#stings

In California in the early Spring, There are pale yellow mornings, when the mist burns slowly into day, The air stings like Autumn, clarifies like pain - Well, I have dreamed this coast myself. ↗

— Robert Hass

#autumn #burns #california #clarifies #coast

I'm really going to miss all the people in the front office, media relations, marketing, all the great people at the ball park. They were my family for a while, and that part really stings. But life does go on. ↗

— Mike Quade

#does #family #front #go #going

It doesn't pay to say too much when you are mad enough to choke. For the word that stings the deepest is the word that is never spoke, Let the other fellow wrangle till the storm has blown away, then he'll do a heap of thinking about the things you didn't say. ↗

— Jules Renard

#away #blown #blown away #choke #deepest

Why allow all the old memories to have supremacy? Make new ones, memories of such luster and beauty that, should the old ones come back, they would be pallid and impotent in comparison. ↗

— Sherry Thomas

#beauty

Do you think I should be paying my addresses to Mrs. Martin, my dear Miss Fitzhugh?” he whispered. “Martin doesn’t look the sort to have enough stamina to service two women. And goodness knows you could probably exhaust Casanova himself.” Again this insinuation that she must be a sufferer of nymphomania. Behind her fan, she put her lips very close to his ear. “You’ve no idea, my Lord Hastings, the heated yearnings that singe me at night, when I cannot have a man. My skin burns to be touched, my lips kissed, and my entire body passionately fondled.” Hastings was mute, for once. He stared at her with something halfway between amusement and arousal. She snapped shut her fan and rapped his fingers as hard as she could, watching with great satisfaction as he choked back a yelp of pain. “By anyone but you,” she said, and turned on her heels. ↗

— Sherry Thomas

#hastings #helena #sherry-thomas #beauty

Why would I kill someone I don't know, when I know so many people who irritate me, and havent't killed any of them? ↗

— J.D. Robb

#death

In the midst of the fountain of wit there arises something bitter, which stings in the very flowers. ↗

— Lucretius

#bitter #flowers #fountain #midst #something