thing-youve-richelle-mead
rhage-exhaled-slowly-air-easing-out-his-nose-as-he-sank-into-his-skin-he-reveled-in-perfection-peace-the-heavenly-silence-the-great-roaring-absence-jr-ward
prayer-is-natural-joyous-breathing-spiritual-life-by-which-heavenly-atmosphere-is-inhaled-then-exhaled-in-prayer-andy-murray
if-my-house-were-burning-down-one-thing-id-take-with-me-is-my-vast-collection-smoke-i-consider-smoke-souls-dead-cigarettes-my-lovers-have-exhaled-jarod-kintz
did-you-accomplish-anything-in-your-meeting-with-kynan-arik-limos-looking-proud-herself-bobbed-her-head-excitedly-i-broke-ariks-ribs-reaver-exhaled-larissa-ione
i-knew-it-all-along-he-murmured-in-my-ear-what-did-you-know-his-cool-breath-blew-in-my-ear-as-he-exhaled-you-are-my-redemption-caleb-raines-redemption-kellie-thacker
every-time-new-record-started-people-exhaled-with-pleasure-their-bodies-moved-automatically-i-really-started-getting-high-off-euphoric-exclamations-every-record-i-put-on-was-like
all-life-is-breath-exhaled-by-god-all-dying-is-breath-inhaled-by-god-hermann-hesse
Rush-hour on the A rain. A blind man staggers forth, his cane tapping lightly own the aisle. He leans against the door, raises a violin to chin, and says I'm sorry to bother you, folks. But please. Just listen. And it kills me, the word sorry. As if something like music should be forgiven. He nuzzles into the wood like a lover, inhales, and at the first slow stroke, the crescendo seeps through our skin like warm water, we who have nothing but destinations, who dream of light but descend into the mouths of tunnels, searching. Beads of sweat fall from his brow, making dark roses on the instrument. His head swooning to each chord exhaled through the hollow torso. The woman beside me has put down her book, closed her eyes, the baby has stopped crying, the cop has sat down, and I know this train is too fast for dreaming, that these iron jaws will always open to swallow a smile already lost. How insufficient the memory, to fail before death. how will hear these notes when the train slides into the yard, the lights turned out, and the song lingers with breaths rising from empty seats? I know I am too human to praise what is fading. But for now, I just want to listen as the train fills completely with warm water, and we are all swimming slowly toward the man with Mozart flowing from his hands. I want nothing but to put my fingers inside his mouth, let that prayer hum through my veins. I want crawl into the hole in his violin. I want to sleep there until my flesh becomes music.

Ocean Vuong
rushhour-on-a-rain-a-blind-man-staggers-forth-his-cane-tapping-lightly-own-aisle-he-leans-against-door-raises-violin-to-chin-says-im-sorry-to-bother-you-folks-but-please-just-lis
But what might a woman say about church as she? What might a woman say about the church as body and bride? Perhaps she would speak of the way a regular body moves through the world-always changing, never perfect-capable of nurturing life, not simply through the womb, but through hands, feet, eyes, voice, and brain. Every part is sacred. Every part has a function. Perhaps she would speak of impossible expectations and all the time she's wasted trying to contort herself into the shape of those amorphous silhouettes that flit from magazines and billboards into her mind. Or of this screwed-up notion of purity as a status, as something awarded by men with tests and checklists and the power to give it and take it away. Perhaps she would speak of the surprise of seeing herself-flaws and all-in the mirror on her wedding day. Or of the reality that with new life comes swollen breasts, dry heaves, dirty diapers, snotty noses, late-night arguments, and a whole army of new dangers and fears she never even considered before because life-giving isn't nearly as glamorous as it sounds, but it's a thousand times more beautiful. Perhaps she would talk about being underestimated, about surprising people and surprising herself. Or about how there are moments when her own strength startles her, and moments when her weakness-her forgetfulness, her fear, her exhaustion-unnerve her. Maybe she would tell of the time, in the mountains with bare feet on the ground, she stood tall and wise and felt every cell in her body smile in assent as she inhaled and exhaled and in one loud second realized, I'm alive! I'm enfleshed! only to forget it the next. Or maybe she would explain how none of the categories created for her sum her up or capture her essence.

Rachel Held Evans
but-what-might-woman-say-about-church-as-she-what-might-woman-say-about-church-as-body-bride-perhaps-she-would-speak-way-regular-body-moves-through-worldalways-changing-never-per
Grace was screwed. Royally screwed. As in, her career was over. Finished. Finite. She turned on the windshield wipers and slowed the car as she drove through the rain in the mountains. With a renewed grip on the steering wheel, she sent a quick prayer that the rain would stop. A little sprinkle she could handle. A storm... well, that was another matter entirely. She puffed out her cheeks as she exhaled. If only she was in Scotland for a holiday, but that wasn't the case at all. In a last-ditch effort to give her muse a good swift kick in the pants, Grace decided to travel to Scotland. All her friends thought she had lost her mind. Her editor thought it was just one more excuse in a very long line of them as to why she hadn't turned the book in. Grace wished she knew the reason the words just stopped coming. One day they were there, and the next... gone, vanished. Poof! Writing wasn't just her career. It was her life. Because within the words and pages she was able to write about heroines who had relationships she would never have. It was the sad truth, but it was the truth. Grace accepted her lot... in a way. She might realize the string of miserable dates were complete misses and admit that. However, the stories running through her head allowed her to dream as far as she could, and encounter men and adventures sitting behind a computer never would. Not being able to find the words anymore was like having someone steal her soul. She breathed a sigh of relief when the rain stopped and she was able to turn off her windshield wipers. In the two hours since she checked into the BandB, it hadn't stopped raining. Rain was a part of being in Scotland, and she was pushing herself with her fear of storms to be out in it as well. It proved how far she would go to find her soul again. She needed to write, to sink into another world where she could find happiness and a love that lasted forever. Now she was armed with her laptop and steely determination. She would find her muse again. Just as soon as she found the right place. The scenery along the highway was stunning, but the noise of the passing vehicles would be too much. Grace needed somewhere off the beaten path. Somewhere she could pretend she was the only person left in the world.

Donna Grant
grace-was-screwed-royally-screwed-as-in-her-career-was-over-finished-finite-she-turned-on-windshield-wipers-slowed-car-as-she-drove-through-rain-in-mountains-with-renewed-grip-on
What are you doing following me around the back streets of London, you little idiot?' Will demanded, giving her arm a light shake. Cecily's eyes narrowed. 'This morning it was cariad (note: Welsh endearment, like 'darling' or 'love'), now it's idiot.' 'Oh, you're using a Glamour rune. There's one thing to declare, you are not afraid of anything when you live in the country. But this is London.' 'I'm not afraid of London, ' Cecily said defiantly. Will leaned closer, almost hissing in her ear and said something very complicated in Welsh She laughed. 'No, it wouldn't do you any good to tell me to go home. You are my brother, and I want to go with you.' Will blinked at her words. You are my brother, and I want to go with you. It was the sort of thing he was used to hearing Jem say. Although Cecily was unlike Jem in every other conceivable possible way, she did share one quality with him. Stubbornness. When Cecily said she wanted something, it did not express an idle desire, but an iron determination. 'Do you even care where I'm going?' he said. 'What if I were going to hell?' 'I've always wanted to see hell, ' Cecily said. 'Doesn't everyone?' 'Most of us spend our time trying to stay out of it, Cecily. I'm going to an ifrit den, if you must know, to purchase drugs from vile, dissolute criminals. They may clap eyes on you, and decide to sell you.' 'Wouldn't you stop them?' 'I suppose it would depend on whether they cut me a part of the profit.' She shook her head. 'Jem is your parabatai, ' she said. 'He is your brother, given to you by the Clave, but I am your sister by blood. Why would you do anything for him, but you only want me to go home?' 'How do you know the drugs are for Jem?' Will said. 'I'm not an idiot, Will.' 'No, more's the pity. Jem- Jem is like the better part of me. I would not expect you to understand. I owe him. I owe him this.' 'So what am I?' Cecily said. Will exhaled, too desperate to check himself. 'You are my weakness.' 'And Tessa is your heart, ' she said, not angrily, but thoughtfully. 'I am not fooled. As I told you, I'm not an idiot. And more's the pity for you, although I suppose we all want things we can't have.' 'Oh, ' said Will, 'and what do you want?' 'I want you to come home.' A strand of black hair was stuck to her cheek by the dampness, and Will fought the urge to pull her cloak closer about her, to make her safe as he had when she was a child. 'The Institute is my home, ' Will sighed, and leaned his head against the stone wall. 'I can't stand out her arguing with you all evening, Cecily. If you're determined to follow me into hell, I can't stop you.' 'Finally, ' she said provingly. 'You've seen sense. I knew you would, you're related to me.' Will fought the urge to shake her. 'Are you ready?' She nodded, and he raised his hand to knock on the door.

Cassandra Clare
what-are-you-doing-following-me-around-back-streets-london-you-little-idiot-will-demanded-giving-her-arm-light-shake-cecilys-eyes-narrowed-this-morning-it-was-cariad-note-welsh-e
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