In a perverse way, I was glad for the stitches, glad it would show, that there would be scars. What was the point in just being hurt on the inside? It should bloody well show.
Janet FitchStichwörter: hurt scars stitches visible white-oleander
Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill that space. An intelligent, sensitive person is the exception, the very great exception. If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you'll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.
Janet FitchStichwörter: loneliness
She would be half a planet away, floating in a turquoise sea, dancing by moonlight to flamenco guitar.
Janet FitchStichwörter: dance freedom ocean color turquoise
I thought of my mother as Queen Christina, cool and sad, eyes trained on some distant horizon. That was where she belonged, in furs and palaces of rare treasures, fireplaces large enough to roast a reindeer, ships of Swedish maple.
Janet FitchStichwörter: mother daughter swedish luxury
His voice was cloves and nightingales, it took us to spice markets in the Celebs, we drifted with him on a houseboat beyond the Coral Sea. We were like cobras following a reed flute.
Janet FitchStichwörter: voice release hypnotism sound spice
I closed my eyes to watch tiny dancers like jeweled birds cross the dark screen of my eyelids.
Janet FitchStichwörter: color bird dancer jeweled
The night crackled ... Everything had turned to static electricity in the heat. I combed my hair to watch the sparks fly from the ends.
Janet FitchStichwörter: imagery hair electricity
Her hatred glittered irresistibly. I could see it, the jewel, it was sapphire, it was the cold lakes of Norway.
Janet FitchStichwörter: hatred jewel blue
It was her first book, an indigo cover with a silver moonflower, an art nouveau flower, I traced my finger along the silver line like smoke, whiplash curves. ... I touched the pages her hands touched, I pressed them to my lips, the soft thick old paper, yellow now, fragile as skin. I stuck my nose between the bindings and smelled all the readings she had given, the smell of unfiltered cigarettes and the espresso machine, beaches and incense and whispered words in the night. I could hear her voice rising from the pages. The cover curled outward like sails.
Janet FitchStichwörter: imagery smell silver wanting
He just wanted to stand close to her, touch her hair that was white as glacier milk...
Janet FitchStichwörter: milk color white wanting
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