Crashing Melody Quotes

.....and I smile and know why people write music and paint and dance, lifted as if they can fly, because this ache crashing inside needs to be free. sometimes, love becomes a melody others hum for years.

My hair smells of oceanic wind My eyes are two starfish The charming, turquoise sea is seducing me The rhythms of the calming Crashing waves are my guide Omnipotent, almost holy, They seek to cleanse my polluted soul Here, by the seductive sea, I am unshackled. I am free. I am me.

It was not the sorrowful, lovely piece she had once played for Dorian, and it was not the light, dancing melodies she'd played for sport; it was not the complex and clever pieces she had played for Nehemia and Chaol. This piece was a celebration—a reaffirmation of life, of glory, of the pain and beauty in breathing. Perhaps that was why she'd gone to hear it performed every year, after so much killing and torture and punishment: as a reminder of that she was, of what she struggled to keep. Up and up it built, the sound breaking from the pianoforte like the heart-song of a god, until Rowan drifted over to stand beside the instrument, until she whispered to him, “Now,” and the crescendo shattered into the world, note after note after note. The music crashed around them, roaring through the emptiness of the theater. The hollow silence that had been inside her for so many months now overflowed with sound. She brought the piece home to its final explosive, triumphant chord. When she looked up, panting slightly, Rowan's eyes were lined with silver, his throat bobbing. Somehow, after all this time, her warrior-prince still managed to surprise her. He seemed to struggle for words, but he finally breathed, “Show me—show me how you did that.” So she obliged him.

You drink your whiskey, I’ll drink my wine. Later when we’re fevered and tipsy we’ll make savage love divine. Until then, let’s swim in the warm, opal sea of each other. Crash a few innocent waves, skinny dip, laugh and get lost in those blood-pumping hearts, and for a time forget all our broken parts.

I’m passing the bar Where you first got in my car I’m not ashamed to admit That it’s you I won’t forget I saved your cigarettes and Bad habits I regret But the hours flew by like clouds Whenever I had you around Parachute lover Take me away From the plane that went crashing And the earth that’s in flames Saving you is saving me High above the redwood trees But down below I see shadows And parachute debris We're drifting like children Along for the ride Each time we find love Another parachute arrives Our madness will burn As bright as the sun And I’ll keep finding lovers But you were the one

When it comes to matters of the heart and soul, I'm not a falling kind of girl. I'm more of a slamming, crashing, erupting...

It wasn’t her hypnotic eyes that drew him in or the wild sway of her hips; it was that devil’s blood-red lipstick smeared all over her chubby angel lips. He shivered with the magnitude of impending heaven and hell in one woman. He crashed into heaven while crossing the thresholds of hell.

You were nothing more than a daydream that a beautiful heart was bound to fall in love with, and daydreams aren't real and beautiful hearts trust easily, fall fast and crash hard.

You were a storm I chased to get my kicks and have some fun; it backfired when I crashed hard in love.

Sometimes I find myself in the eye of my own hurricane.… He was trouble in my life interrupting my world crashing into my dreams but I was a fucking storm the lightening to his thunder so, what more could a little chaos add but a beautiful catastrophic eruption.

He had his eyes closed and rocked himself so much that everyone thought he would soon crash to the ground. And then it happened. He crashed to the ground. Surprised, he lay on the ground on his side, not sure what had happened, looking around. Next he jumped up and listened to Matica’s singing again, starting to rock himself once more. His eyes closed slowly, his beak opened. And then he crashed to the ground a second time. This time he kept lying down, spreading his free wing up into the air and waving it to the tune of the melody. Strange sounds came out of his beak. It was a grunt but more than a grunt, as if he was really enjoying himself, as if he would follow Matica’s words and would sing or hum as well.

To me, love is paramount when choosing a mate. It will stand the test of time when the winds blow and the tempest of the outside world tries to tear the marriage apart like the shifting of the waves of an ocean crashing to shore. Love has to be the driving force or the marriage will not last in today’s world.

me, love is paramount when choosing a mate. It will stand the test of time when the winds blow and the tempest of the outside world tries to tear the marriage apart like the shifting of the waves of an ocean crashing to shore. Love has to be the driving force or the marriage will not last in today’s world.

Well, I think Leo's either going to learn a much needed lesson in social activity-- or go nuts and kill us all." -Crash

The choir box is empty this morning, and I long for some kind of melody, the crash of the organ, the flight of angelic voices. My fingers twitch against the fabric of my dress and I close my eyes, remembering the Debussy, the Brahms lullaby I played each night before bed, my face pressed to the pad beneath my chin, arms cutting the air around me. The fact that Luke doesn't deserve music, the blissful lilt and salvation of it, make me, for some reason, saddest of all.

The “song” (he felt the word’s inadequacy, but knew no other word for it) had taken on for him all the significance of a historical, even a revolutionary event. He wondered how its existence had never been celebrated, or indeed mentioned in the newspapers. The music itself seemed to invite, even demand, a revolutionary interpretation. Not just in the sheer immensity of its sounds, the tremendous, earth-shaking importance asserted in its whispers and crashes, but in its progression, the very arrangement of its notes. The song began with trilling ups and downs that surely signified the fermenting, but disorganized, dissatisfaction of the pre-revolutionary proletariat; then, as though from afar, there entered for the first time the major melody, the sad but uplifting theme that came in to give sudden coherence, order, and direction to the impotent turmoil; and eventually, after a few unforeseen deviations, interruptions, and delays that could only signify the War itself, the rising and falling turmoil dropped entirely away, and only the theme remained, stronger and clearer than ever. And

melody kept him company. There was a rustle of leaves close by as an animal scampered through the dense foliage. His anticipation grew at the sound of the waves crashing below. Two long months had passed since he’d been surfing. He wasn’t a kid any more. His work and family kept him busy. Sean had been born here in San Clemente,

I need to warm up,” she blurted, and plunged in without another word, playing as softly as she could. Once she had started seeing the notes in her mind again, when muscle memory had her fingers reaching for those familiar chords, she began. It was not the sorrowful, lovely piece she had once played for Dorian, and it was not the light, dancing melodies she’d played for sport; it was not the complex and clever pieces she had played for Nehemia and Chaol. This piece was a celebration—a reaffirmation of life, of glory, of the pain and beauty in breathing. Perhaps that was why she’d gone to hear it performed every year, after so much killing and torture and punishment: as a reminder of what she was, of what she struggled to keep. Up and up it built, the sound breaking from the pianoforte like the heart-song of a god, until Rowan drifted over to stand beside the instrument, until she whispered to him, “Now,” and the crescendo shattered into the world, note after note after note. The music crashed around them, roaring through the emptiness of the theater. The hollow silence that had been inside her for so many months now overflowed with sound. She brought the piece home to its final explosive, triumphant chord. When she looked up, panting slightly, Rowan’s eyes were lined with silver, his throat bobbing. Somehow, after all this time, her warrior-prince still managed to surprise her. He seemed to struggle for words, but he finally breathed, “Show me—show me how you did that.” So she obliged him.

My heart is a fevered, pulsing pendulum; it aches and beats back and forth, between the silver shadow of the moon and crashing expanse of the sea. And like an eclipse, my heart is a shadow, and then the dark.

One night around two a.m., I heard the piano suddenly start playing at high volume. Going downstairs from my office to shut it off, I saw Salar sitting at the keyboard in the half-light, ripping through a Chopin scherzo and filling the small space with his frenetic finger work. I stood and watched as he flawlessly hammered out notes, the sound crashing against the walls, the windows, the furniture, as if it needed to break free and soar across the moonlit wetlands just outside our door. The piece felt familiar to me. Then I realized that it wasn't the melody but the tempo — the mad racing pace, the unrelenting forward momentum - that I knew all too well. It felt like Google chasing opportunity through the night.

weary old ox, after hearing the old man’s lesson, raised his head as if admitting his mistake. Pulling the plow, he began to move forward. I noticed the old man’s back was just as black as the ox’s. Even though the pair had already entered the twilight of their lives, they still managed to noisily plough the rugged land, the earth breaking up like a wave crashing on the shore. Afterward I heard the old man’s hoarse yet moving voice sing an old folk song. First he sang a long introductory melody, then came two lines of verse:

The greatest journeys didn’t arrive on smooth breezes. They swept in on gales that brought crashing thunder and torrents of barbwire rain.

Curled time It was the moment of last reckoning, The last moment for time and life as well, Because for long life had been meandering, Along the highways of time, until they all crashed and fell, They fell into the self terminating moments of time, For time no longer found a reason to tarry in this world, It had lost its melody, its symphony, and its every happy rhyme, Thus forcing time to create moments that always flowed in formations curled, Always moving back to where they began, Thereby cancelling every prospect of future, With future dead, the present too died and moments of time no longer ran, Because there was no present to stand on, no future to go to, and ah the time’s torture, To live in this curled formation, Where every moment ended the moment it began, Time existed but it had lost its original sensation, Now that present didn't exist , future had no existence at all; I wondered whose was this plan, Not the Sky, not the Earth, not the Sun and not at all the Moon, They all existed in their orbits like before, So who could be this senseless goon, Who forced time to lead a curled path, where only past existed now and rest it was forced to ignore, Life existed like a past memory, Where nothing new took place, It was like a devil’s ceremony, Whee the guest of honour was expected to be the grace, And can there be a worst oxymoron than this, Where the devil romances the grace, And when the devil approached her with the desire to kiss, Grace fled into the curled formation of time and thus began the eternal race, Where grace is at the front tip of these curled moments of time, The hungry Devil is chasing her in the last moment riding this curl, Grace who is keen not to commit this crime, Keeps running, as if on the fast moving rollet of life it were a forcefully cast pearl, Where the pearl wants to stop, to feel the moments passing by, But the rollet of life moves relentlessly in the time’s curl, And the pearl turns dizzy when the speed is too high, But the thought about the devil forces it to stay within this endless whirl.

The shadows are lengthening for me. The twilight is here. My days of old have vanished tone and tint; they have gone glimmering through the dreams of things that were. Their memory is one of wondrous beauty, watered by tears, and coaxed and caressed by the smiles of yesterday. I listen vainly for the witching melody of faint bugles blowing reveille, of far drums beating the long roll. In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield. But in the evening of my memory, always I come back to West Point. Always there echoes and re-echoes Duty—Honor—Country. Today marks my final roll call with you, but I want you to know that when I cross the river my last conscious thoughts will be of The Corps, and The Corps, and The Corps. I bid you farewell.

I write what I can't say out loud. I'm trying not to think about you, but I can't resist. My mind drifts to your slow smile, how it moves from your lips to your eyes– or is it the reverse? How it lifts me from my ordinary self. Do you ever want to hold my hand? When we're talking, and others join us, when you laugh with them, I feel tangled up inside, angry. I struggle not to be rude. I want to be alone with you. I love our aloneness. When I listen to music, I imagine slow dancing with you, and you whisper into my hair, 'You are my one true love,' and I smile and know why people write music and paint and dance, lifted as if they can fly, because this ache crashing inside needs to be free. Sometimes, love becomes a melody others hum for years.

If his mutism was the symbolic death of the ego, it helped birth ‘Warszawa’ as an aural space, a city sensually reimagined. The ‘words’ – sula vie delejo – have the open vowel sounds of Japanese and the melodious thickness of Italian, sound objects that emanate from well inside the body and that crystalize in the vocals rather than on the written page, a language of intensity rather than intelligibility. The struggle to complete sentences also resulted in the fragmented ‘Breaking Glass’, the lyric-free ‘Speed of Life’ and ‘A New Career in a New Town’ (the intention was to write lyrics for both), the vibrating wordless chorus of ‘Weeping Wall’, the autistic private language of ‘Subterraneans’, the emotional interjections (‘Ahhhh’) of ‘What in the World’, the circularity of ‘Always Crashing in the Same Car’ and the repetitions of ‘Be My Wife’.

A large looming wave crashed down on the aircraft, slamming it into the water. The fuselage tumbled into the swell as it began to rise again. Both Nick and Gail were tossed inside the deathtrap. The crew in back must have lost their mics because they were radio silent. With one final hit,

You didn’t waltz into my life like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing on air. Quite the contrary, you made a crash landing in the center of my heart, blazing guns and glory.