Cozy Morning Quotes

Jacob made me feel safe. He was like a living lullaby. A softly spoken word. The smell of coffee and toast in the morning or a cozy fleece blanket. The rain pattering on the roof on a day where you don’t have to go anywhere or do anything.

When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender, of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.

The smell of that buttered toast simply spoke to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cozy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.

If you love home—and even if you don’t—there is nothing quite as cozy, as comfortable, as delightful, as that first week back. That week, even the things that would irritate you—the alarm waahing from some car at three in the morning; the pigeons who come to clutter and cluck on the windowsill behind your bed when you’re trying to sleep in—seem instead reminders of your own permanence, of how life, your life, will always graciously allow you to step back inside of it, no matter how far you have gone away from it or how long you have left it.

In the quiet of the morning You only have to rise To feel something's wrong. Uncontrollable circumstances Tense the air and you know Something's going to happen. --Susan Bernhardt

Aunty Azalea was always the eccentric one in a family not widely famed for an extravagant excess of marbles.

My life of crime began at seven twenty-eight this morning." ~ Charmaine Digby

You’ll probably want to jump straight to the punchline, in future, when recounting the discovery of a murder.

This is the rummiest ingredient of this rum cocktail.

I believe that Americans will buy anything so long as someone else buys one first.

We don’t seize the moment, there’ll be another foreign skirmish or some American flying a hot air balloon to the moon or someplace...

It’s very much its own reward, I find, spending other people’s money.

It’ll be just like Romeo and Juliet,” I said, “without the emotive poetry of a suicide pact —

She was to bashfulness what that Pythagoras chap was to sorting out the area of the She was to bashfulness what that Pythagoras chap was to sorting out the area of the square of the hypotenuse once and for all.

If you love home—and even if you don’t—there is nothing quite as cozy, as comfortable, as delightful, as that first week back. That week, even the things that would irritate you—the alarm waahing from some car at three in the morning; the pigeons who come to clutter and cluck on the windowsill behind your bed when you’re trying to sleep in—seem instead reminders of your own permanence, of how life, your life, will always graciously allow you to step back inside of it, no matter how far you have gone away from it or how long you have left it. Also

But the main reason was that waking her would’ve meant telling her good-bye, and telling someone good-bye when you’re planning on walking into hell would’ve felt kind of…final. It was the same reason I hadn’t gone into the hut to find Mom, and why I’d skirted around Archer’s tent. I’d been nearly to the shore when I’d heard him softly call, “Mercer.” Kneeling in the doorway of his tent, his hair a mess, his Hex Hall uniform ridiculously wrinkled, he’d nearly broken my heart. And when I ran to him as soundlessly as I could and practically dove on top of him, I’d told myself that our kiss was just your normal boyfriend/girlfriend saying good morning thing. Even when he pulled me inside, the tent warm and cozy and smelling like him, I hadn’t let myself think that might be the last time I’d see him. And when he’d pulled me closer and murmured, “Mercer, I love-“ I had covered his mouth with my hand. “Don’t say that. Not now. Say it sometime when there is absolutely no chance of death on the horizon, okay?” He mumbled something beneath my palm, and I rolled my eyes as I pulled it away from his mouth. He dropped a kiss on the tip of my nose. “All I was going to say was that I love this tent you made for me. But I guess I can tell you again later. When you get back.” Curling my hand around the back of his neck, I’d pulled him down to me. “You better.” A blush creeping up my neck from the memory, I swung my gaze away from his tent and back toward the lake. I was coming back. I was going to be fine, and getting down into the Underworld to collect demonglass wouldn’t be hard at all. Maybe I’d make it back before lunch. Of course, I couldn’t make it back if I never left.

Good morning, Amelia" greeted Rick as he walked into the room the next morning. "I'm starved. For some reason, I woke up craving strawberries.

Sweet tea with milk, three Oreos, and Bob Roy’s snug and cozy flat helped Sue breathe deeply for the first time in months. She let out a sigh as big as a cresting wave and leaned back into a chair so soft it put the z in cozy. “Okay,” Bob said. “Tell me everything.” She opened up about, well, everything, cued by Bob’s sympathy. He uttered his support at every story, every anecdote: New York was the only place for Sue to be! Shelley and her “yeah, okay” attitude were to be expected from such a see-you-next-Tuesday! The subway was survivable as long as you never made eye contact with anyone. You found an apartment by reading the Rental classifieds in the Times and The Village Voice, but you had to get them early, at seven in the morning, and then you had to hightail it to the apartments with a bag of donuts because the super would always open up for a pretty girl who shared her donuts.

I'll be glad when this election is over!" Mary Anna yelled out the window of her car. She pulled the silver convertible classic Mercedes into the driveway of Eternal Slumber. "I was mobbed by O'Dell's sister and my momma this morning before I even had my boobs tucked in.

If you love home - and even if you don't - there is nothing quite as cozy, as comfortable, as delightful, as that first week back. That week, even the things that would irritate you - the alarm waahing from some car at three in the morning; the pigeons who come to clutter and cluck on the windowsill behind your bed when you're trying to sleep in - seem instead reminders of your own permanence, of how life, your life, will always graciously allow you to step back inside of it, no matter how far you have gone away from it or how long you have left it.

The smell of that buttered toast simply spoke to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cozy parlor firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.

Gradually the earliness of the morning and the cozy warmth of my bedroom got the better of us, and before we knew it we’d sunk into the irresistible softness of my bed, our arms and legs caught in a tangled maze. “I think I love you,” his raspy voice whispered, his lips nearly touching my ear. His arms wrapped even more tightly around my body, swallowing me almost completely.

A morning-flowered dalliance demured and dulcet-sweet with ebullience and efflorescence admiring, cozy cottages and elixirs of eloquence lie waiting at our feet - We'll dance through fetching pleasantries as we walk ephemeral roads evocative epiphanies ethereal, though we know our hearts are linked with gossamer halcyon our day a harbinger of pretty things infused with whispers longing still and gamboling in sultry ways to feelings, all ineffable screaming with insouciance masking labyrinthine paths where, in our nonchalance, we walk through the lilt of love’s new morning rays. Mellifluous murmurings from a babbling brook that soothes our heated passion-songs and panoplies perplexed with thought of shadows carried off with clouds in stormy summer rains… My dear, and that I can call you 'dear' after ripples turned to crashing waves after pyrrhic wins, emotions drained we find our palace sunned and rayed with quintessential moments lit with wildflower lanterns arrayed on verandahs lush with mutual love, the softest love – our preferred décor of life's lilly-blossom gate in white-fenced serendipity… Twilight sunlit heavens cross our gardens, graced with perseverance, bliss, and thee, and thou, so splendid, delicate as a morning dove of charm and mirth – at least with me; our misty mornings glide through air... So with whippoorwill’d sweet poetry - of moonstones, triumphs, wonder-woven in chandliers of winglet cherubs wrought with time immemorial, crafted with innocence, stowed away and brought to light upon our day in hallelujah tapestries of ocean-windswept galleries in breaths of ballet kisses, light, skipping to the breakfast room cascading chrysalis's love in diaphanous imaginings delightful, fleeting, celestial-viewed as in our eyes which come to rest evocative, exuberant on one another’s moon-stowed dreams idyllic, in quiescent ways, peaceful in their radiance resplendent with a myriad of thought soothing muse, rhapsodic song until the somnolence of night spreads out again its shaded truss of luminescent fantasies waiting to be loved by us… Oh, love! Your sincerest pardons begged! I’ve gone too long, I’ve rambled, dear, and on and on and on and on - as if our hours were endless here… A morning toast, with orange-juiced lips exalting transcendent minds suffused with sunrise symphonies organic-born tranquilities sublimed sonorous assemblages with scintillas of eternity beating at our breasts – their embraces but a blushing, longing glance away… I’ll end my charms this enraptured morn' before cacophony and chafe coarse in crude and rough abrade when cynical distrust is laid by hoarse and leeching parasites, distaste fraught with smug disgust by hairy, smelly maladroit mediocrities born of poisoned wells grotesque with selfish lies - shrill and shrieking, biting, creeping around our love, as if they rose from Edgar Allen’s own immortal rumpled decomposing clothes… Oh me, oh my! I am so sorry! can you forgive me? I gone and kissed you for so long, in my morning imaginings, through these words, through this song - ‘twas supposed to be "a trifle treat," but little treats do sometimes last a little longer; and, oh, but oh, but if I could, I surly would keep you just a little longer tarrying here, tarrying here with me this pleasant morn

Wordsworth or as modest as Hardy; as rich as Byron or as poor as Francis Thompson; as religious as Cowper or as pagan as Carew. It doesn’t matter what you believe; Shelley believed every lunatic idea under the sun. Keats was certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart’s affections. And I’m willing to bet, my dear Sally, that you could pass Shakespeare on the way to work every morning for twenty years without noticing him once…Good Lord, this is developing into a lecture.’ ‘Still, poets must be alike in some way.’ ‘Certainly they are. They all write poetry.

I’m sorry about our honeymoon,” Marlboro Man said when we woke up the next morning. It was 4:30, still dark outside, and we were wired, our internal clocks in a state of utter confusion. He caressed my side as I stretched and sighed. Our bed was so warm and cozy and dreamy. “It’s okay,” I said, smiling. “I’m so glad we came home…I love it here.” Our bedroom was tiny, about nine feet by nine feet. It cradled us like a protective cocoon. “I love you here,” he replied. We stayed in bed the entire morning, purposely denying that a world beyond our cocoon even existed.

I’m so sorry to break up this cozy little gathering,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’m sure you all need your rest…but there are wedding presents stacked in my room that need sorting out and I was under the impression that you had agreed to help.” “Oh yes,” said Hermione, looking terrified as she leapt to her feet, sending books flying in every direction, “we will…we’re sorry…” With an anguished look at Harry and Ron, Hermione hurried out of the room after Mrs. Weasley. “It’s like being a house-elf,” complained Ron in an undertone, still massaging his head as he and Harry followed. “Except without the job satisfaction. The sooner this wedding’s over, the happier I’ll be.” “Yeah,” said Harry, “then we’ll have nothing to do except find Horcruxes…It’ll be like a holiday, won’t it?” Ron started to laugh, but at the sight of the enormous pile of wedding presents waiting for them in Mrs. Weasley’s room, stopped quite abruptly. The Delacours arrived the following morning at eleven o’clock. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were feeling quite resentful toward Fleur’s family by this time, and it was with ill grace that Ron stumped back upstairs to put on matching socks, and Harry attempted to flatten his hair.

It was time for me to go that Thursday night. We’d just watched Citizen Kane--a throwback to my Cinema 190 class at USC--and it was late. And though a soft, cozy bed in one of the guest rooms sounded much more appealing than driving all the way home, I’d never really wanted to get into the habit of sleeping over at Marlboro Man’s house. It was the Pretend-I’m-a-Proper-Country-Club-Girl in me, mixed with a healthy dose of fear that Marlboro Man’s mother or grandmother would drop by early in the morning to bring Marlboro Man some warm muffins or some such thing and see my car parked in the driveway. Or even worse, come inside the house, and then I’d have to wrestle with whether or not to volunteer that “I slept in a guest room! I slept in a guest room!”, which only would have made me look more guilty. Who needs that? I’d told myself, and vowed never to put myself in that predicament.

Cookies are the cornerstone of pastry. But for many of us, they are also at the core of our memories, connecting our palate to our person. Cookies wait for us after school, anxious for little ones to emerge from a bus and race through the door. They fit themselves snugly in boxes, happy to be passed out to neighbors on cold Christmas mornings; trays of them line long tables, mourning the loss of the dearly departed. While fancy cakes and tarts walk the red carpet, their toasted meringue piles, spun sugar, and chocolate curls boasting of rich rewards that often fail to sustain, cookies simply whisper knowingly. Instead of pomp and flash, they offer us warm blankets and cozy slippers. They slip us our favorite book, they know the lines to our favorite movies. They laugh at our jokes, they stay in for the night. They are good friends, they are kind words. They are not jealous, conceited, or proud. They evoke a giving spirit, a generous nature. They beg to be shared, and rejoice in connection. Cookies are home.

You’re worried about Anna?” “Anna and the baby, who, I can assure you, are not worried about me.” “Westhaven, are you pouting?” Westhaven glanced over to see his brother smiling, but it was a commiserating sort of smile. “Yes. Care to join me?” The commiserating smile became the signature St. Just Black Irish piratical grin. “Only until Valentine joins us. He’s so eager to get under way, we’ll let him break the trail when we depart in the morning.” “Where is he? I thought you were just going out to the stables to check on your babies.” “They’re horses, Westhaven. I do know the difference.” “You know it much differently than you knew it a year ago. Anna reports you sing your daughter to sleep more nights than not.” Two very large booted feet thunked onto the coffee table. “Do I take it your wife has been corresponding with my wife?” “And your daughter with my wife, and on and on.” Westhaven did not glance at his brother but, rather, kept his gaze trained on St. Just’s feet. Devlin could exude great good cheer among his familiars, but he was at heart a very private man. “The Royal Mail would go bankrupt if women were forbidden to correspond with each other.” St. Just’s tone was grumpy. “Does your wife let you read her mail in order that my personal marital business may now be known to all and sundry?” “I am not all and sundry,” Westhaven said. “I am your brother, and no, I do not read Anna’s mail. It will astound you to know this, but on occasion, say on days ending in y, I am known to talk with my very own wife. Not at all fashionable, but one must occasionally buck trends. I daresay you and Emmie indulge in the same eccentricity.” St. Just was silent for a moment while the fire hissed and popped in the hearth. “So I like to sing to my daughters. Emmie bears so much of the burden, it’s little enough I can do to look after my own children.” “You love them all more than you ever thought possible, and you’re scared witless,” Westhaven said, feeling a pang of gratitude to be able to offer the simple comfort of a shared truth. “I believe we’re just getting started on that part. With every child, we’ll fret more for our ladies, more for the children, for the ones we have, the one to come.” “You’re such a wonderful help to a man, Westhaven. Perhaps I’ll lock you in that nice cozy privy next time nature calls.” Which

You did not do my homework assignment for me,” he said, grabbing the collage again and looking it over. “I had insomnia,” I said. “I needed a creative activity.” Marlboro Man looked at me, seemingly unsure of whether to kiss me, thank me…or just tickle me some more. I didn’t give him a chance. Instead I picked up the collage and took Marlboro Man on a tour so he’d be prepared for our appointment. “Here’s a pack of cigarettes,” I said. “Because I used to smoke in college.” “Uh-huh,” he answered. “I knew that.” “And here’s a glass of white wine,” I continued. “Because…I love white wine.” “Yes, I’ve noticed,” Marlboro Man answered. “But…won’t Father Johnson have a problem with that being on there?” “Nah…,” I said. “He’s Episcopalian.” “Got it,” he said. I continued with my collage orientation, pointing out the swatch of my favorite shade of turquoise…the pug…the ballet shoe…the Hershey’s Kiss. He watched and listened intently, prepping himself for Father Johnson’s upcoming grilling. Gradually the earliness of the morning and the cozy warmth of my bedroom got the better of us, and before we knew it we’d sunk into the irresistible softness of my bed, our arms and legs caught in a tangled maze. “I think I love you,” his raspy voice whispered, his lips nearly touching my ear. His arms wrapped even more tightly around my body, swallowing me almost completely.

Duffy and I had been in the back room of Slade’s place waiting for Alex, with whom I had the hope of transacting a little business. I was a newspaperman and Alex knew something I wanted to know. Duffy had called him in, for Duffy was a friend of mine. At least, he knew that I worked for the Chronicle, which at that time was supporting the Joe Harrison outfit. Joe Harrison was Governor then. And Duffy was one of Joe Harrison’s boys. So I was sitting in the back room of Slade’s place, one hot morning in June or July, back in 1922, waiting for Alex Michel to turn up and listening to the silence in the back room of Slade’s place. A funeral parlor at midnight is ear-splitting compared to the effect you get in the middle of the morning in the back room of a place like Slade’s if you are the first man there. You sit there and think how cozy it was last night, with the effluvium of brotherly bodies and the haw-haw of camaraderie, and you look at the floor where now there are little parallel trails of damp sawdust the old broom left this morning when the unenthusiastic old Negro man cleaned up, and the general impression is that you are alone with the Alone and it is His move. So I sat there in the silence (Duffy was never talkative in the morning before he had worried down two or three drinks), and listened to my tissues break down and the beads of perspiration explode delicately out of the ducts embedded in the ample flesh of my companion. Alex

A strange structure untangled itself out of the background like a hallucination, not part of the natural landscape. It was a funny-shaped, almost spherical, green podlike thing woven from living branches of trees and vines. A trellis of vines hung down over the opening that served as a door. Wendy was so delighted tears sprang to her eyes. It was her Imaginary House! They all had them. Michael wanted his to be like a ship with views of the sea. John had wanted to live like a nomad on the steppes. And Wendy... Wendy had wanted something that was part of the natural world itself. She tentatively stepped forward, almost swooning at the heavy scent of the door flowers. Languorously lighting on them were a few scissorflies, silver and almost perfectly translucent in the glittery sunlight. Their sharp wings made little snickety noises as they fluttered off. Her shadow made a few half-hearted attempts to drag back, pointing to the jungle. But Wendy ignored her, stepping into the hut. She was immediately knocked over by a mad, barking thing that leapt at her from the darkness of the shelter. "Luna!" Wendy cried in joy. The wolf pup, which she had rescued in one of her earliest stories, stood triumphantly on her chest, drooling very visceral, very stinky dog spit onto her face. "Oh, Luna! You're real!" Wendy hugged the gray-and-white pup as tightly as she could, and it didn't let out a single protest yelp. Although... "You're a bit bigger than I imagined," Wendy said thoughtfully, sitting up. "I thought you were a puppy." Indeed, the wolf was approaching formidable size, although she was obviously not yet quite full-grown and still had large puppy paws. She was at least four stone and her coat was thick and fluffy. Yet she pranced back and forth like a child, not circling with the sly lope Wendy imagined adult wolves used. You're not a stupid little lapdog, are you?" Wendy whispered, nuzzling her face into the wolf's fur. Luna chuffed happily and gave her a big wet sloppy lick across the cheek. "Let's see what's inside the house!" As the cool interior embraced her, she felt a strange shudder of relief and... welcome was the only way she could describe it. She was home. The interior was small and cozy; plaited sweet-smelling rush mats softened the floor. The rounded walls made shelves difficult, so macramé ropes hung from the ceiling, cradling halved logs or flat stones that displayed pretty pebbles, several beautiful eggs, and what looked like a teacup made from a coconut. A lantern assembled from translucent pearly shells sat atop a real cherry writing desk, intricately carved and entirely out of place with the rest of the interior. Wendy picked up one of the pretty pebbles in wonder, turning it this way and that before putting it into her pocket. "This is... me..." she breathed. She had never been there before, but it felt so secure and so right that it couldn't have been anything but her home. Her real home. Here there was no slight tension on her back as she waited for footsteps to intrude, for reality to wake her from her dreams; there was nothing here to remind her of previous days, sad or happy ones. There were no windows looking out at the gray world of London. There was just peace, and the scent of the mats, and the quiet droning of insects and waves outside. "Never Land is a... mishmash of us. Of me," she said slowly. "It's what we imagine and dream of- including the dreams we can't quite remember.

We get it—covers can be damn cozy!

His eyes drifted shut. without opening them, he murmured, "I like the sound of your laugh. It's real and genuine. A lot of girls have this fake laugh. Not you." "I like your laugh, too." I whispered, feeling pulled in, cozy in the cacoon of his bed. "Yeah?" I flattened my palm over his chest, enjoying the sensation of the firm flesh, even warm as it was. He sighed, like my cool hand offered him some relief. "I laugh more since you came around," he said quietly, his lips barely forming the words. He did? I frowned. He must not have laughed at all before, then, because I didn't think he was particularly jovial. I held him through the night. And he held me back, tucking my head beneath his chin. His arms surrounded me and kept me close to his overly warm body. Almost like I was some kind of lifeline. I felt the moment his fever broke around one in the morning. I finally relaxed and fell asleep.

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I, inside you! ( Part 1 ) It was quite and still, Though she lay beside me, The room did with a sense of coziness fill, As I looked at her and she looked at me, Even the winking of the eyes had ceased, For it disturbed the rhyme of our feelings, Love in our life had doubtlessly increased, Inspite of times passing moments and their wanton stealings, So, she did not wink and neither did I, We lay there still, covered in the morning light, I was glad that finally I could say, it was I who she loved, just I, Not winking, hearts throbbing, in that embrace tight, The warm sunbeams pierced through the curtain, And lit the corners and walls of the room, It was love, it was eternity, it was everything, it was romantic, of it I was now certain, And then like a bright Summer rose her body and her feelings over mine did bloom, I did not want to wink anymore, Because I did not want to miss her beauty even for a split second, She loved me, I loved her, she kissed me, I kissed her just like always and before, She was silent, she was passionate, she was a beautiful woman in love with nothing to pretend, And with every new beam of light invading the room, She held me tighter and drew me closer, It felt like Summer beauty was the bride and I was its sole groom, And how loved I felt being with her, Almost like the Autumn mist that spreads itself around everything, She grew over me, Till in this state of eternal everything I felt like nothing, And it did not matter as long as she was kissing me, Time was waiting at the door, The destiny was knocking on the sunshine kissed walls, Cupid was busy shooting arrows of absolute amour, But now we were nowhere, because like the sunshine we hung everywhere in the room made of love walls,

The stranger, crouching down beside Nico, turned to him with a huge grin on his face. “You know what I said to myself this morning?” he said, somehow managing it both softly but quite friendly. “I said to myself, 'Self, what this afternoon really needs is a good old-fashioned shoot-out in the middle of the street.' What is this, the Wild, Wild West? Ridiculous.

Early Morning Walks & the first flush of Winter Sunshine. It's incredibly difficult to wake up in the mornings of cold and cozy winter days, but somehow if you manage to get up and ask your mind to take a walk in the woods, the sunshine and warmth that catches your soul is breathtakingly beautiful, beyond beautiful. Each time a cold breeze touches you by while your heart is pulsating from the walk, you feel a Smile of calm widening in each and every breath of your bones, and when you catch a glimpse of the Morning Sun, and let the rays embrace your core, you know it was all worth it, the waking up and the walking on, so much worth it all. And then you Smile knowing, isn't the walk of Life exactly the same? When you wake up each day to walk a little more, to get wrapped in the warmth of Life all while cutting across the cold of Life's dark nights to find your way to the freshness of day, the Morning Sun of Life. And oh boy, it's just so much worth it, so much worth it all. To staying alive through the wilderness of Life. Stay in your Aura! Love & Light, always - Debatrayee

Once upon a time in a small, cozy village, there lived a curious little cat named Whiskers. Whiskers was known for his sense of humor, playful nature, and never-ending curiosity. He had soft, light brown fur with a dark brown spot over his left eye, and his paws also had charming brown spots. Whiskers spent his days exploring the village and making friends with the other animals. One sunny morning, as Whiskers was strolling through the village, he stumbled upon a mysterious garden. The entrance was hidden behind a tall, green hedge, and it looked like it had been forgotten for years. Intrigued by this secret place, Whiskers couldn't help but enter the garden to investigate.

You remind me so much of life’s simple pleasures and everything effortless and sweet in the world. A good read. Fresh, clean sheets. A quick dip in the sea. A cozy, rainy Sunday morning with a hot cup of coffee and no place to be.

You see, life is an inherently benevolent process. When you start to view your life with even a smidgen of detachment, the curtains begin to draw back. You see that, for starters, you actually can indeed draw back the curtains, and then you see the old dusty stage set that is ready to go. And you choose just that: you choose for it to go; you choose to purify. You choose to unshackle the gorgeous beast within, to let it out and talk to it, to see what it wants. You choose to run your fingers through its crazy, ratty hair, pulling out whatever little bugs got too cozy in there over the years. You give it a glass of water and a shower, and you show it the sun. You welcome it. All of this to say: Get to know the master within you. Fall at the feet of your Self.

Your Grace, need I remind you that dueling is illegal?” Joseph kept his voice down, though Grattingly had yet to arrive, and the corner of Hyde Park the Duke of Moreland had found his way to was very secluded. “Illegal, is it? What a pity. The pleasures of leaving one’s duchess and one’s cozy bed in the dark of night and freezing one’s parts off aren’t to be missed. You look passably rested, Carrington.” “I am.” Joseph climbed off his horse, gratified to feel not a twinge of stiffness in his leg, even in the chill of a wintry dawn. If he survived the morning, he’d make it a point to linger half naked with his lady on hearth rugs before roaring fires often and at length. “Listen,

Some instinct told Steven who the ladies’ man was even before Chloe spoke. “You’ve been so curious about Mr. Fairfax, Fulton,” she said, in an idle tone. “Here he is.” The banker. Steven got to his feet, not as a gesture of courtesy, but so the man couldn’t look down on him. “Fulton Whitney,” the banker said by way of introduction. His tone was grudging. Steven didn’t put out his hand, or speak. He was wondering what kind of polecat would cozy up to a woman like Emma, then spend a sunny April morning rolling in the sheets with a couple of floozies. Whitney cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly on his feet, while Chloe left the sofa where she’d been sitting, her fan still fluttering. “I’d better see how things are going downstairs,” she said, and then she was gone. “So you’ll be leaving now, I suppose,” the banker said, breaking the strained silence. “I don’t imagine a man like you cares to stay in one place too long.” Steven folded his arms. “Until just a few minutes ago, I figured on riding out,” he answered. “Now I’m not so sure.” Color blossomed in Whitney’s pasty cheeks. “What possible reason could you have to stay?” “Just one. Her name is Emma.” The banker stared at him with undisguised contempt, and Steven figured he must look pretty seedy, all things considered. It had been days since he’d shaved, and two months since he’d had a haircut. “You aren’t good enough to lick her shoes.” Steven indulged in a slow, obnoxious smile. “Let me understand this,” he drawled. “I’m not good enough for Emma, but you, her fiancé, just crawled out of bed with two whores?” Again, Whitney’s face flooded with blustery color. “I don’t have to explain anything to you,” he rasped. And then he started to walk away. Steven was possessed of a rage nobody but Macon had been able to arouse in him before. He grasped the banker by the arm, whirled him around, and threw his fist into the middle of the bastard’s face. Fulton gave a startled yelp as he struck the wall, then slowly slid down it, one hand to his bleeding mouth. “Now,” Steven said calmly, “we know exactly where we stand, you and I.

Monitor baths: For some children bathtime winds them up. If that is the case, do it earlier in your routine, or leave it for the morning. For others, it is calming. • Avoid electronics and TV, which can have a reawakening effect on many children. They seem calm and cozied in as they watch TV, but then they are excited when the video is done. Best not to use electronics or TV close to bedtime. • Keep routines short and simple. They should take no more than an hour (at most, if you are including the bath), and thirty minutes is even better. Lengthier routines get children stirred up as they have extra time to anticipate the inevitable separation. • Let them have simple choices. “Would you like to read Curious George first or Goodnight Moon?” Such simple questions give them some, but limited control and keeps you moving forward to bed. • Sing or listen to a lullaby—either can be soothing. Some parents like to add prayers or a quiet review of the day. • Try to create a cozy corner in their room for sleep once your child moves to a bed. Make sure the bed is against a wall, ideally in a corner, and feels like a comforting place. • If one parent is coming home late, do your best not to have it during the good-night routine. For many children, the return of that parent stirs them up. Better that they see you, when they are refreshed, in the morning.

August 2, 2016 When Rhett stopped saying “alligator” for “elevator” I died a little. But at the beach he’s been calling the cormorants “coroners” and I am so happy. December 21, 2016 Rhett ran into our room this morning and shouted, “What’re ya doing? Just laying in bed like whores?” He then told us that a whore is a kind of rabbit. Hare. We were lying in bed as cozy as hares. I have never laughed harder before being fully awake.

There once was a town. It was a quaint little town, in a quiet valley, where life moved at the pace of snails and the only road in was the only way out, too. There was a candy store that sold the sweetest honey taffy you ever tasted, and a garden store that grew exotic, beautiful blooms year-round. The local café was named after a possum that tormented its owner for years, and the chef there made the best honey French toast in the Northeast. There was a bar where the bartender always knew your name, and always served your burgers slightly burnt, though the local hot sauce always disguised the taste. If you wanted to stay the weekend, you could check-in at the new bed-and-breakfast in town--- just as soon as its renovations were finished, and just a pleasant hike up Honeybee Trail was a waterfall there, rumor had it, if you made a wish underneath it, the wish would come true. There was a drugstore, a grocer, a jewelry store that was open only when Mercury was in of retrograde--- And, oh, there was a bookstore. It was tucked into an unassuming corner of an old brick building fitted with a labyrinthine maze of shelves stocked with hundreds of books. In the back corner was a reading space with a fireplace, and chairs so cozy you could sink into them for hours while you read. The rafters were filled with glass chimes that, when the sunlight came in through the top windows, would send dapples of colors flooding across the stacks of books, painting them in rainbows. A family of starlings roosted in the eaves, and sang different songs every morning, in time with the tolls of the clock tower. The town was quiet in that cozy, sleepy way that if you closed your eyes, you could almost hear the valley breathe as wind crept through it, between the buildings, and was sighed out again.

Katherine Harper knew something was wrong when she opened her front door late Tuesday morning and saw Matilda sitting outside her apartment. Kat scrunched up her nose as she looked down at the cat. “Matty, what are you doing here? You live next door.

The way I love you is inexplicable. It’s so much more than just wanting to be with you but needing to more than anything. I need you, because without you, something will always be missing in this life, just out of reach. Because you make everything better, and everything makes sense. “You’re all the best parts, the cozy snuggles, the quiet conversations while we’re lying in bed, the sleepy mornings. The way my whole body comes alive when I see you for the first time after coming home, the way your face lights up and you jump into my arms and hold me like you need me as much as I need you.

Instead of dwelling on the factory of sadness that was the aftermath of Autumn’s death, I cut to the chase. “After that, I threw myself into my business and then helped my parents settle into their new house here. Anything to keep my mind off not having her with me. I was numb for a long time, trying to move on as she would have wanted me to do. It was so hard.” I paused, thinking about those dark moments that involved way too much bourbon. “I was like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, doing the same thing over and over each day with no purpose in life. Stuck in a rut. Big time. Then one morning, I came across the body of my friend Paige Whitaker behind my bookstore, and something possessed me to figure out who did it.

He was like a living lullaby. A softly spoken word. The smell of coffee and toast in the morning or a cozy fleece blanket. The rain pattering on the roof on a day where you don’t have to go anywhere or do anything.

Promptly, I order a box filled with the doughnuts I know she loves, every autumn recipe rebelling against the Christmas flavors that shouldered their way in the day after Thanksgiving. No chocolate and peppermint or gingerbread and eggnog for Kate. She loves pumpkin pie and spiced apples, cinnamon and maple syrup, everything that reminds her of the grandeur of turning leaves, the cozy joy of starlit bonfires and sipping mugs of cider, the quiet beauty of waking up to a misty autumn morning.

I looked up to see my mother on the ancient porch swing on the back deck, snug in a cozy bathrobe and fleece slippers, a mug of something steaming in her hand. It was almost eleven, but my mom was a big fan of stretching her mornings as far as they could go.

Chapter Twenty-Four Not surprisingly, the next morning, I woke up with pie on my mind.  While I could try to ignore my craving, deep down, I realized how

Does this car have Bluetooth?” Oliver chuckles. “Yes, Princess Estelle, is it up to par with your inspection?” I stop moving my hand over the dash and set it back on my lap, feeling a blush creep into my face. “I liked your old car better,” I say. Oliver’s eyebrows hike up and he turns to gape at me. “You like my beat-up Maxima better than this?” I shrug. “It was more cozy. This reminds me of the Batmobile, and there’s nothing wrong with the Batmobile, but I like cozy.” He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath, but starts to look for my phone to hook up to Bluetooth. He already knows it’s because I want to play my own music—I don’t even have to explain. I used to bring my own CD whenever I was in the car with him. Oliver listens to two things: heavy rock and rap, and while I’m okay with both, I prefer the classics. The Steve Miller Band hasn’t even gotten to the hook before they’re interrupted by a call from Mia. Oliver looks at me with a question in his eyes. “If you don’t mind,” I say. He presses the button, and before I say hello, Mia’s frantic voice comes through. “What underwear are you wearing?” she asks. My face goes hot for the second time this morning. From the corner of my eye, I see Oliver bite down on his lip. “What?” I ask. “Mia, you’re on speaker phone!” “I don’t care. This is an emergency. Do you not hear the shrill tone in my voice? What are you wearing under your clothes?” My eyes snap to the side of Oliver’s face, then out the front window, and finally, I pull my shirt slightly and look down, because I completely forgot what underwear I have on. “Can you disconnect the phone?” I say to Oliver, who shakes his head in refusal. “Please. This is like . . . monumentally embarrassing.” “Just answer,” he whispers. “Who’s that?” Mia asks. “Oliver. We’re in his car, and you’re on the fucking Bluetooth.” She laughs. “Oh my God! I am so sorry, Bean!” “What?” I shout. “He’s not the one being harassed!” “Oh, but now he is. So tell me—underwear?” “White lace bra and matching boy shorts,” I say, almost through my teeth, not missing the way Oliver’s eyes snap to me with an approving look. I want to slap him for it, but I know nothing good would come of that, so I just cross my arms over my chest like a petulant child.

Time passed fast and I was coming out from the reputed engineering college at last after the same Professor had intervened with the college authority for holding the examination in spite of political troubles, prevailing during seventies in Calcutta. The sprawling complex of the university would suddenly vanish from my view. I would be missing the chirping of the birds in early morning, view of green grass of the football field right in front of our building, badly mauled by the students and pedestrians who used to cut short their journey moving across the field, whistling of steam trains passing parallel to the backside of boundary wall of our building, stentorian voice of our Professors, ever smiling and refreshing faces of the learned Professors every day. I would definitely miss the opportunity of gossiping on a bench by the lake side with other students, not to speak of your girlfriend with whom you would try to be cozy with to keep yourself warm when the chilling breeze, which put roses in girls’ cheeks but made sinuses ache, cut across you in its journey towards the open field during winter. The charm of walking along the lonely streets proscribed for outsiders and bowing occasionally when you meet the Professors of repute, music and band for the generation of ear deafening sound - both symphony and cacophony, on Saturdays and Sundays in the auditorium, rhythmic sound of machines in the workshop, hurly-burly of laughter of my friends, talks, cries at the top of  their lunges in the canteen and sudden departures of all from the canteen on hearing the ding-dong sound of the big bell hung in the administration building indicating the end of the period would no longer be there. The street fighting of two groups of students on flimsy grounds and passionate speeches of the students during debate competition would no longer be audible. Shaking of long thin pine trees violently by the storm flowing across these especially during summer, shouting and gesticulation of students’ union members while moving around the campus for better amenities or administration, getting caught with friends all around with revolvers in hand during the violent Naxalite movement, hiding in the toilet in canteen to avoid beating by police personnel, dropping of mangoes from a mango tree which spread its wings in all directions during the five years we were in the college near our building and running together by us to pick the green/ripe mangoes as fast as possible defying inclement weather and rain etc. were simply irresistible. The list was endless. I was going to miss very much the competition among us regarding number of mangoes we could collect for our few girlfriends whom we wanted to impress! I

I woke up to the tossing and turning of a disgruntled cat – because the thing about my cat is that when he’s disgruntled, he makes darned sure I know about it. This time, I wasn’t playing along. It was early on a Sunday morning, and I hadn’t exactly had a restful night. He tossed and turned again, moving closer to me so that I could feel it even more. He then sighed a few times, just for extra effect.

Evangeline reached for the pot and froze. It was empty. Her gaze darted to the power light, which was not glowing green and happy. Therefore, she was not glowing green and happy. “What fresh hell is this?” she demanded, checking the grounds carafe. It was full, so that wasn’t the issue. She opened the water lid. It, too, was full. She pushed the brew now button, but nothing happened. Still no happy, glowy green. She glared at the machine she’d purchased specifically because it boasted a timer— so the brewed goodness would be waiting on her each morning, not the other way around.

involved in.” “I hear you. I hear you,” I muttered as I crossed my arms. I felt my bottom lip start to pop out and I immediately caught myself and stopped the pouting before it started. By then we were at the Rectory and I suppressed any errant indignation while I enjoyed a scrumptious meal cooked especially for us by the owner, Anthony Lasorda. After a glass of sweet wine for dessert, George dropped me off at home. We both had early mornings the next day and decided to sleep at our respective homes. The next day was indeed busy. Clancy and I went to work, and saw some clients. Clancy is a therapy dog and makes a big contribution.

It is hard to explain but you go through life with a set of things that sort of form a bed for all the other things your head is full of to rest on. Stuff like when you get up in the morning the sun is going to be there shining down on you. That the cliffs that surround Moab were going to be red & not pea-green like the grass growing between the bricks that run the path up to your trailer. Some things get real comfy cozy in your head & you expect them to be there so much that you forget they are there. In fact they are pretty much Invisible. Its just not things that you can see & touch like the sun & the color of the cliffs. Some things are apart of you that you can never see until all of the sudden something comes & wants to rearrange the whole shebang.

As Ross entered the kitchen, he saw Ernest sitting at the scrubbed wooden table. The boy wolfed down a plate of breakfast as if it were the first decent meal he'd had in months. Sophia stood at the range with the scrawny cook-maid, apparently showing her how to prepare the morning's fare. "Turn them like this," Sophia was saying, expertly flipping a row of little cakes on a griddle pan. The kitchen atmosphere was especially fragrant today, spiced with frying bacon, coffee, and sizzling batter. Sophia looked fresh and wholesome, the trim curves of her figure outlined by a white apron that covered her charcoal-gray dress. Her gleaming hair was pinned in a coil at the top of her head and tied with a blue ribbon. As she saw him standing in the doorway, a smile lit her sapphire eyes, and she was so dazzlingly pretty that Ross felt a painful jab low in his stomach. "Good morning, Sir Ross," she said. "Will you have some breakfast?" "No, thank you," he replied automatically. "Only a jug of coffee. I never..." He paused as the cook set a platter on the table. It was piled with steaming batter cakes sitting in a pool of blackberry sauce. He had a special fondness for blackberries. "Just one or two?" Sophia coaxed. Abruptly it became less important that he adhere to his usual habits. Perhaps he could make time for a little breakfast, Ross reasoned. A five-minute delay would make no difference in his schedule. He found himself seated at the table facing a plate heaped with cakes, crisp bacon, and coddled eggs. Sophia filled a mug with steaming black coffee, and smiled at him once more before resuming her place at the range with Eliza. Ross picked up his fork and stared at it as if he didn't quite know what to do with it. "They're good, sir," Ernest ventured, stuffing his mouth so greedily that it seemed likely he would choke. Ross took a bite of the fruit-soaked cake and washed it down with a swallow of hot coffee. As he continued to eat, he felt an unfamiliar sense of well-being. Good God, it had been a long time since he'd had anything other than Eliza's wretched concoctions. For the next few minutes Ross ate until the platter of cakes was demolished. Sophia came now and then to refill his cup or offer more bacon. The cozy warmth of the kitchen and the sight of Sophia as she moved about the room caused a tide of unwilling pleasure inside him.

Friday afternoon, an area resident was on a morning stroll when he stumbled on the decomposing body of an unidentified man in a wooded area behind Belhaven Elementary School. Details are slowly being released but it appears the unfortunate victim had been stabbed multiple times.

Alice replied, rather shyly, “I—I hardly know, sir, just at present—at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.