Leo couldn't help smiling. That could be fun.Fun she said unhappily.Blue elephants.Blue elephants.Kiss me you fool.You fool.
Stop! Narcissus got to his feet. This is not right! This person is obviously not awesome, so he must be... He struggled for the right words. It had probably been a long time since he'd talked about anything other than himself. He must be tricking us. Apparently Narcissus wasn't completely stupid.
Listen to the sadness,the echoes in my mind,the place where I usually hide,but now I cannot find.Why had it happened?What had I done?Where was I going?Now I'm on the run.Hiding from the echoes,the pounding in my ears,the beatings getting louder,it isn't death, I fear!
Tonight I miss you like the sky misses his moon, a delicate epiphany growing on grass. I serenade the breeze into dancing a cha cha cha, the mountains echo in the background. September sky never looked more charming, or the sublime petals of the rose looked so graceful.
The child inside me wouldn't stop crying. Every time it loses something so important to it. A person or a thing it loves the most, I pretend like nothing happened. But I hear it sobbing helplessly inside me. And the pathetic part of all this is, It neither grows up nor dies. Every time I stand in front of a mirror, it stares at me through my eyes. With its tear-stained face and that intense eyes that rip my ribs apart and the cry of it echoes through every room of my soul.
Every touch of you on my skin has burnt and etched your name on my soul. Whenever I close my eyes and try to feel myself, all I can hear is constant echoes of your name in my head, and all I can feel is the constant longing for the darkness.
Echo of the waves appears in the sky, their lights reflected in your eyes. I'm back in our world and happy again. The sound of your voice, compassionate embrace... The power in your touch, serenity of stride... The beating of your heart calms down my presence, gracing with eternal peace of mind... Bathing in the sunshine of your arms I'm deeply aware of the melodic stream that has no language...gliding beneath the quiet Heaven of your eyes...
Seeing the faults of others is indeed an echo of our own fault, the biggest fault is our own fault. That is known as the mad ego.
Lisbon, to me, is the Lisbon of Pessoa. Just like London is Woolf’s, or rather, Mrs. Dalloway’s. Barcelona is Gaudí's and Rome is da Vinci’s. You see them in every crevice and hear their echoes in every cathedral. I’d like to be the child, or rather, the mother of a city but I neither have a home nor a resting place. My race is humankind. My religion is kindness. My work is love and, well, my city is the walls of your heart.
He is deaf, and keen to accept,any economical operation,that will correct his situation.He visited the doctor best,and started talking on subject,like the after-effects, and if any threats.The doctor medically checked,and asked him what he expects?He expressed, he wants to be addressed-in words, and not in signs.And how keen he is, to have his ears listening.He wants to listen the echo of,sun-set over that crimson dawn.He is keen to know, the sound of,a blooming rose.He wants to know what it sounds like,when a seedling grows.But Doctor- if you say: You are incapable,then I better get away,for then there is- nothing worth to be heard,in your seemingly wordy world.
To be happy to be sad and sad to be happy is to sing an echo in that beautiful language called Sorrow.
I wasn't used to be these weak before. But the day I saw you, it felt like somebody was punching me very hard on my chest. It was hard to breathe, it was hard to sleep. With your name echoing in my mind all the time. Like somebody was singing a song to me, that no one else heard. It was the first time I realised how beautiful it is to be weak.
Quotes are echos of voices transporting wisdom, humor, and love. Returning again to the human condition, fleeting once more as a dove.
...there was something in the texture of the weave that felt happy: theecho of a memory so far down in his soul it was all emotion, aburst of colour and warmth, adrift from time and place.
People nowadays talk about the world's problems like they're reading lines off a teleprompter. They recite what they're told and echo it without thinking. It has become easier to divide people than to unify them, and to blind them than to give them vision. We are no longer unified like a bowl of Cheerios. Instead, we have become as segregated as a box of Lucky Charms. Every day we see the same leprechauns on TV acting like they're the experts of everything.
What you listen in heart, are echoes of the past.What you write today, will be echoed in the future.
I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of the hunger for life that gnaws in us all.
When you speak, your words echo only across the room or down the hall. but when you write, your words echo down the ages.
Anything said is gone as soon as it leaves my lips. Things written down at least have a chance to leave a soft echo of what had been.
That echo. It played in his head at unexpected moments, repeating certain sounds and making nonsense of them. But could you remember an echo? Memory itself was like another kind of echo, everything duplicating endlessly, in shadow versions of itself.
The desperate piercing scream of horror echoed far above the sharpened tops of the trees wrapped in thin obsidian-transparent mist, and I startled jerkily, tripping again, and almost collapsed onto the cold moist ground.
Everywhere man blames nature and fate, yet his fate is mostly but the echo of his character and passions, his mistakes and weaknesses.
Life writes the poetry, but it will always call for witnesses and scribes alike to tattoo its echoes upon the ghosts of trees.