Humid 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
theres-something-about-humid-dusky-evening-thats-kind-sexy
where-did-it-all-begin-these-are-simple-questions-but-just-as-humid-summer-air-that-can-be-felt-but-not-touched-answers-are-elusive-elmer-seward
it-was-nice-day-i-dont-mean-that-it-was-sunny-either-it-was-humid-not-too-cool-like-winter-was-getting-annoyed-with-itself-wanted-it-to-be-spring-gabrielle-zevin
it-was-one-those-humid-days-when-atmosphere-gets-confused-sitting-on-porch-you-could-feel-it-air-wishing-it-was-water-jeffrey-eugenides
my-first-job-was-cleaning-dog-kennels-it-was-especially-ah-aromatic-during-those-hot-humid-louisiana-summers-but-it-prepared-me-for-hollywood
to-describe-women-pen-should-be-dipped-in-humid-colors-rainbow-paper-dried-with-dust-gathered-from-wings-butterfly-denis-diderot
thankfulness-opens-door-ushers-in-peace-joy-like-blessed-breeze-on-hot-humid-louisiana-summer-day-david-p-ingerson
im-not-really-looking-forward-to-wearing-black-rubber-suit-in-summertime-in-humid-chicago-if-you-see-pool-sweat-through-city-follow-it-you-will-christian-bale
as-young-person-growing-up-in-washington-dc-summers-were-hot-humid-relentless-my-friends-i-grew-more-restless-adventurous-with-every-passing-year-henry-rollins
japans-humid-warm-summer-climate-as-well-as-frequent-earthquakes-resulted-in-lightweight-timber-buildings-raised-off-ground-that-are-resistant-to-earth-tremors
they-watched-humans-disappear-they-watched-them-dissolve-like-moving-tablets-in-humid-air-markus-zusak
st-louis-is-more-humid-but-after-while-heat-started-taking-toll-on-us-we-started-rotating-little-more-up-front-trying-to-stay-fresh-out-here
since-during-storms-flames-leap-from-humid-vapors-dark-clouds-emit-deafening-noises-is-it-surprising-lightning-when-it-strikes-ground-gives-rise-plutarch
time-is-rhythm-insect-rhythm-warm-humid-night-brain-ripple-breathing-drum-in-my-templethese-are-our-faithful-timekeepers-reason-corrects-vladimir-nabokov
everyone-goes-on-about-how-bombay-is-similar-to-new-york-i-had-see-what-big-deal-was-the-bustling-crowds-are-same-but-its-lot-quieter-its-lot-cleaner-its-not-humid-i-think-energy
He's close enough now that I can hear his footfall on the pavement, and I know my chances of outrunning him are slim. I'm practically in a full sprint, and my pounding heart is begging me to take it down a notch. I try to will my feet to keep pace with its beat; but I think it's humanly impossible to run that fast. And then it dawns on me that my footsteps are the only ones I hear. Somewhere along the way, Tristan's must have come to a stop. And I can't quite explain why I'm running this fast in the first place. I slow to a jog, intending to just pick up with my original pace; but I can't seem to suck in breaths fast enough to propel my feet any further. My molten shoes stutter to a stop, as my hands come to rest on my knees. I'm still wheezily sucking in breath after breath of thick, humid air, when I warily turn to look over my shoulder. Tristan's standing about fifty feet back, hands on his hips and a completely flummoxed twist in his forehead, his chest rising and falling with equally winded gasps. Evidently I was running faster than I gave myself credit for. As he silently watches me, regaining his breath as I do mine, the confusion on his face turns to undeniable hurt (and not the physical kind). I've wounded him, and I can't even explain why. Man, I really am an ass. I start the slow walk of shame back to where he stands, one hand upon my hip as I pull in a few more calming deep breaths. I'm debating whether to concoct some excuse for my behavior... Maybe I left my contacts out today, and didn't recognize his face? Who would blame me for running for my life, if a stranger seemed to be following me? But as I amble closer-his wrinkled forehead already fading in the wake of a welcoming smile-I decide not to dig myself a deeper hole. I'm already a straight-up jerk. I'd rather not add lying to my repertoire.

M.A. George
hes-close-enough-now-that-i-can-hear-his-footfall-on-pavement-i-know-my-chances-outrunning-him-are-slim-im-practically-in-full-sprint-my-pounding-heart-is-begging-me-to-take-it-d
Helen of Troy Does Counter Dancing The world is full of women who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself if they had the chance. Quit dancing. Get some self-respect and a day job. Right. And minimum wage, and varicose veins, just standing in one place for eight hours behind a glass counter bundled up to the neck, instead of naked as a meat sandwich. Selling gloves, or something. Instead of what I do sell. You have to have talent to peddle a thing so nebulous and without material form. Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way you cut it, but I've a choice of how, and I'll take the money. I do give value. Like preachers, I sell vision, like perfume ads, desire or its facsimile. Like jokes or war, it's all in the timing. I sell men back their worst suspicions: that everything's for sale, and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see a chain-saw murder just before it happens, when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple are still connected. Such hatred leaps in them, my beery worshipers! That, or a bleary hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads and upturned eyes, imploring but ready to snap at my ankles, I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge to step on ants. I keep the beat, and dance for them because they can't. The music smells like foxes, crisp as heated metal searing the nostrils or humid as August, hazy and languorous as a looted city the day after, when all the rape's been done already, and the killing, and the survivors wander around looking for garbage to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion. Speaking of which, it's the smiling tires me out the most. This, and the pretense that I can't hear them. And I can't, because I'm after all a foreigner to them. The speech here is all warty gutturals, obvious as a slam of ham, but I come from the province of the gods where meaning are lilting and oblique. I don't let on to everyone, but lean close, and I'll whisper: My mothers was raped by a holy swan. You believe that? You can take me out to dinner. That's what we tell all the husbands. There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around. Not that anyone here but you would understand. The rest of them would like to watch me and feel nothing. Reduce me to components as in a clock factory or abattoir. Crush out the mystery. Wall me up alive in my own body. They'd like to see through me, but nothing is more opaque than absolute transparency. Look - my feet don't hit the marble! Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising, I hover six inches in the air in my blazing swan-egg of light. You think I'm not a goddess? Try me. This is a torch song. Touch me and you'll burn.

Margaret Atwood
helen-troy-does-counter-dancing-the-world-is-full-women-whod-tell-me-i-should-be-ashamed-myself-if-they-had-chance-quit-dancing-get-some-selfrespect-day-job-right-and-minimum-wag
Hundreds of men crowded the yard, and not a one among them was whole. They covered the ground thick as maggots on a week old carcass, the dirt itself hardly anywhere visible. No one could move without all feeling it and thus rising together in a hellish contortion of agony. Everywhere men moaned, shouting for water and praying for God to end their suffering. They screamed and groaned in an unending litany, calling for mothers and wives and fathers and sisters. The predominant color was blue, though nauseations of red intruded throughout. Men lay half naked, piled on top of one another in scenes to pitiful to imagine. Bloodied heads rested on shoulders and laps, broken feet upon arms. Tired hands held in torn guts and torsos twisted every which way. Dirty shirts dressed the bleeding bodies and not enough material existed in all the world to sop up the spilled blood. A boy clad in gray, perhaps the only rebel among them, lay quietly in one corner, raised arm rigid with a finger extended, as if pointing to the heavens. His face was a singular portrait of contentment among the misery. Broken bones, dirty white and soiled with the passing of hours since injury, were everywhere abundant. All manner of devices splinted the damaged and battered limbs: muskets, branches, bayonets, lengths of wood or iron from barns and carts. One individual had bone splinted with bone: the dried femur of a horse was lashed to his busted shin. A blind man, his eyes subtracted by the minie ball that had enfiladed him, moaned over and over 'I'm kilt, I'm kilt! Oh Gawd, I'm kilt!' Others lay limp, in shock. These last were mostly quiet, their color unnaturally pale. It was agonizingly humid in the still air of the yard. The stink of blood mixed with human waste produced a potent and offensive odor not unlike that of a hog farm in the high heat of a South Carolina summer. Swarms of fat, green blowflies everywhere harassed the soldiers to the point of insanity, biting at their wounds. Their steady buzz was a noise straight out of hell itself, a distress to the ears.

Edison McDaniels
hundreds-men-crowded-yard-not-one-among-them-was-whole-they-covered-ground-thick-as-maggots-on-week-old-carcass-dirt-itself-hardly-anywhere-visible-no-one-could-move-without-all-
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