Tile 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
tile-is-going-to-landfill-by-metric-ton-all-we-have-to-do-it-gather-it-up-glue-it-down-to-floor-grout-it-then-you-have-tile-floor-not-just-any-tile-floor-its-mosaic-your-own-choo
she-counts-tiles-on-cold-bathroom-floor-lays-her-secrets-out-like-stones-square-by-square-tile-by-tile-she-doesnt-feel-anymore-diana-rasmussen
you-cant-climb-tile-wall-bill-engvall
if-i-had-to-pick-one-artist-to-tile-my-bathroom-i-would-go-with-mc-escher-demetri-martin
neath-tile-thatch-that-man-is-rich-who-has-scratch-for-every-itch-ogden-nash
i-can-install-toilets-i-know-all-about-the-wax-ring-i-can-tile-floors-im-learning-how-to-do-basic-wiring
if-i-were-a-bathroom-tile-salesman-my-pitch-would-be-think-of-how-great-this-will-look-in-the-background-of-your-social-networking-pics
sometimes-i-feel-like-one-those-sliding-tile-puzzles-i-just-get-dang-close-to-what-i-want-to-see-in-mirror-who-i-want-to-be-but-then-i-have-to-completely-jumble-up-pieces-to-try-
in-the-one-who-falls-three-women-three-men-in-everyday-clothes-negotiate-each-other-while-moving-often-in-unison-on-giant-spinning-tile
fine-dandy-she-thought-then-lose-shirt-peel-off-those-leather-pants-lie-down-on-my-tile-well-take-turns-being-on-bottom-jr-ward
i-worked-in-dads-stores-moving-boxes-i-remember-quite-well-one-stockroom-that-was-upstairs-sweeping-floors-laying-tile-i-also-had-paper-routes
worrying-is-like-dominoes-effect-that-rolls-from-one-day-into-next-into-week-month-year-never-accomplishing-anything-but-stress-until-it-hits-that-last-tile-which-drops-unfulfill
rent-tile-means-when-you-go-to-dance-hall-some-people-take-middle-dance-floor-do-their-thing
renttile-means-when-you-go-to-dance-hall-some-people-take-middle-dance-floor-do-their-thing-sean-paul
thou-also-son-of-man-take-thee-a-tile-and-lay-it-before-thee-and-pourtray-upon-it-the-city-even-jerusalem
god-bless-us-as-we-sweep-this-mess-under-rug-dont-want-to-walk-barefoot-on-tile-step-in-mud-out-sight-out-mind-pushed-to-side-left-for-someone-john-reuben
unhappiness-doesnt-grow-on-chest-like-leprosy-poverty-wont-fall-off-roof-like-loose-tile-no-poverty-unhappiness-are-mans-doing-bertolt-brecht
we-can-learn-lot-from-dogs-the-sweet-balm-puppy-love-can-soothe-tender-hearts-often-way-to-inner-peace-contentment-is-as-close-as-cool-tile-floor-rub-on-belly-long-walk-with-some
In the center of the room Sarra the demon hung upside down by one leg, its arms bound behind its back, its suit scuffed-looking. Beneath it, crawling around an intricately scribed circle, a woman with short, curly red hair drew binding symbols with a gold stick. She looked up as I fanned away the smoke that was billowing up from the crack in the tile. "You're a Summoner. Hullo. I'm Noelle. Did you know that you have mismatched eyes?" I walked around the demon. It glared at me. "Yes, I know. Why do you have Sarra strung up by one leg?" She drew another symbol. It flared bright green as soon as the stick lifted from the circle. "It was getting a bit stroppy with me. The Hanged Man always teaches them a few manners. It's retaliating with the smoke. Are those spirits I saw yours, then?" "Yes, they are. There are four others as well. I hate to be a bother, but I'm in a bit of a hurry, what with Christian being held by this one's master and all, so if you could possibly just give me the abbreviated version of what's going on here, I'll be on my way to rescue him." She leaned back on her heels and sucked the tip of her gold stick. "Asmodeus, eh?" The demon snarled. A chunk of ceiling fell behind me. We both ignored it. It just never does to give a demon the satisfaction of knowing it's startled you. "It's a nasty bag of tricks, but I heard through the demonic grapevine that it was weakened and searching for a suitable sacrifice to regain its power, " she added. "Well, it can't have Christian; he's mine. Back to the demon, if you don't mind... " She looked up at Sarra, still sucking the stick. "It's a pretty specimen, isn't it? I like the hair gel. Nice touch. The mustache is a bit much, though, don't you think? Makes it look so smarmy." "Um... " "I'm destroying it, so I suppose it really doesn't matter." I blinked and avoided two wine bottles as they flew out of a rack when the demon hissed at the Guardian.

Katie MacAlister
in-center-room-sarra-demon-hung-upside-down-by-one-leg-its-arms-bound-behind-its-back-its-suit-scuffedlooking-beneath-it-crawling-around-intricately-scribed-circle-woman-with-sho
What are the dead, anyway, but waves and energy? Light shining from a dead star? That, by the way, is a phrase of Julian's. I remember it from a lecture of his on the Iliad, when Patroklos appears to Achilles in a dream. There is a very moving passage where Achilles overjoyed at the sight of the apparition - tries to throw his arms around the ghost of his old friend, and it vanishes. The dead appear to us in dreams, said Julian, because that's the only way they can make us see them; what we see is only a projection, beamed from a great distance, light shining at us from a dead star... Which reminds me, by the way, of a dream I had a couple of weeks ago. I found myself in a strange deserted city - an old city, like London - underpopulated by war or disease. It was night; the streets were dark, bombed-out, abandoned. For a long time, I wandered aimlessly - past ruined parks, blasted statuary, vacant lots overgrown with weeds and collapsed apartment houses with rusted girders poking out of their sides like ribs. But here and there, interspersed among the desolate shells of the heavy old public buildings, I began to see new buildings, too, which were connected by futuristic walkways lit from beneath. Long, cool perspectives of modern architecture, rising phosphorescent and eerie from the rubble. I went inside one of these new buildings. It was like a laboratory, maybe, or a museum. My footsteps echoed on the tile floors.There was a cluster of men, all smoking pipes, gathered around an exhibit in a glass case that gleamed in the dim light and lit their faces ghoulishly from below. I drew nearer. In the case was a machine revolving slowly on a turntable, a machine with metal parts that slid in and out and collapsed in upon themselves to form new images. An Inca temple... click click click... the Pyramids... the Parthenon. History passing beneath my very eyes, changing every moment. 'I thought I'd find you here, ' said a voice at my elbow. It was Henry. His gaze was steady and impassive in the dim light. Above his ear, beneath the wire stem of his spectacles, I could just make out the powder burn and the dark hole in his right temple. I was glad to see him, though not exactly surprised. 'You know, ' I said to him, 'everybody is saying that you're dead.' He stared down at the machine. The Colosseum... click click click... the Pantheon. 'I'm not dead, ' he said. 'I'm only having a bit of trouble with my passport.' 'What?' He cleared his throat. 'My movements are restricted, ' he said. 'I no longer have the ability to travel as freely as I would like.' Hagia Sophia. St. Mark's, in Venice. 'What is this place?' I asked him. 'That information is classified, I'm afraid.' 1 looked around curiously. It seemed that I was the only visitor. 'Is it open to the public?' I said. 'Not generally, no.' I looked at him. There was so much I wanted to ask him, so much I wanted to say; but somehow I knew there wasn't time and even if there was, that it was all, somehow, beside the point. 'Are you happy here?' I said at last. He considered this for a moment. 'Not particularly, ' he said. 'But you're not very happy where you are, either.' St. Basil's, in Moscow. Chartres. Salisbury and Amiens. He glanced at his watch. 'I hope you'll excuse me, ' he said, 'but I'm late for an appointment.' He turned from me and walked away. I watched his back receding down the long, gleaming hall.

Donna Tartt
what-are-dead-anyway-but-waves-energy-light-shining-from-dead-star-that-by-way-is-phrase-julians-i-remember-it-from-lecture-his-on-iliad-when-patroklos-appears-to-achilles-in-dre
The street sprinkler went past and, as its rasping rotary broom spread water over the tarmac, half the pavement looked as if it had been painted with a dark stain. A big yellow dog had mounted a tiny white bitch who stood quite still. In the fashion of colonials the old gentleman wore a light jacket, almost white, and a straw hat. Everything held its position in space as if prepared for an apotheosis. In the sky the towers of Notre-Dame gathered about themselves a nimbus of heat, and the sparrows - minor actors almost invisible from the street - made themselves at home high up among the gargoyles. A string of barges drawn by a tug with a white and red pennant had crossed the breadth of Paris and the tug lowered its funnel, either in salute or to pass under the Pont Saint-Louis. Sunlight poured down rich and luxuriant, fluid and gilded as oil, picking out highlights on the Seine, on the pavement dampened by the sprinkler, on a dormer window, and on a tile roof on the eŽle Saint-Louis. A mute, overbrimming life flowed from each inanimate thing, shadows were violet as in impressionist canvases, taxis redder on the white bridge, buses greener. A faint breeze set the leaves of a chestnut tree trembling, and all down the length of the quai there rose a palpitation which drew voluptuously nearer and nearer to become a refreshing breath fluttering the engravings pinned to the booksellers' stalls. People had come from far away, from the four corners of the earth, to live that one moment. Sightseeing cars were lined up on the parvis of Notre-Dame, and an agitated little man was talking through a megaphone. Nearer to the old gentleman, to the bookseller dressed in black, an American student contemplated the universe through the view-finder of his Leica. Paris was immense and calm, almost silent, with her sheaves of light, her expanses of shadow in just the right places, her sounds which penetrated the silence at just the right moment. The old gentleman with the light-coloured jacket had opened a portfolio filled with coloured prints and, the better to look at them, propped up the portfolio on the stone parapet. The American student wore a red checked shirt and was coatless. The bookseller on her folding chair moved her lips without looking at her customer, to whom she was speaking in a tireless stream. That was all doubtless part of the symphony. She was knitting. Red wool slipped through her fingers. The white bitch's spine sagged beneath the weight of the big male, whose tongue was hanging out. And then when everything was in its place, when the perfection of that particular morning reached an almost frightening point, the old gentleman died without saying a word, without a cry, without a contortion while he was looking at his coloured prints, listening to the voice of the bookseller as it ran on and on, to the cheeping of the sparrows, the occasional horns of taxis. He must have died standing up, one elbow on the stone ledge, a total lack of astonishment in his blue eyes. He swayed and fell to the pavement, dragging along with him the portfolio with all its prints scattered about him. The male dog wasn't at all frightened, never stopped. The woman let her ball of wool fall from her lap and stood up suddenly, crying out: 'Monsieur Bouvet!

Georges Simenon
the-street-sprinkler-went-past-as-its-rasping-rotary-broom-spread-water-over-tarmac-half-pavement-looked-as-if-it-had-been-painted-with-dark-stain-a-big-yellow-dog-had-mounted-ti
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