#ang

A brick is what the aliens gave me to communicate with them. It’s easy to operate. Just go to a party, or any crowded location, place the brick on your head, and stand perfectly still until they open up lines of communication. If you talk to Egbok Wangor, tell him I want the twenty bucks he owes me—and I’ll even give you a twenty percent collector’s fee.
 ↗

— Jarod Kintz

#brick-and-blanket-iq-test #brick-and-blanket-responses #brick-and-blanket-test #brick-and-blanket-uses #funny

There was a pause, while I fought against this other, lesser kind of death that was creeping over me - this death called strangeness, this snapping of all the customary little threads of cause and effect that are our moorings at other times. Slowly they all drew back from me step by step, until I was left there alone, cut off. ("All At Once, No Alice") ↗

— Cornell Woolrich

#strangeness #death

My mother's death changed the alchemy of food. Holidays run together now like ungrooved rivers. I forget what they are for. I buy bakery goods. They look dead under the blue lights. I don't do anything the way she taught me but I get fat. I don't look like her and I don't sound like her, but I stand like her. ↗

— Florence Weinberger

#mothers #poetry #change

We must keep in mind that only a part of memory can be translated into the language-based packets of information people use to tell their life stories to others. Learning to be open to many layers of communication is a fundamental part of getting to know another person's life. ↗

— Daniel J. Siegel

#language #memory #neuropsychology #communication

Ooh, tu tens um ar muito mais saboroso que o Crabbe e o Goyle, Harry ↗

— J.K. Rowling

#hermione-granger #death

A citizen at his home in Rockford, Illinois, or Boulder, Colorado, could read a newspaper, listen to a radio, or watch the round-the-clock coverage on television, but he had no way of connecting with those who shared his views. Nor was there a quick, readily available tool for an ordinary citizen to gather information on his own. In 1960, communication was a one-way street, and information was fundamentally inaccessible. The whole idea of summoning up data or reaching thousands of individuals with the touch of a finger was a science-fiction fantasy. ↗

— Jeff Greenfield

#technology #change

If the mystery can be reduced to one solution, it lies in a simple coincidence: Rimbaud's interest in his own work had survived the realization that the world would not be changed by verbal innovation. It did not survive the failure of all his adult relationships. He had always treated poems as a form of private communication. He gave his songs to chansonniers, his satires to satirists. Without a constant companion, he was writing in a void. ↗

— Graham Robb

#writing #change

I was no longer troubled when he pulled out a machete in a crowded bar, tried to pick up schoolgirls, or threatened to scalp us, then rip off our heads and scoop out our brains. ↗

— Tahir Shah

#death #fear #machete #threat #death

Christopher couldn't recall what day it was; he certainly didn't know what hour it was. It was a gray day, but there was no dullness in that gray. It was shimmering pearl-gray, of a color bounced back by shimmering water and shimmering air. It was a crimson-edged day, like a gray squirrel shot and bleeding redly from the inside and around the edges. Yes, there was the pleasant touch of death on things, gushing death and gushing life. ↗

— R.A. Lafferty

#senses #change

He turned one of his death rays into an ice cream maker, except he said I shouldn’t eat too much of it at once.” I nodded slowly. “Right,” I said. “That’s…sweet, I think. ↗

— Acacia Ackles

#odd-childhood #scott #strange-parents #villains #death