#dr

Caine usually woke from the recurring dream mid-air, having yet to be dashed upon the rocks, whimpering and panting like a child crying for his mother. Now he lifted his eyes to a dark, empty room in Jizan and the unusual, lingering scent of roses, and wept in his hands for his Father. ↗

— V.S. Carnes

#romance #dreams

It was a time of dark dreams. They washed in like flotsam on the night tide, slipping beneath doorways and window latches, rising through the streets and hills; and the little fishing-town of Scarlock foundered deep. ↗

— J.A. Clement

#nightmares #sea #dreams

Do I dream you? Or you dream me? Or does someone, something bigger than all' - her hands swept the vast constellations above them - 'this beauteous calamity, dream everything we see and more? ↗

— David Hewson

#existentialism #questions #dreams

All this, and discontent too! Otherwise, why am I sitting here dreaming of England? Why am I gazing at this campfire like a lost should seeking a hope when all that I love is at my wingtips? Because I am curious. Because I am incorrigibly, now, a wanderer. ↗

— Beryl Markham

#dreams

And they say that each man has but one dream and life is just a question of whether he attains them or not... ↗

— Oscar Simanjuntak

#dreams

secrecy is the freedom tyrants dream of ↗

— Bill Moyers

#dreams

I recalled the afternoon when the two of us stood beating erasers, and Camille confided that she'd done penance for stories - stories that I'll never know if she wrote or only imagined writing. She'd wanted me to tell her a secret from my dreams, a secret from my dreams I hadn't had as yet, and so I didn't quite understand what she was after. "It's about feeling," Camille had insisted. I didn't understand then that she was talking about risk. ↗

— Stuart Dybek

#risk #storytelling #dreams

Come here into the warmth," he said easily. He reached for her, taking her hand and pulling her toward him. "I've been waiting for you." He stroked her hair, shifting a bit to let the light fall on her. "For a very long time." She, too, reached for him, following a line in the air along the length of the forming scar that marred his chest. A corona flared around him until she moved past the point where the sunlight hit her eyes. She stared at his chest, at the gashed and ill-healed flesh, and he, seeing her attention, took her hand and brought her fingers to his mouth. She felt the warmth of his breath, the pressure of his lips, soft and warm. "I wish you had never been wounded," she said. "Even though it brought you home to me. ↗

— Carolyn Jewel

#dream-sequence #olivia #sebastian #the-spare #dreams

Dreams were the stepping stones to glory. By pursuing them, he had attained a level of success that exceeded most men’s reach and acquired all that he had set out to gain: Land, cattle, and wealth beyond his highest expectations. Yet, desperation gnawed at him like a starving dog that had just discovered a buried bone, and as he gazed at the stars that blanketed the velvety sky, he felt as though he had achieved nothing. ↗

— Lorraine Heath

#lorraine-heath #texas-glory #dreams

Dreaming is the day job of novelists, but sharing our dreams is a still more important task for us. We cannot be novelists without this sense of sharing something. ↗

— Haruki Murakami

#writing #dreams