Fluffy Clouds Quotes

When you take your step your dream comes true,you see the sky with fluffy clouds you take your breath-the flowers bloom you belth your way to the top of the mountain you see the sky it leaves you nothing but bumps the rain comes down the lighting hits you are the thunder and Im your lighting just deal with everything Naturally.

Sometimes the fluffy bunny of incredulity zooms round the bend so rapidly that the greyhound of language is left, agog, in the starting cage.

A Poem By Max White is the color of little bunnies with pink noses. White is the color of fluffy clouds fluffing their way across the sky. White is the color of angel's wings and Angel's wings. White is the color of brand-new ankle socks fresh out of the bag. White is the color of crisp sheets in schmancy hotels. White is the color of every last freaking, gol-danged thing you see for endless miles and miles if you happen to be in Antarctica trying to save the world, which now you aren't so sure you can do because you feel like if you see any more whiteness-Wonder Bread, someone's underwear, teeth-you will completely and totally lose your ever-lovin' mind and wind up pushing a grocery cart full of empty cans around New York City, muttering to yourself. That was my first poem ever. Okay, so it's not Shakespeare, but I liked it.

My idea of Heaven has nothing to do with fluffy clouds or angels. In my Heaven there's butter pecan ice cream and swimming pools and baseball games. The Brooklyn Dodgers always win, and I have the best seat in the house, right behind the Dodger's dugout. That's the only advantage that I can see about being dead: You get the best seat in the house.

I swallow. My hands ungrip the cliff. Trust. I will not fall, I will float. Up into their high blue sky full of fluffy clouds and rainbows. Up, up, up into the pink mist and the laughing light.

Would you like some warm Spring pie? Then, take a cup of clear blue sky. Stir in buzzes from a bee, Add the laughter of a tree. A dash of sunlight should suffice To give the dew a hint of spice. Mix with berries, plump and sweet. Top with fluffy clouds, and eat!

POOR ANGUS Oh what do you do, poor Angus, When hunger makes you cry? "I fix myself an omelet, sir, Of fluffy clouds and sky." Oh what do you wear, poor Angus, When winds blow down the hills? "I sew myself a warm cloak, sir, Of hope and daffodils." Oh who do you love, poor Angus, When Catherine's left the moor? "Ah, then, sir, then's the only time I feel I'm really poor.

surprised his head doesn’t spin and his eyeballs don’t bug out. “Um.” His gaze bounces around the bathroom like a rubber ball. He looks at the towel rack, where his cargo pants are hanging. He looks at the bathtub, where I’m lounging like Cleo-fucking-patra. He looks at the bubbles surrounding my body like a fluffy white cloud. And then he looks at Winston. “Dude,” I blurt out. “It’s not what it looks like.” “Nope, nope, nope, I don’t want to know!

Before skyscrapers, only gods and angels inhabited the limitless sky, wayfarers of the heavenly plain, lingering long on soft, fluffy clouds, enjoying unrivaled views of earth. Who could resist such nobility for neighbors?

I think perhaps love thrives on unlikely circumstances and chance : life thrives on these principles, and is life not love? And love not life?

[Daniel] was still glowing, as if lit from within. She could still clearly see his violet-gray eyes and his full mouth. His strong hands and broad shoulders. She could reach out and fold herself into her love's light. He reached for her. Luce closed her eyes at his touch, expecting something too otherworldly for her human body to withstand. But no. It was simply, reassuringly, Daniel. She reached around his back to finger his wings. She reached for them nervously, as if they could burn her, but they flowed around her fingers, softer than the smoothest velvet, the plushest rug. The way she'd like to imagine that a fluffy, sun-drenched cloud would feel if she could cup it in her hands. "You're so...beautiful.

You only had to see a unicorn lay open the side of a centaur once, the ribcage flashing white when the ripped skin flopped down, to swear a mighty oath never to fuck with or even look at another unicorn again. I'm putting down the hearts and fluffy clouds and backing away slowly. Don't want any trouble here. You can have all the rainbows.

Above our heads exists an infinity of unfathomable fantasiastics: and fields of future fireside fables trail close behind

I think it was Donald Mainstock, the great amateur squash player who pointed out how lovely I was. Until that time I think it was safe to say that I had never really been aware of my own timeless brand of loveliness. But his words smote me, because of course you see, I am lovely in a fluffy moist kind of way and who would have it otherwise? I walk, and let’s be splendid about this, in a highly accented cloud of gorgeousness that isn't far short of being, quite simply terrific. The secret of smooth almost shiny loveliness, of the order of which we are discussing, in this simple, frank, creamy sort of way, doesn't reside in oils, unguents, balms, ointments, creams, astringents, milks, moisturizers, liniments, lubricants, embrocations or balsams, to be rather divine for just one noble moment, it resides, and I mean this in a pink slightly special way, in ones attitude of mind. To be gorgeous, and high and true and fine and fluffy and moist and sticky and lovely, all you have to do is believe that one is gorgeous and high and true and fine and fluffy and moist and sticky and lovely. And I believe it of myself, tremulously at first and then with rousing heat and passion, because, stopping off for a second to be super again, I’m so often told it. That’s the secret really.

A moment later, Garrett Graham’s deep voice comes on the line. “Clean sheets are in the linen closet, and you might want to bring your own pillow. Wellsy thinks mine are too soft.” “They are too soft,” Hannah protests. “It’s like sleeping on a soggy marshmallow.” “It’s like sleeping on a fluffy cloud,” Garrett corrects. “Trust me, Allie, my pillows rock. But you should still bring your own, just in case.

Saying I’m fat is (and should be) the same as saying my shoes are black, the clouds are fluffy, and Bob Saget is tall. It’s not good, it’s not bad, it just is. The only negativity that this word carries is that which has been socially constructed around it.… We don’t need to stop using the word fat, we need to stop the hatred that our world connects with the word fat.2

The funny thing is, I’m actually quite interested in the Bible, and I’ve tried to read it several times. But I’ve only ever got as far as the bit about Moses being 720 years old, and I’m like, `What were these people smoking back then?’ The bottom line is I don’t believe in a bloke called God in a white suit who sits on a fluffy cloud any more than I believe in a bloke called the Devil with a three-pronged fork and a couple of horns. But I believe that there’s day, there’s night, there’s good, there’s bad, there’s black, there’s white. If there is a God, it’s nature. If there’s a Devil, it’s nature.

Robes, dresses, frocks. They hung in endless rows, in hundreds, one beside the other all around the room - gleaming brocade, fluffy clouds of tulle and swansdown, flowery silk, night-black velvet with glittering spangles everywhere like small, many-coloured blinker beacons.

I think the most heavenly food is fluffy white clouds.

When a clumsy cloud from here, meets a fluffy little cloud from there, he billows towards her. She scurries away, and he scuds right up to her. She cries a little, and there you have your showers. He comforts her, they spark! That's the lightning. They kiss........Thunder.

The tropical sun flickered between the swaying fronds of palm trees overhead. Ray and Ilsa rubbed their necks and blinked as they came out of their stupor. Their hair stood on end in frazzled locks, like quills upon the fretful porcupine. Their clothes were scorched, but they were alive. Or were they? Speechless, they gazed at their surroundings. Above them was an azure sky with fluffy clouds shaped like Spanish galleons sailing across a celestial sea. Birds chattered and sang in the foliage, which was fragrant and brilliant with blue, and pink and yellow flowers. Had they died? Was this heaven? Or, perish the thought, since obviously they were in the tropics, the other place?

I've been told that my belly is soft as a fluffy cloud. No one can resist my magical belly. Not even grumpy humans.

In all, there were ten different types of clouds: cumulus, stratos, cumulonimbus, stratocumulus, nimbostratus, altocumulus, altostratus, cirrocumulus, cirrostratus, and cirrus – each with their own personality: fluffy, detached, transparent, thin, continuous, gray, heavy, dense, semi-transparent, and layered, which I use to describe my own moods and feelings at any given time.

When the worst of the melancholy moments took over me, not even the blue spring sky or the fluffy clouds piled high like wisps of cotton could remove the darkness inside. Grief was my new companion, the wraith that haunted my heart. I hated it, and clung to it at the same time.

On the contrary, he was a man with both feet firmly on the ground, the only difficulty being that the ground in question was on some other planet, the one with the fluffy pink clouds and the happy little bunnies.

He looks at the bathtub, where I’m lounging like Cleo-fucking-patra. He looks at the bubbles surrounding my body like a fluffy white cloud. And then he looks at Winston. “Dude,” I blurt out. “It’s not what it looks like.” “Nope, nope, nope, I don’t want to know!” Logan throws his hands in the air and starts backing toward the door as if he accidentally walked into a lion’s den. He halts. Snatches his pants off the rack. Continues backing away. His eyes once again focus on the pink dildo two inches from my hand. I try again. “I promise you, it’s not—” “I don’t want to know.

But it does seem like I’m always the one who has to speak up and tell everyone how I’m different. I have to find a way to help them understand me, even though I don’t really understand them either. Having a gender? Why? Feeling like your body and who you are inside line up all the time? How? Identifying with other folks of your assigned gender as a kid, when I identified with things like extra-fluffy cumulus clouds and nebulas? What does that even feel like? I get nervous trying to explain myself sometimes. I get tired. I grow sharp edges where I didn’t think I had any. And I definitely get to the point where I just want to bury myself in baking and not deal with any of it.

I've been told that my belly is soft as a fluffy cloud. No one can resist my magical belly. Not even grumpy humans.

they described how they were able to draw website visitors’ attention to the goal of comfort merely by placing fluffy clouds on the background wallpaper of the site’s

Children see God every day; they just don't call it that. It's the summer sky painted with cumulus clouds by day and sequined with a million stars by night. It's the sweet whispers of sweet gum trees and the sounds riding the tops of honeysuckle-scented breezes. Children feel God stuffed into brown fluffy dogs with stitches strong enough to withstand a good squeeze, and on the lips of round women who can't get enough sugar from Chocolate. I began to believe that God is us and nature, beauty and love, mystery and majesty, everything right and good.

I am here now to tell you that you were wrong. Family is not the only thing that matters. There are other things: Pachelbel’s Canon in D matters, and fresh-picked corn on the cob, and true friends, and the sound of the ocean, and the poems of William Carlos Williams, and the constellations in the sky, and random acts of kindness, and a garden on the day when all its flowers are at their peak. Fluffy pancakes matter and crisp clean sheets and the guitar riff in “Layla,” and the way clouds look when you are above them in an airplane. Preserving the coral reef matters, and the thirty-four paintings of Johannes Vermeer matter, and kissing matters.

There are all the other times when I take a rosary, or misbaha, with thirty-three beads. God has nine-nine names, and if I go around the misbaha three times, God recycles Himself three times. It’s a reminder that He shows up in our lives over and over again. He is One with many names, just as we are all One on earth. The difference is God accepts difference and diversity, while we’re here trying to walk around like a fluffy holy cloud, each one claiming to know what God knows is best for us. I ask you again, in a different way, wouldn’t life be boring if we all walk around like a holy fluffy cloud, saying we are God’s mouth? Or perhaps we don’t believe in a God, in which case, we simply call ourselves Taylor Swift?

A couple hours went by, and the storm began to turn back to the sea. The dark clouds rolled away, leaving white, fluffy ones in their place. We were safe, and the rock in the distance was still there. We stepped out of the car and walked over to the rock, noticing the families of seals were back again. The seals were strong and ready to make it through any storm that would fall their way. My parents’ love was still there; that is what love means. I envy that love, and I hoped to find it someday... and I did.

Overcoming panic attacks has left me humbled. It’s taught me how to be brave. It’s left me compassionate to the fears and sufferings of other people. It’s given me the wisdom that my thoughts and feelings are simply subjective responses, and don’t need to be taken as true reflections of reality. But the most important thing I’ve learnt from coping with panic is this: No matter what happens in life, no matter how hard things seem, no matter how painful things are, moments always pass like fluffy clouds in a blue sky, and I will be fine.

Purple snow capped mountains marched off in either direction, with clouds floating around their middles like fluffy belts. In a massive valley between two of the largest peaks, a ragged wall of ice rose out of the sea, filling the entire gorge. The glacier was blue and white with streaks of black, so that it looked a hedge of dirty snow left behind on a sidewalk after a snowplow had gone by, only four million times as large.

In addition to the little ecosystem developing around my raft, I am constantly surrounded by a display of natural wonders. The acrobatic dorados perform beneath ballets of fluffy white clouds. The clouds glide across the sky until they join at the horizon to form whirling, flaming sunsets that are slowly doused by nightfall. Then, as if the sun had suddenly crashed, thousands of glistening galaxies are flung out into deep black night. There is no bigger sky country than the sea. But I cannot enjoy the incredible beauty around me. It lies beyond my grasp, taunting me. Knowing it can be stolen from me at any time, by a Dorado or shark attack or by a deflating raft, I cannot relax and appreciate it. It is beauty surrounded by ugly fear. I write in my log that it is a view of heaven from a seat in hell.

Zillions of puppies … that’s what they got up in heaven. The softest dogs you’ve ever seen. And no poop. I don’t know what happens to the poop but it’s not in heaven. Because heaven’s clean. All those fluffy white clouds. And these zillions of puppies just jumping from cloud to cloud and you get to run and chase them all day.

You only had to see a unicorn lay open the side of a centaur once, the ribcage flashing white when the ripped skin flopped down, to swear a mighty oath never to fuck with or even look at another unicorn again. I’m putting down the hearts and fluffy clouds and backing away slowly. Don’t want any trouble here. You can have all the rainbows.

Sometimes the fluffy bunny of incredulity zooms round the bend so rapidly that the greyhound of language is left, agog, in the starting cage. A

The great Rocky Mountains, softly shaded in gray, were submerged in a sea of fluffy white clouds, feathery wisps enveloping the peaks like a kingdom of the air.

Sometimes the fluffy bunny of incredulity zooms round the bend so rapidly that the greyhound of language is left, agog, in the starting cage. A feisty

The lovely blue sky was dotted with lazy, fluffy white clouds, slowly meandering their way to another destination a little far away.

He looks at the bathtub, where I’m lounging like Cleo-fucking-patra. He looks at the bubbles surrounding my body like a fluffy white cloud. And then he looks at Winston. “Dude,” I blurt out. “It’s not what it looks like.” “Nope, nope, nope, I don’t want to know!” Logan throws his hands in the air and starts backing toward the door as if he accidentally walked into a lion’s den. He halts. Snatches his pants off the rack. Continues backing away. His eyes once again focus on the pink dildo two inches from my hand. I try again. “I promise you, it’s not—” “I don’t want to know.

Consider how the sky is unharmed by the clouds that pass through it, whether they are light and fluffy-looking or dark and formidable. A mountain is not moved by the winds blowing over it, whether gentle or fierce. The ocean is not destroyed by the waves moving on its surface, whether high or low. In just that way, no matter what we experience, some aspect of ourselves remains unharmed. This is the innate happiness of awareness.

We entered the cool cave of the practice space with all the long-haired, goateed boys stoned on clouds of pot and playing with power tools. I tossed my fluffy coat into the hollow of my bass drum and lay on the carpet with my worn newspaper. A shirtless boy came in and told us he had to cut the power for a minute, and I thought about being along in the cool black room with Joey. Let's go smoke, she said, and I grabbed the cigarettes off the amp. She started talking to me about Wonder Woman. I feel like something big is happening, but I don't know what to do about it. With The Straight Girl? I asked in the blankest voice possible. With everything. Back in the sun we walked to the edge of the parking lot where a black Impala convertible sat, rusted and rotting, looking like it just got dredged from a swamp. Rainwater pooling on the floor. We climbed up onto it and sat our butts backward on the edge of the windshield, feet stretched into the front seat. Before she even joined the band, I would think of her each time I passed the car, the little round medallions with the red and black racing flags affixed to the dash. On the rusting Chevy, Joey told me about her date the other night with a girl she used to like who she maybe liked again. How her heart was shut off and it felt pretty good. How she just wanted to play around with this girl and that girl and this girl and I smoked my cigarette and went Uh-Huh. The sun made me feel like a restless country girl even though I'd never been on a farm. I knew what I stood for, even if nobody else did. I knew the piece of me on the inside, truer than all the rest, that never comes out. Doesn't everyone have one? Some kind of grand inner princess waiting to toss her hair down, forever waiting at the tower window. Some jungle animal so noble and fierce you had to crawl on your belly through dangerous grasses to get a glimpse. I gave Joey my cigarette so I could unlace the ratty green laces of my boots, pull them off, tug the linty wool tights off my legs. I stretched them pale over the car, the hair springing like weeds and my big toenail looking cracked and ugly. I knew exactly who I was when the sun came back and the air turned warm. Joey climbed over the hood of the car, dusty black, and said Let's lie down, I love lying in the sun, but there wasn't any sun there. We moved across the street onto the shining white sidewalk and she stretched out, eyes closed. I smoked my cigarette, tossed it into the gutter and lay down beside her. She said she was sick of all the people who thought she felt too much, who wanted her to be calm and contained. Who? I asked. All the flowers, the superheroes. I thought about how she had kissed me the other night, quick and hard, before taking off on a date in her leather chaps, hankies flying, and I sat on the couch and cried at everything she didn't know about how much I liked her, and someone put an arm around me and said, You're feeling things, that's good. Yeah, I said to Joey on the sidewalk, I Feel Like I Could Calm Down Some. Awww, you're perfect. She flipped her hand over and touched my head. Listen, we're barely here at all, I wanted to tell her, rolling over, looking into her face, we're barely here at all and everything goes so fast can't you just kiss me? My eyes were shut and the cars sounded close when they passed. The sun was weak but it baked the grime on my skin and made it smell delicious. A little kid smell. We sat up to pop some candy into our mouths, and then Joey lay her head on my lap, spent from sugar and coffee. Her arm curled back around me and my fingers fell into her slippery hair. On the February sidewalk that felt like spring.

. . . to my surprise I began to know what The Language was about, not just the part we were singing now but the whole poem. It began with the praise and joy in all creation, copying the voice of the wind and the sea. It described sun and moon, stars and clouds, birth and death, winter and spring, the essence of fish, bird, animal, and man. It spoke in what seemed to be the language of each creature. . . . It spoke of well, spring, and stream, of the seed that comes from the loins of a male creature and of the embryo that grows in the womb of the female. It pictured the dry seed deep in the dark earth, feeling the rain and the warmth seeping down to it. It sang of the green shoot and of the tawny heads of harvest grain standing out in the field under the great moon. It described the chrysalis that turns into a golden butterfly, the eggs that break to let out the fluffy bird life within, the birth pangs of woman and of beast. It went on to speak of the dark ferocity of the creatures that pounce upon their prey and plunge their teeth into it--it spoke in the muffled voice of bear and wolf--it sang the song of the great hawks and eagles and owls until their wild faces seemed to be staring into mine, and I knew myself as wild as they. It sang the minor chords of pain and sickness, of injury and old age; for a few moments I felt I was an old woman with age heavy upon me.

She led me into the salon, where buckets of mostly white flowers bloomed in every corner of the room like fluffy clouds, making it a magical olfactory experience for my nose and my spirit, the sweet aromas potent. There were roses, tulips, and peonies, as well as a few containers bursting with blood-orange flowers with saffron-colored filaments, similar in form to an amaryllis. "I mostly ordered white flowers," said Jane, pointing to an arrangement. "The clivias offer a dash of color- my concept for the exciting change to come.

Like a kite, carried by the wind, he followed her into the fluffy white clouds of her imagination. He didn't think her silly for living in the sky, but rather, he marveled at the wondrous life she had created on the outskirts of reality. He knew her love would elevate him to new emotional heights.

And then I realize: this isn’t dirty water falling from the sky. It is—literally—blood. I look up, and a droplet of blood splashes directly into my eye. I curse, rubbing my face, trying to get the blood out, but it’s everywhere, it’s like trying to dry off in the middle of the ocean. Shielding my face as best I can, I stare up into the sky. I am in the center of a cyclone. Giant white clouds swirl like a spiraling galaxy above me, the eye a tiny dark speck. The storm rages, throwing out bloody rain like punches, the wind so vicious it tears my clothes and cuts my skin. Representative Belles’s mind is swirling with dark thoughts—bloody thoughts—and they have created the biggest storm I have ever seen. I have to stop the cyclone. I have to get him into a peaceful reverie, something that he can hold on to while I root around his brain, looking for answers. I focus all of my concentration on stopping the bloody rain. The drops come slower and slower. I take a deep breath, imagining the clouds breaking up, spinning into fluffy bits of cotton-candy like clouds. I don’t open my eyes until the sounds of beating rain disappear and I can feel the warmth of the Mediterranean sun on my face.

Miriam gave her hair a preliminary drying, gathered her dressing-gown together and went upstairs. From the schoolroom came unmistakable sounds. They were evidently at dinner. She hurried to her attic. What was she to do with her hair? She rubbed it desperately—fancy being landed with hair like that, in the middle of the day! She could not possibly go down.... She must. Fraulein Pfaff would expect her to—and would be disgusted if she were not quick—she towelled frantically at the short strands round her forehead, despairingly screwed them into Hinde's and towelled at the rest. What had the other girls done? If only she could look into the schoolroom before going down—it was awful—what should she do?... She caught sight of a sodden-looking brush on Mademoiselle's bed. Mademoiselle had put hers up—she had seen her... of course... easy enough for her little fluffy clouds—she could do nothing with her straight, wet lumps—she began to brush it out—it separated into thin tails which flipped tiny drops of moisture against her hands as she brushed. Her arms ached; her face flared with her exertions. She was ravenous—she must manage somehow and go down. She braided the long strands and fastened their cold mass with extra hairpins. Then she unfastened the Hinde's—two tendrils flopped limply against her forehead. She combed them out. They fell in a curtain of streaks to her nose. Feverishly she divided them, draped them somehow back into the rest of her hair and fastened them.

only children know God. Children see God every day; they just don’t call it that. It’s the summer sky painted with cumulus clouds by day and sequined with a million stars by night. It’s the sweet whispers of sweet gum trees and the sounds riding the tops of honeysuckle-scented breezes. Children feel God stuffed into brown fluffy dogs with stitches strong enough to withstand a good squeeze, and on the lips of round women who can’t get enough sugar from Chocolate.

5-4-10 Tuesday 8:00 A.M. Made a large batch of chili and spaghetti to freeze yesterday. And some walnut fudge! Relieved the electricity is still on. It’s another beautiful sunny day with fluffy white clouds drifting by. The last cloud bank looked like a dog with nursing pups. I open the window and let in some fresh air filled with the scent of apple and plum blossoms and flowering lilacs. Feels like it’s close to 70 degrees. There’s a boy on a skate board being pulled along by his St. Bernard, who keeps turning around to see if his young friend is still on board. I’m thinking of a scene still vividly displayed in my memory. I was nine years old. I cut through the country club on my way home from school and followed a narrow stream, sucking on a jawbreaker from Ben Franklins, and I had some cherry and strawberry pixie straws, and banana and vanilla taffy inside my coat pocket. The temperature was in the fifties so it almost felt like spring. There were still large patches of snow on the fairways in the shadows and the ground was soggy from the melt off. Enthralled with the multi-layers of ice, thin sheets and tiny ice sickles gleaming under the afternoon sun, dripping, streaming into the pristine water below, running over the ribbons of green grass, forming miniature rapids and gently flowing rippling waves and all the reflections of a crystal cathedral, merging with the hidden world of a child. Seemingly endless natural sculptures. Then the hollow percussion sounds of the ice thudding, crackling under my feet, breaking off little ice flows carried away into a snow-covered cavern and out the other side of the tunnel. And I followed it all the way to bridge under Maple Road as if I didn't have a care in the world.

psychologists have shown that an individual’s choices and behavior can be influenced by “priming” them with particular words, sounds, or other stimuli. Subjects in experiments who read words like “old” and “frail” walk more slowly down the corridor when they leave the lab. Consumers in wine stores are more likely to buy German wine when German music is playing in the background, and French wine when French music is playing. Survey respondents asked about energy drinks are more likely to name Gatorade when they are given a green pen in order to fill out the survey. And shoppers looking to buy a couch online are more likely to opt for an expensive, comfortable-looking couch when the background of the website is of fluffy white clouds, and more likely to buy the harder, cheaper option when the background consists of dollar coins.11

Family is not the only thing that matters. There are other things: Pachelbel’s Canon in D matters, and fresh-picked corn on the cob, and true friends, and the sound of the ocean, and the poems of William Carlos Williams, and the constellations in the sky, and random acts of kindness, and a garden on the day when all its flowers are at their peak. Fluffy pancakes matter and crisp clean sheets and the guitar riff in “Layla,” and the way clouds look when you are above them in an airplane. Preserving the coral reef matters, and the thirty-four paintings of Johannes Vermeer matter, and kissing matters. Whether or not you register for china, crystal, and silver does not matter. Whether or not you have a full set of Tiffany dessert forks on Thanksgiving does not matter. If you want to register for these things, by all means, go ahead. My Waterford pattern is Lismore, one of the oldest. I do remember one time when I had a harrowing day at the hospital, and Nick had a Rube Goldberg project due and needed my help, and Kevin was playing Quiet Riot at top decibel in his bedroom, and Margot was tying up the house phone, and you had been plunked by the babysitter in front of the TV for five hours, and I came home and took one of my Lismore goblets out of the cabinet. I wanted to smash it against the wall. But instead I filled it with cold white wine and for ten or so minutes I sat in the quiet of the formal living room all by myself and I drank the cold wine out of that beautiful glass crafted by some lovely Irishman, and I felt better. It was probably the wine, not the glass, but you get my meaning. I will remember the impressive heft of the glass in my hand, and the way the cut of the crystal caught the day’s last rays of sunlight, but I will not miss that glass the way I will miss the sound of the ocean, or the taste of fresh-picked corn.

He reached the huge, empty throne room. Its curved white walls were lined with sleek thrones and marble pillars with swirls winding all the way up. The shooting stars and constellations from the pitch-black ceiling gleamed down at him, fluffy clouds floating aimlessly in the dark outside the arched windows. Footsteps sounded from behind, and he hid behind the nearest throne, watching the entrance as a few of the Olympian gods shuffled inside.

Meat broth? In heaven there were supposed to be angel wings, glorious songs of praise, streets lined in gold, and fluffy pink clouds.

Always Positive Is Not the Most Productive Salespeople have tried numerous ways to address the fact that prospects are motivated differently. One of the most prevalent sales tricks is to try to motivate prospects with “happy gas.” For decades, sellers have been told that attitude is everything, and the more enthusiastic you are, the more excited your prospects will become. You know the drill—flash a big smile and bubble over with energy in an attempt to get prospects excited about your product. Gag me! Especially in this new era of customer skepticism, this fluffy cloud approach to selling is just a facade that causes many salespeople to miss out on some otherwise lucrative opportunities. Even salespeople who are not filled with happy gas still tend to emphasize the positive, pointing out all the wonderful benefits of their product or service, in an attempt to get prospects and customers excited. But as you are about to find out, always positive is not always the most productive approach in Question Based Selling. True professionals are not “always positive.” Instead, they radiate intangible qualities like competence, capability, and expertise by being serious and self-assured. This is very different from the eager salesperson who attempts to communicate value by having a permanent smile plastered on his or her face. Secret #22 Competence, credibility, expertise, and value will outsell over-eagerness every time. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t be proud of your product or excited about a new opportunity. I’m merely suggesting that being super-positive and highly enthusiastic is not the best way to motivate all prospects. And as you’ll see throughout Question Based Selling, being super-positive is not even the best way to motivate most prospects.

This was not the encounter I’d dreamed of on the way back home. I flew between the fluffy clouds, longing for the radiant rays of kindred love that had illuminated the house on Sun Street. I was waiting for the moment I could hug Agha Joon and tell him about our life in America. I wanted to circle my hands around Azra’s neck and fill my lungs with the rose perfume she wore in the triangle of her long neck, her shoulders, and the rim of her floral chador. The sweet scent of home inhabited that triangle, different from the saccharine-filled marshmallow fragrance I’d gotten used to in the United States. A poignant pressure squeezed my heart as I entered the gloomy, polluted dusk of Tehran.

Fluffy yellow clouds

In particular, he told Evans-Wentz about the king and queen of the tylwyth teg, whom he named as Gwydion ab Don and his wife Gwenhidw.  Gwydion is a character straight out of the Mabinogion, and he is said to live amongst the stars in Caer Gwydion, one of several magical faery fortresses that are mentioned in Welsh legend.  His wife, meanwhile, is connected to the fluffy white clouds that appear in fine weather and which are called 'the sheep of Gwenhidw.

20. Cloud Bread Ingredients                  3 cold eggs, separate whites and yolks                  2 oz. cream cheese at room temperature                  1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar                  1 packet stevia Directions               Preheat the oven to 300 degrees. Place rack in center of oven. Line two cookie sheets with parchment paper.               In a medium bowl, beat the egg whites on high with a mixer, adding the cream of tartar. Beat until they form fluffy stiff peaks.               Meanwhile, in a small bowl, whisk the egg yolks with the cream cheese and stevia until smooth then gently fold mixture into the egg whites being sure to not to break down the egg white too much.               With a 1/2 cup measuring cup, scoop the mixture onto the prepared parchment paper in 7-8 even mounds about 4" wide and 3/4" tall allowing 1" between each.               Bake in your preheated oven for approximately 30 minutes. Start checking them for a golden brown tops around 25 minutes to make sure they don't get too brown.               Remove from the parchment and allow them to cool on a wire rack.               Store in an airtight container.

looking intently at the fluffy clouds. His face looked angry, ill-humoured, and preoccupied, like that of a man in pain forced to listen to nonsense.

And then I flipped my body over and saw the clouds over my head. They were white and fluffy, like marshmallows.

If clouds are blocking the sun, there will always be a silver lining that reminds me to keep on trying, because I know that while things might seem dark now... Seeing the light outline those fluffy puffs of white and gray is electrifying... It hurts to look at the clouds, but it also helps, like most things that cause pain.

You only had to see a unicorn lay open the side of a centaur once, the ribcage flashing white when the ripped skin flopped down, to swear a mighty oath never to fuck with or even look at another unicorn again. I’m putting down the hearts and fluffy clouds and backing away slowly. Don’t want any trouble here. You can have all the rainbows. It

Clouds are fluffy like French.

•    Be an intentional blessing to someone. Devote yourself to caring for others. Even when your own needs begin to dominate your attention, set aside time daily to tune in to others. Pray for their specific needs and speak blessings to those you encounter each day. Make them glad they met you.     •    Seek joy. Each morning ask yourself, “Where will the joy be today?” and then look for it. Look high and low—in misty sunbeams, your favorite poem, the kind eyes of your caretaker, dew-touched spiderwebs, fluffy white clouds scuttling by, even extra butterflies summoned by heaven just to make you smile.     •    Prepare love notes. When energy permits, write, videotape, or audiotape little messages of encouragement to children, grandchildren, and friends for special occasions in their future. Reminders of your love when you won’t be there to tell them yourself. Enlist the help of a friend or family member to present your messages at the right time, labeled, “For my granddaughter on her wedding day,” “For my beloved friend’s sixty-fifth birthday,” or “For my dear son and daughter-in-law on their golden anniversary.”     •    Pass on your faith. Purchase a supply of Bibles and in the front flap of each one, write a personal dedication to the child or grandchild, friend, or neighbor you intend to give it to. Choose a specific book of the Bible (the Gospels are a great place to start) and read several chapters daily, writing comments in the margin of how this verse impacted your life or what that verse means to you. Include personal notes or prayers for the recipient related to highlighted scriptures. Your words will become a precious keepsake of faith for generations to come. (*Helpful hint: A Bible with this idea in mind might make a thoughtful gift for a loved one standing at the threshold of eternity. Not only will it immerse the person in the comforting balm of scripture, but it will give him or her a very worthwhile project that will long benefit those he or she loves.)     •    Make love your legacy. Emily Dickinson said, “Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality.” Ask yourself, “What will people remember most about me?” Meditate on John 15:12: “Love each other as I have loved you” (NIV). Tape it beside your bed so it’s the last thing you see at night and the first thing you see in the morning.     •    “Remember that God loves you and will see you through it.

We walked almost a mile before we came out of the woods atop a ridge overlooking a broad green meadow that looked almost artificial in its pastoral sweetness, like someone had transplanted it from a movie set in New Zealand. Fluffy clouds of sheep dotted the green, and we were far enough away that they looked a little dingy but not filthy—a beautiful trick of distance. (Sheep are some of the nastiest creatures in the world. They’re smelly, stupid things that have been bred to have way too much hair, meaning that all their bodily fluids and drippings get felted right into the wool. If not for bleach, we’d all walk around covered in sheep shit all the time. Agriculture is not a pretty thing.)

I sighed. "Would it be too much to ask that Asgard be peaceful? Made up of big, fluffy clouds, serenity, and lots of hot yoga?

Jesus. Janet had to turn away. You only had to see a unicorn lay open the side of a centaur once, the ribcage flashing white when the ripped skin flopped down, to swear a mighty oath never to fuck with or even look at another unicorn again. I’m putting down the hearts and fluffy clouds and backing away slowly. Don’t want any trouble here. You can have all the rainbows. It

That cloud looks like a horse,” Brayden said, lying on his back pointing out the fluffy, condensed precipitation in the bright blue sky.  “That one looks like a bunny and there’s a Buick.  Over there is the electrical schematic of a B-2 Bomber and that one looks like a Category Five hurricane.

High, fluffy clouds chased one another across a vast gray sky, reminding me that changes are never permanent. Rather, permanence resides in the fact of change.

You only had to see a unicorn lay open the side of a centaur once, the ribcage flashing white when the ripped skin flopped down, to swear a mighty oath never to fuck with or even look at another unicorn again. I’m putting down the hearts and fluffy clouds and backing away slowly. Don’t want any trouble here. You can have all the rainbows.

Brambleclaw drew his tail over his paws with a resigned sigh. “Well, there are lots of sheep, which are fluffy white woolly things that look a bit like clouds on legs. They’re harmless, but you’ll need to watch out for dogs when you see them, because the Twolegs use them to control the sheep.

Whack! His giant hand slapped my back. My eyeballs nearly rolled across the floor. “Thanks a lot, you guys!” Bigs shouted. “Thanks a million! Thanks a . . . thanks . . . a . . . gazillion!” Then he walked away. I mean, maybe he walked. I don’t know for sure. The big lug was so happy he might have floated away on fluffy white clouds. I looked at Mila. She shrugged back at me. “I had to tell him something,” she explained. “I guess,” I said. “Bigs is a little rough,” Mila observed. “Yeah, I noticed,” I said, rubbing my chest.

The present Popina loved most of all, was the blanket she got from her Uncle Paul. It was green as the grass and soft as a sigh, as fluffy as a cloud that floats in the sky. Carrying it around was such a pleasure, the little blanket was Popina's treasure.

The pièce de résistance was the aisle and spot where the couple would say their vows. The aisle itself was made of white plexiglass, and above it were draped lush, dimensional bouquets of white flowers with silver and blue accents. At a glance, it looked like fluffy clouds in a blue sky. The planners had managed to rig up other mirrors at angles to reflect the afternoon sky outside of the hangar. It would be like Jacqueline was walking on clouds to meet her groom. My internal wedding planner gave a silent slow clap. Bravo.

Fluffy clouds of sheep dotted the green, and we were far enough away that they looked a little dingy but not filthy—a beautiful trick of distance. (Sheep are some of the nastiest creatures in the world. They’re smelly, stupid things that have been bred to have way too much hair, meaning that all their bodily fluids and drippings get felted right into the wool. If not for bleach, we’d all walk around covered in sheep shit all the time. Agriculture is not a pretty thing.)

They set off past the tree where the dogs were still playing, stopping as they went to admire the daffodils and crocuses. The garden turned round the side of the building, and there was a bench set into a lovely old wall, which must have surrounded the garden of the old house that was knocked down to build the complex. On either side of the bench were two beautiful clouds of yellow flowers. "Oh, look," said Polly, "the mimosa's out, how lovely. Let's go and smell it." They headed over and as they got closer the scent of the fluffy yellow blooms filled the air. "Ah," said Polly, breathing deeply. "Some of my favorite perfumes are based on this smell. It reminds me of my time in Australia. It's a native plant there. They call it silver wattle.

He thought of the woman lying on the ground with her tense face looking up at him through the dimness. He thought of Lonnie, sleeping all day to forget her hunger. He thought of Julia and Mrs. Starwood forgetting theirs. He thought of the carrots tomorrow, the weeds in the carrots. He thought of Friday and surplus commodities. His mind was clear and light like air. Music wafted through it like a feather. He felt very tall. His broken shoes whispered in the soft dirt far below. Lonnie sleeping Friday weeds carrots three feet wide a woman screaming quarter of a mile tomorrow surplus commodities walking music water running forgetting forty cents a day sleeping forgetting forty cents floating like air clear water running sparkling through the brain surplus brain commodities sleeping a feather of music tickling this is my tent sitting down like a cloud floating music faces fluffy sound in my ears flying away.

I relaxed as the plane tipped back and we rose into the sky – the bright, blue, white-fluffy-cloud-filled sky. It was the most wondrous thing I had ever seen and the most daunting.

The sun’s high, humidity’s low, the air clean and crisp; the few clouds are pure white and fluffy in the azure September sky; the temperature’s in the low-mid seventies with a cool breeze coming off the water, and it’s impossible to get mad about anything.

The wheels of the car skimmed the sea of fluffy cloud, the sky a bright, endless blue under the blinding white sun.

DEEP BREATHS CLEO I WILL DO MY MEDITATION BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT PICTURE A BALLOON YOU ARE A FLUFFY CLOUD

Beyond the peaks, the sun shifted from white gold to yellow, sinking toward the earth’s embrace. Fat, fluffy clouds drifted by, filled with peach-colored light, lovely against the purpling sky.

It’s like looking at heaven, he thought. Real heaven. Not angels on white fluffy clouds, but the real mind-blowing, never-ending magic that illustrated the grandeur of infinite journey and discovery.

Table of Contents Sparkle and the Rainbow Surprise Sparkle and the Floating Fiesta The Flamingo Floaty Frenzy Sparkle and the Donut Delight The Fluffy Pink Cloud Leave a Review Sparkle the Unicorn Princess Series More Fun Books for Kids