There comes a moment when we must choose how we’re going to love someone. Some forms of love leave a sweet memory once they’re gone, others leave scars. But there are forms that when stolen, destroy part of who we are—love that transforms us.
She'd stolen my car.She'd stolen my dog.She'd stolen all my money.But if she had only asked, I would have given her it all, because when I first met her, she'd stolen my heart.
Stolen moments” create a feeling of enjoyment in our “intensive time” awareness. The glow and the intensity of those instants can guide us throughout a whole lifetime. They can expose a second or a third dimension of the daily events and shed an expounding light on all the little details we encounter. (Stolen moments )
This time I read the title of the painting: Girl Interrupted at Her Music. Interrupted at her music: as my life had been, interrupted in the music of being seventeen, as her life had been, snatched and fixed on canvas: one moment made to stand still and to stand for all the other moments, whatever they would be or might have been. What life can recover from that?
I have loved many men, but only one in real life. All of the other men who have ever stolen my heart in more than friendship, are in books.
I’d never seen a man cry before, only on TV. I’d never even seen Dad close to crying. Those tears looked so odd on you. It was like the strength of you just seemed to sap away. The surprise of it stopped me from being so scared.
Just because you have stolen someone's heart, luckily owned and occupied as a home, doesn't give you the audacity to enforce hurtful policies.
Ophelia was surprised by how easily she lied. She had two stolen keys in her pocket, and the lies were sliding off her tongue. Soon, she'd probably be shoplifting. She expected that was how it started.
Children, language, lands: almost everything was stripped away, stolen when you weren’t looking because you were trying to stay alive. In the face of such loss, one thing our people could not surrender was the meaning of land. In the settler mind, land was property, real estate, capital, or natural resources. But to our people, it was everything: identity, the connection to our ancestors, the home of our nonhuman kinfolk, our pharmacy, our library, the source of all that sustained us. Our lands were where our responsibility to the world was enacted, sacred ground. It belonged to itself; it was a gift, not a commodity, so it could never be bought or sold. These are the meanings people took with them when they were forced from their ancient homelands to new places.
You smiled then, and your whole face changed with it. It kind of lit up, like there were sunbeams coming from inside you.
Everything you love has been stolen from you, Regan. Come with me and we’ll steal it all back… together, we’ll make you whole again.” -KieronHanti
Having no applicable skills, in any possible area whatsoever, effectively makes me the master of redundancy. But that info is obsolete, like my insults dictionary, which I stole.
As hard as my life has been I have no desire for revenge. If I wish for anything it is for all the things that have been stolen from my life to be returned to me.
Is that not the Promethean fable, that the fire stolen from the gods will light men their way even while it burns their hands?
I flow like a butter in the nailed pan I stole. I also kept the nail, to polish and use as a means of teleportation.
If I did sales - my technique would be to hand-seal each deal with gourmet omelets, by Jarod Kintz's secret invisible recipe that I stole.