38 Quotes About Bone

So I am not a broken heart. I am not the weight I lost or miles or ran and I am not the way I slept on my doorstep under the bare sky in smell of tears and whiskey because my apartment was empty and if I were to be this empty I wanted something solid to sleep on. Like concrete. I am not this year and I am not your fault. I am muscles building cells, a little every day, because they broke that day, but bones are stronger once they heal and I am smiling to the bus driver and replacing my groceries once a week and I am not sitting for hours in the shower anymore. I am the way a life unfolds and bloom and seasons come and go and I am the way the spring always finds a way to turn even the coldest winter into a field of green and flowers and new life. I am not your fault. . Charlotte Eriksson

Her eyes were of different colors, the left as brown as autumn, the right as gray as Atlantic wind. Both seemed alive with questions that would never be voiced, as if no words yet existed with which to frame them. She was nineteen years old, or thereabouts; her exact age was unknown. Her face was as fresh as an apple and as delicate as blossom, but a marked depression in the bones beneath her left eye gave her features a disturbing asymmetry. Her mouth never curved into a smile. God, it seemed, had withheld that possibility, as surely as from a blind man the power of sight. He had withheld much else. Amparo was touched–by genius, by madness, by the Devil, or by a conspiracy of all these and more. She took no sacraments and appeared incapable of prayer. She had a horror of clocks and mirrors. By her own account she spoke with Angels and could hear the thoughts of animals and trees. She was passionately kind to all living things. She was a beam of starlight trapped in flesh and awaiting only the moment when it would continue on its journey into forever.” (p.33). Tim Willocks

On building homes for fallen angels: When I was small - I sought a home, a place to go and rest my bones. Then founded something, of my own, I lived among the restless stones. If seeking leads you back to evil, what good is that, I asked a weevil. He said a home is what you make, it can't be real, if it is fake.. And if you wait instead of seek, will you find love, or something bleak? I know (myself) for I have found, a beauty, hidden — in a sound. Waiting is boring. And so is exploring. A smile is sometimes all it takes. And then your whole world simply breaks. Will Advise

The future was chaos, war and blood and thirst, ending with everyone's bones bleached white in the desert. The sand would bury their buildings and bodies, and eventually it would be impossible to tell that anyone had lived in the desert at all. Becky Allen

Everything I have become, everything I will ever accomplishcannot compare to my mostimpressive feat: I have loved youfiercelyand assiduouslywith the very marrowinside my bones. So that when I die, they can crack them to findyou there. So that when I die, they can open me upand see your name tattooed on the wall of my heart. So that when I die, my epitaph will neither commemoratewho I wasnor what I did, but will read:“ She loved. And loved. And loved.” And so, I smile now, because that is no small thing. Kamand Kojouri

Leaders let go of what they can't control. It's a matter of knowing the power of the muscles and bones in your neck so you can go for what it can carry Israelmore Ayivor

Raw anguish slithers through my brittle bones as the deathly call rots the air. Who murdered you old friend? The forest has no words to identify the hand, only erratic echo. H.S. Crow

We’re pieces on a chessboard and we make our moves when it’s our turn. If we don’t, our decisions are made for us. A.P. Jensen

Every time I go to sleep, I know I may never wake up. How could anyone expect to? You drop your tiny, helpless mind into a bottomless well, crossing your fingers and hoping that when you pull it out on its flimsy fishing wire it hasn't been gnawed to bones by the beasts below. Hoping you pull up anything at all. Isaac Marion

If I am to be a skeleton in a box buried deep into the ground, I pray you will be the dust that rests atop my bones. Unknown

Wow. I didn't think I'd ever see you like that." Cam trembled; he couldn't help it. He felt like his body was not his own. "Like what?"" So.." Sasha seemed to search for the right word. "Involved, maybe? On-screen, you all seem kinda cold. I guess I figured you'd done it all before." Cam took a moment to gather himself. A phrase came to him, and he allowed himself a wry grin. "It's not the same. That's work, even if it's one of my friends. This is real sex. . Garrett Leigh

See the world anew and write down the bones of it. A.D. Sams

Sometimes it can be as brutally overwhelming as a tidal wave flooding every orifice, the suffocation, the pressure, the immensity of this damnable depression like an ocean, unsurmountable. It swallows me whole and gnaws at my very bones. It floods me over and over, drowning me over and over.. It is a torturous broken record player with a scratched disc on repeat, the wailing disrupting any possible good remaining after the tsunami. It wails and wails inside my ribcage and inside my skull. I cannot make it stop. Moonshine Noire

The trauma said, ‘Don’t write these poems. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones. Andrea Gibson

I’m a planner. I like to know what’s coming, that way I can figure out a way to deal with it.” He shot her a wink. “I wasna planned, and you handled that situation well.” It was a fact, but then again, who could ever prepare for a man like Dmitri? Donna Grant

On the plains of hesitation bleach the bones of countless millions who, at the dawn of decision, sat down to wait, and waiting died George W. Cecil

Sometimes my helpless blood runs numb and, if only for a second, I forget how frail bones can be. Taylor Patton

Kessa ran her fingers over her stomach. Flat. But was it flat enough? Not quite. She still had some way to go. Just to be safe, she told herself. Still, it was nice the way her pelvic bones rose like sharp hills on either side of her stomach. I love bones. Bones are beautiful. Steven Levenkron

Stephen King have a lot of books about the writing not only "The Writting: Memoir and Craft", but and "Nightmares and Dreamscapes", however "Misery", also and "Bag of Bones" and even and others. Which is awesome, different perspectives for being a an writer. Deyth Banger

There's water in my bonesa ghost of a chance Michael Ondaatje

The smog curled between the streetlamps and the spokes of the wrought iron framework. It seemed through your body and into your bones. Sara Sheridan

Instead of hating, my heart cries mercy! Mercy on me! Mercy on me! Mercy on me! It calls out to love in an attempt to save myself. I don’t want to be one of those people who live their lives with boils, septic wounds and broken bones bleeding inside. Phindiwe Nkosi

-just on the verge ofbecoming a woman, and in these three years and almost five months, I'dreached maturity. I was older than the mountains outside. The wisdomof the attic was in my bones, etched on my brain, part of my flesh. V.C. Andrews

Meltwater (from the book Blue Bridge)Up here. A face Loses its lines I look to see The colour of your eyes …They have turned To water. I lean forward To catch The scent of your hair —All I smell is heather. I touch your hand And all I feel is earth and stones. There is nothing left But the hillside’s breast Your flesh and bones Have vanished. Jay Woodman

They buried him in dirt that smelled like broken batteries, and crouched in a fiberglass shed while the acid rain poured down to dissolve his flesh and bleach his bones. Dan Wells

The plane banked, and he pressed his face against the cold window. The ocean tilted up to meet him, its dark surface studded with points of light that looked like constellations, fallen stars. The tourist sitting next to him asked him what they were. Nathan explained that the bright lights marked the boundaries of the ocean cemeteries. The lights that were fainter were memory buoys. They were the equivalent of tombstones on land: they marked the actual graves. While he was talking he noticed scratch-marks on the water, hundreds of white gashes, and suddenly the captain's voice, crackling over the intercom, interrupted him. The ships they could see on the right side of the aircraft were returning from a rehearsal for the service of remembrance that was held on the ocean every year. Towards the end of the week, in case they hadn't realised, a unique festival was due to take place in Moon Beach. It was known as the Day of the Dead...When he was young, it had been one of the days he most looked forward to. Yvonne would come and stay, and she'd always bring a fish with her, a huge fish freshly caught on the ocean, and she'd gut it on the kitchen table. Fish should be eaten, she'd said, because fish were the guardians of the soul, and she was so powerful in her belief that nobody dared to disagree. He remembered how the fish lay gaping on its bed of newspaper, the flesh dark-red and subtly ribbed where it was split in half, and Yvonne with her sleeves rolled back and her wrists dipped in blood that smelt of tin. It was a day that abounded in peculiar traditions. Pass any candy store in the city and there'd be marzipan skulls and sugar fish and little white chocolate bones for 5 cents each. Pass any bakery and you'd see cakes slathered in blue icing, cakes sprinkled with sea-salt. If you made a Day of the Dead cake at home you always hid a coin in it, and the person who found it was supposed to live forever. Once, when she was four, Georgia had swallowed the coin and almost choked. It was still one of her favourite stories about herself. In the afternoon, there'd be costume parties. You dressed up as Lazarus or Frankenstein, or you went as one of your dead relations. Or, if you couldn't think of anything else, you just wore something blue because that was the colour you went when you were buried at the bottom of the ocean. And everywhere there were bowls of candy and slices of special home-made Day of the Dead cake. Nobody's mother ever got it right. You always had to spit it out and shove it down the back of some chair. Later, when it grew dark, a fleet of ships would set sail for the ocean cemeteries, and the remembrance service would be held. Lying awake in his room, he'd imagine the boats rocking the the priest's voice pushed and pulled by the wind. And then, later still, after the boats had gone, the dead would rise from the ocean bed and walk on the water. They gathered the flowers that had been left as offerings, they blew the floating candles out. Smoke that smelt of churches poured from the wicks, drifted over the slowly heaving ocean, hid their feet. It was a night of strange occurrences. It was the night that everyone was Jesus...Thousands drove in for the celebrations. All Friday night the streets would be packed with people dressed head to toe in blue. Sometimes they painted their hands and faces too. Sometimes they dyed their hair. That was what you did in Moon Beach. Turned blue once a year. And then, sooner or later, you turned blue forever. Rupert Thomson

Each October I walk into the woodslooking for bones: rabbit skulls, a grackle spine, the pelvis of a deerwith the blood bleached out. What diedin the lush of roses and mintshines out from the tangle of twigsthat bind it to the placeof its last leaping. The living lackthat kind of clarity. In late April, when the water spreads out and outtill everything is lilies and seepage, there is only the mystery of tracks, a rustle receding in the many reeds. And so the bones accumulateacross my windowsill: the flightlesswings and exaggerated grins, the silent unmoving remindersof where the glories of April lead. Charles Rafferty

Sweat seems to bleed / like pride from their bones. Cameron Conaway

The evil that men do lives after them the good is oft interred with their bones. William Shakespeare

Oh literature, oh the glorious Art, how it preys upon the marrow in our bones. It scoops the stuffing out of us, and chucks us aside. Alas! D. H. Lawrence

The evil that men do lives after them the good is oft interred with their bones. William Shakespeare