Indie Love Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Indie Love. Here they are! All 100 of them:

Hurricanes couldn’t remove you from my mind. You’re my world and I’m incapable of not loving you.
Billie-Jo Williams
At the end of the day, I just want to sit with someone I love and chat about what matters and even what doesn’t.
Crystal Woods (Write like no one is reading 2)
I found him between a reality and a nightmare.
Shannon A. Thompson (Take Me Tomorrow)
Okay, I’ve never done this. This is the guy’s department. What do I do? We need to get Lee’s size and we need industrial strength. Show me which ones to buy.” Eddie looked at the display and looked at me. “You’re askin’ me to help you buy condoms for Lee?” “Industrial strength condoms,” I reminded him. ... “Let me get this straight,” he said and I could tell he was laughing, “you dragged Eddie to Walgreen’s to help pick out condoms for me?” “Well, I didn’t know!”… “Did you tell Eddie the part about long-lasting reliability?” Oh Lord. “Forget it,” I said. “Indy?” he called. “What?” I snapped, kinda pissy. “I love you.” He still had laughter in his voice and there was something very cool about him laughing and saying I love you at the same time.
Kristen Ashley (Rock Chick (Rock Chick, #1))
Once the door closed, Tod turned to me. “Girlie, he is fine. He’s fine times twelve. He’s the new definition of fine.” “I’ve been in love with him since I was five,” I told Tod. “I’m in love with him now. I want to have his children,” Tod told me.
Kristen Ashley (Rock Chick (Rock Chick, #1))
Rock'n'roll is a teenage sport, meant to be played by teenagers of all ages--they could be 15, 25 or 35. It all boils down to whether they've got the love in their hearts, that beautiful teenage spirit... -Calvin Johnson
Michael Azerrad (Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground 1981-1991)
My spirit is free. My heart is taken.
Crystal Woods (Write like no one is reading 2)
If you tell me, I will leave you alone," I said. "And if you don't tell me, I am going to grab the nearest ghostwritten James Patterson romance novel and I am going to follow you through this store reading it out loud until you relent. Would you prefer me to read from Daphne's Three Tender Months with Harold or Cindy and John's House of Everlasting Love? I guarantee, your sanity and your indie street cred won't last a chapter. And they are very, very short chapters." Now I could see the fright beneath the defiance.
David Levithan (Dash & Lily's Book of Dares (Dash & Lily, #1))
The most profound, life-altering gift you can offer the Indie writer you love is to TELL as MANY avid readers as you are able.
R.S. Guthrie
Jealousy always trumps schadenfreude! It’s a rule from the heartbreak version of ‘rock, paper, scissors.
Julie Klausner (I Don't Care About Your Band: Lessons Learned from Indie Rockers, Trust Funders, Pornographers, Felons, Faux-Sensitive Hipsters, and Other Guys I've Dated)
I didn't come looking for you the day you uninvitedly appeared on my doorstep How did we go from nonchalant conversation me waiting for you to turn me off with corny jokes and mind dumbing conversation to love To love and mind blowing chemistry that I've yet to make sense of What are you here to teach me?
Maquita Donyel Irvin (Stories of a Polished Pistil: Lace and Ruffles)
But more than anything, as a little girl, I wanted to be exactly like Miss Piggy. She was ma heroine. I was a plucky little girl, but I never related to the rough-and-tumble icons of children's lit, like Pippi Longstocking or Harriet the Spy. Even Ramona Quimby, who seemed cool, wasn't somebody I could super-relate to. She was scrawny and scrappy and I was soft and sarcastic. I connected instead to Miss - never 'Ms.' - Piggy; the comedienne extraordinaire who'd alternate eye bats with karate chops, swoon over girly stuff like chocolate, perfume, feather boas or random words pronounced in French, then, on a dmie, lower her voice to 'Don't fuck with me, fellas' decibel when slighted. She was hugely feminine, boldly ambitious, and hilariously violent when she didn't get way, whether it was in work, love, or life. And even though she was a pig puppet voiced by a man with a hand up her ass, she was the fiercest feminist I'd ever seen.
Julie Klausner (I Don't Care About Your Band: Lessons Learned from Indie Rockers, Trust Funders, Pornographers, Felons, Faux-Sensitive Hipsters, and Other Guys I've Dated)
Okay. Scrabble, donuts, flowers, corndogs, pre-pubescent British wizards and indie music. Am I missing anything important?” She’s still blushing and it’s like the heat in her face is trapping all the words inside of her. “What is it?” I ask, an involuntary grin tugging on my mouth. I love it when she blushes like this. Amy sighs, looks up toward the chandelier, “You, Cole. I like you.
Autumn Doughton (In This Moment)
If the riches of the Indies, or the crowns of all the kingdom of Europe, were laid at my feet in exchange for my love of reading, I would spurn them all.
François Fénelon
Traffic's not too bad on Sheridan, and I'm cornering the car like it's the Indy 500, and we're listening to my favorite NMH song, "Holland, 1945," and then onto Lake Shore Drive, the waves of Lake Michigan crashing against the boulders by the Drive, the windows cracked to get the car to defrost, the dirty, bracing, cold air rushing in, and I love the way Chicago smells—Chicago is brackish lake water and soot and sweat and grease and I love it, and I love this song, and Tiny's saying I love this song, and he's got the visor down so he can muss up his hair a little more expertly.
John Green (Will Grayson, Will Grayson)
If you're going to be a musician's girlfriend, you have to know that your man will always love his bandmates in a way you can't even touch, because they are the guys who help him create music. You can only help him create a living human being, with your dumb uterus.
Julie Klausner (I Don't Care About Your Band: Lessons Learned from Indie Rockers, Trust Funders, Pornographers, Felons, Faux-Sensitive Hipsters, and Other Guys I've Dated)
Don't be afraid to write and share your story with the reading world! Find your courage! It is a fact that some will love it and some will hate it, but there will always be at least one reader who needed it and that's all that matters!
S.L. Morgan
I have faced bullying before. Not in high school. Not in any school but when I published my now bestselling book series as an indie author back in 2010 through 2012 and became a target for indie publishing, especially in YA because I stood by Amazon self-publishing versus the traditional publishers. How I dealt with it? I kept doing what I love - writing and publishing, and giving my readers what they love. Indie publishing took off soon afterwards and now it is a valid and more desirable way to publish books. So the lesson learned is...don't let bullies stop you from doing what you love and from keeping you from giving your readers the books they love to read from you." - Kailin Gow in a National Radio Interview.
Kailin Gow
Be cruel to me , cause I'm a fool for you.
Alex Turner
Traditional publishers spend hundreds of thousands of dollars marketing and promoting a single book. With that kind of budget, as opposed to the budget of indie publishers, every single traditionally published book should be a #1 bestseller on all lists. Every traditionally published author should be millionaires with that kind of marketing budget. But they're not, so...it isn't how much you spend on marketing the book that determines the success of the book, it is how really good it is, and what is loved by the people as a whole, not by the editors. - Kailin Gow on Economy of Book Publishing, Authors Voice
Kailin Gow
If life is a movie most people would consider themselves the star of their own feature. Guys might imagine they're living some action adventure epic. Chicks maybe are in a rose-colored fantasy romance. And homosexuals are living la vida loca in a fabulous musical. Still others may take the indie approach and think of themselves as an anti-hero in a coming of age flick. Or a retro badass in an exploitation B movie. Or the cable man in a very steamy adult picture. Some people's lives are experimental student art films that don't make any sense. Some are screwball comedies. Others resemble a documentary, all serious and educational. A few lives achieve blockbuster status and are hailed as a tribute to the human spirit. Some gain a small following and enjoy cult status. And some never got off the ground due to insufficient funding. I don't know what my life is but I do know that I'm constantly squabbling with the director over creative control, throwing prima donna tantrums and pouting in my personal trailor when things don't go my way. Much of our lives is spent on marketing. Make-up, exercise, dieting, clothes, hair, money, charm, attitude, the strut, the pose, the Blue Steel look. We're like walking billboards advertising ourselves. A sneak peek of upcoming attractions. Meanwhile our actual production is in disarray--we're over budget, doing poorly at private test screenings and focus groups, creatively stagnant, morale low. So we're endlessly tinkering, touching up, editing, rewriting, tailoring ourselves to best suit a mass audience. There's like this studio executive in our heads telling us to cut certain things out, make it "lighter," give it a happy ending, and put some explosions in there too. Kids love explosions. And the uncompromising artist within protests: "But that's not life!" Thus the inner conflict of our movie life: To be a palatable crowd-pleaser catering to the mainstream... or something true to life no matter what they say?
Tatsuya Ishida
I was, a near grown man, sat in his dank, dark and rickety digs, feverishly hovering about the glare of a computer screen like a disorientated moth, one searching for a flaming light of recognition from someone/anyone!
Tom Conrad
We knew each other to our fingertips. No, that's not right. We only knew each other in our fingertips, and that was nothing at all, and for a while that was okay. We could have been a love story, a fairy tale, an indie film about high school and selective insanity featuring a boy of angel parts and a girl made of dreaming. We could have been all the best things: bracelets sliding down arms while shots slid down throats, laughter and crashing music in dark and flashing rooms, kisses that started hesitant but didn't stay that way.
Amy Zhang (This Is Where the World Ends)
Why do I love writing YA? Because I get a chance to re-live my youth knowing all I know now...
Belle Whittington
How ironic it is to have your past-self staring at you
Mary Gehad (When the Beauty is the Beast: Scar of the Past)
Changing imagination into fiction is what I love to do.
Eveli Acosta
I do wish there were an easier way," Indi says wistfully. "One that didn't involve violence." "You want us to fight them with hugs?" Sienna asks. "Love is stronger than hate," Indi says.
Amy Ewing (The Black Key (The Lone City, #3))
Quinn spoke their language—all mystery and inside jokes, scarred souls and statement shirts. It was a beautiful moment for him—in his element and completely happy. When they started playing, he leaned over and whispered in my ear. “See that guitar?” I nodded. “That’s a 1969 Martin D28. Hear me when I say if I had to choose between a beautiful girl and that guitar, I’d choose the guitar. Natch.” He took a huge gulp of water, clearly affected. “Naturally,” I whispered. “It could be why you’re still single.
Laura Anderson Kurk (Perfect Glass)
I’d like to run away, to flee from what I know, from what is mine, from what I love. I want to set off, not for some impossible Indies or for the great islands that lie far to the south of all other lands, but for anywhere, be it village or desert, that has the virtue of not being here. What I want is not to see these faces, this daily round of days. I want a rest from, to be other than, my habitual pretending. I want to feel the approach of sleep as if it were a promise of life, not rest. A hut by the sea, even a cave on a rugged mountain ledge, would be enough. Unfortunately, my will alone cannot give me that. Slavery is the only law of life, there is no other, because this law must be obeyed; there is no possible rebellion against it or refuge from it. Some are born slaves, some become slaves, some have slavery thrust upon them. The cowardly love we all have of freedom -which if it were given to us we would all repudiate as being too new and strange –is the irrefutable proof of how our slavery weighs upon us.
Fernando Pessoa (The Book of Disquiet)
Creation groans, awaiting the revelation of the sons of God. It remembers, I think, in dreams, the wonders of the sinless, perfect world. You can hear it in the wild tinkle of the wind through the beech leaves, the splashing of water through cold, crystal streams, the beauty of a hind poised against the sky on a hilltop, and al through heartbreaking, beautiful things that surround us each day. They are memories, dear Indi, memories of long-lost days when God walked with man and all was well [...] But all these beauties we see are but dreams in the night, whispers of a hope to come beyond the end of this Age, that wonderful Other Thing. [...] God will not settle for imperfection, but He works His own ways in His own time. That is what we are living for, that is what stirs our sweet dreams each night, both us and the world, and that is what keeps us going through the dark: knowing that a morning is coming. And while we love the beauty of our world, we must remember that it is only a type, a shadow thing, very faintly resembling what is to come.
Jennifer Freitag (The Shadow Things)
The ocean swells around us. Sometimes, we are in a bowl of water and sometimes on the top of the lip. The horizon curves. We are sitting on top of the world. In theory, anyone is on the top of their world at every moment, given that the Earth is truly round. But, it’s hard to see that in a subway under New York City and completely obvious out here.
Lexis De Rothschild (The Cat Letters: A Tale of Longing, Adventure and True Love)
I don’t have to convince anyone that I love you.
Dominique Eastwick (Killing Lucas (Sherman Family #3))
The sea cleanses the city's rat race from my pores Washes away the anxiety of wanting more Reminds me I am not here to stay And being in love with the pulse is all
Yvette Dulo (She Chose to Love)
And until now, I thought it was only your humanity in question but it seems I lacked empathy for myself to accept a flatline and call it love.
Casey Renee Kiser (Table for One zine)
It’s not about Laura, and it’s not about Fallon. It’s not even about Indie. It’s about you, you arsehole. I’m in love with you.
L.J. Shen (Midnight Blue)
What I see is the millions of people, of whom I am just one, made orphans: no motherland, no fatherland, no gods, no mounds of earth for holy ground, no excess of love which might lead to the things that an excess of love sometimes brings, and worst and most painful of all, no tongue. (For isn't it odd that the only language I have in which to speak of this crime is the language of the criminal who committed the crime? And what can that really mean? For the language of the criminal can contain only the goodness of the criminal's deed. The language of the criminal can explain and express the deed only from the criminal's point of view. It cannot contain the horror of the deed, the injustice of the deed, the agony, the humiliation inflicted one me.
Jamaica Kincaid
Snouck could speak of the region of Aceh, on the nnorthern tip of Sumatra, as 'that country... that old pirate-state', and the American traveller Eliza Scidmore of ' the brave, liberty-loving Achinese'. Within a decade Aceh, however unwillyngly, was finally subjugated, its focus recalibrated from the Malay world and the Indian Ocean to Java, and its future rendered unmistakably as part of the Netherlands Indies
R.E. Elson (The Idea of Indonesia: A History)
You like him,” Indy said. She wasn’t looking at me like she wanted to strangle me anymore, which I took as a good sign. “Well…” I replied. “Yeah.” Liked him, no. Loved him and wanted to have his babies, um, shit yeah. Indy
Kristen Ashley (Rock Chick Rescue (Rock Chick, #2))
When people pose the question, are you “coxom”, Tom Conrad? I like to pose a question back at them: Is J.K. Rowling actually a witch? Is Thomas Harris the no. 1 serial killer in the the US, did Yann Martell really spend a lifetime eating pie? Of course, as far as I know J.K. Rowling is not a witch, but instead is a rather lovely and talented writer. As for that Thomas Harris (equally talented), I very much suspect he isn’t actually a serial killer at all, or if he is, he’s involved in the biggest case of double bluff… ever! As for Yann Martell, well, as everyone with half a brain knows his book is actually concerned with a mathematical constant, so ignore the dumb pie joke. Hm :/
Tom Conrad (Rich Pickings for Ravens (The Afterlife Crisis Trilogy #1))
This is me trying to bridge the gap and make a record that I’m truly proud of, I’ve got my 80s side and my indie side, my super pop slant and the electronic music that I love. I wanted to make happy, feel-good music. It all comes from an organic place
Blake Lewis
The late 1920s were an age of islands, real and metaphorical. They were an age when Americans by thousands and tens of thousands were scheming to take the next boat for the South Seas or the West Indies, or better still for Paris, from which they could scatter to Majorca, Corsica, Capri or the isles of Greece. Paris itself was a modern city that seemed islanded in the past, and there were island countries, like Mexico, where Americans could feel that they had escaped from everything that oppressed them in a business civilization. Or without leaving home they could build themselves private islands of art or philosophy; or else - and this was a frequent solution - they could create social islands in the shadow of the skyscrapers, groups of close friends among whom they could live as unconstrainedly as in a Polynesian valley, live without moral scruples or modern conveniences, live in the pure moment, live gaily on gin and love and two lamb chops broiled over a coal fire in the grate. That was part of the Greenwich Village idea, and soon it was being copied in Boston, San Francisco, everywhere.
Malcolm Cowley (Exile's Return: A Literary Odyssey of the 1920s)
...I don’t know why you’re sulking, I wasn’t going to give up my holiday to sit and nurse you from a break-up with a guy I told you not to deal with…He was your Gynaecologist for crying out loud. You don’t mix business with pleasure, and not with a man who knows more about your insides than you.
S.L. Gibson (Love Changes Everything (Mercinia, #1))
Upon his first encounters with the native people he “discovered” in the West Indies, Columbus was struck by their kindness, generosity, and physical beauty. In a letter to the king and queen of Spain, he explained: “They are very simple and honest and exceedingly liberal with all they have, none of them refusing anything he may possess when he is asked for it. They exhibit great love toward all others in preference to themselves.” In his own journals, he was even more complimentary: “They are the best people in the world and above all the gentlest—without knowledge of what is evil—nor do they murder or steal… they love their neighbors as themselves and they have the sweetest talk in the world… always laughing.” A few pages on, in one of the most chilling pivots in recorded history, Columbus wrote: “They would make fine servants. With fifty men we could subjugate them all and make them do whatever we want.
Christopher Ryan (Civilized to Death: What Was Lost on the Way to Modernity)
Sorrows of Werther William Makepeace Thackeray (1811–63) WERTHER had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter. Charlotte was a married lady, 5 And a moral man was Werther, And for all the wealth of Indies Would do nothing for to hurt her. So he sigh’d and pin’d and ogled, And his passion boil’d and bubbled, 10 Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled. Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, 15 Went on cutting bread and butter.
William Makepeace Thackeray
WILLMORE: Nay, if we part so, let me die like a Bird upon a Bough, at the Sheriff's Charge. By Heaven, both the Indies shall not buy thee from me. I adore thy Humour and will marry thee, and we are so of one Humour, it must be a Bargain - give me thy Hand - [Kisses her hand.] And now let the blind ones (Love and Fortune) do their worst.
Aphra Behn (The Rover)
PABLO, The reason that I love thee remains strange & blurry Do I love thee for thy creativity? For the songs thou has written so carefully? Do I love thee for thy strangeness & mystery? Each layer of thy persona is a cure to my melancholy Allow me to worship thy beauty from afar My fated heartache...my unreachable star. Letters To Pablo (forever unpublished)
Miss Rainbow Moonfire
It should be said that my parents had married for love. The affection and devotion they had shared was the rarest of indulgences, perhaps especially in those days. For them, it had been love at first sight, and so my mother's death shattered my father. That it only dimmed his light rather than snuffed it out altogether was a miracle in and of itself. ~The Peacemakers ~(The Nemesis Engines)
Olivier A. Blanchard
I apologize in advance.” He cocked his head to the side. “For?” “Ruining you for any other man on this planet. I’m going to fuck you, Indie. So hard you’ll think about me years from now, when you lie under your boring, missionary-loving husband. I will own every orgasm, every shiver, every wave of pleasure inside you. From here on out, it will be me. Just me. And for that, I truly am sorry.
L.J. Shen (Midnight Blue)
It's a difficult path that we tread, us Indie self-publishers, but we're not alone. How many bands practicing in their dad’s garage have heard of a group from the neighbourhood who got signed by a recording company? Or how many artists who love to paint, but are not really getting anywhere with it hear of someone they went to art school with being offered an exhibition in a gallery? How many chefs who love to get creative around food hear of someone else who’s just landed a job with Marco Pierre White? There’s no difference between us and them. There is, however, a huge difference in how everyone else perceives the writer. And there’s a huge difference between all of us – the writers, the musicians, the composers, the chefs, the dance choreographers and to a certain extent the tradesmen - and the rest of society in that no one understands us. It’s a wretched dream to hope that our creativity gets recognised while our family thinks we’re wasting our time when the lawn needs mowing, the deck needs painting and the bedroom needs decorating. It’s acceptable to go into the garage to tinker about with a motorbike, but it’s a waste of a good Sunday afternoon if you go into the garage and practice your guitar, or sit in your study attempting to capture words that have been floating around your brain forever.
Karl Wiggins (Self-Publishing In the Eye of the Storm)
When an ice wind comes to the city, indi flowers freeze along the white walls. Purple enameled petals chatter in the wind. Then the cold snap passes. Petals melt and fall from their stems. New flowers grow, fluffy and thick. I love the flowers. They are so strong. Really, they are a weed, and destructive. The vines cannot easily be ripped out. They must be chopped. Over time, they can crack and crumble a wall. But I love them for that, too.
Marie Rutkoski (The Midnight Lie (Forgotten Gods, #1))
On New Year’s Eve 1777, after performing in a play entitled The Devil to Pay in the West Indies, a party of drunken officers—one dressed up like Old Nick himself, complete with horns and tail—disrupted services at the John Street Methodist Church. Nor was that the worst of it. “I could narrate many and very frightful occurrences of theft, fraud, robbery, and murder by the English soldiers which their love of drink excited,” said one dismayed German officer.
Edwin G. Burrows (Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898)
When i remember your name i know you are my hope. for what ? not for love... 'cause i know you can't love me. but i know you are my hope for... Life. Just remembering your smile... i know you are my world you shaping my world that became like this... you are my story Not to be told, But to remember... i love you and... I miss you now i miss my world i miss your face, your smile and your voice I miss you more than anyone that I've ever met -For Enno Indi WP-
Yulianto Eko P
I’m not really interested in the audience’s enjoyment,' Cave mumbles once he has changed into clean pants. 'It doesn’t bother me one way or another. I just don’t give a shit. People feel more and more disappointed with each concert because less and less happens. It’s really easy to suck an audience in. Like, I can wiggle my bum and back-flip on my head and they love it. I could make an audience love me until the end of my days. There’s just no point in it any more. I wish they’d just ... die.
Antonella Gambotto-Burke (The Nick Cave Interview (excerpts from Lunch of Blood))
I think you kissed me back," she says, "I did," I say. I'm not sorry anymore. When Indie kissed me, I felt all her pain and longing and want. It cut me up to know how she felt and to know how much I loved her, too, but not in a way that could work. The way I feel about Indie is an understanding so painful and elemental that it would tear me apart. The strange thing is that what she felt for me held her together. I could do for her what Cassia does for me. I knew that it's why I kissed Indie back.
Ally Condie (Reached (Matched, #3))
The word cod is of unknown origin. For something that began as food for good Catholics on the days they were to abstain from sex, it is not clear why, in several languages, the words for salt cod have come to have sexual connotations. In the English-speaking West Indies, saltfish is the common name for salt cod. In slang, saltfish means "a woman's genitals", and while Caribbeans do love their salt cod, it is this other meaning that is responsible for the frequent appearance of the word saltfish in Caribbean songs such as the Mighty Sparrow's "Saltfish".
Mark Kurlansky (Cod: A Biography of the Fish that Changed the World)
[H]e asked Renee, “What does rock and roll have today that it didn’t have in the sixties?” Renee said, “Tits,” which in retrospect strikes me as not a bad one-word off-the-dome answer at all. The nineties fad for indie rock overlapped precisely with the nineties fad for feminism. The idea of a pop culture that was pro-girl, or even just not anti-girl -- that was a 1990s mainstream dream, rather than a 1980s or 2000s one, and it was real for a while. Music was not just part of it but leading the way -- hard to believe, hard even to remember. But some of us do.
Rob Sheffield (Love Is a Mix Tape: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time)
Here is a cutting from the Ladies’ Home Journal of Philadelphia: Uncle Sam set apart a royal pleasure ground in North Western Wyoming and called it Yellowstone National Park. To give an idea of what its size—3,312 square miles—really means, let us clear the floor of the park and tenderly place some of the great cities of the world there, close together as children do their blocks. First put in London, then Greater New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, Paris, Boston, Berlin, St. Louis, Hong Kong, San Francisco and Washington. The floor of the park should be about half covered, then lift up Rhode Island. Carefully, so as not to spill any of its people, set it down and press in the West Indies. And even then there are 200 square miles left.
A.A. Gill (To America with Love)
I’d forgotten about them until this very moment, pushed out of my memory from years of dating boys in indie rock bands, boys who scoffed at my love of PJ Harvey, boys who saw my copy of Jagged Little Pill and asked why the fuck was I listening to her, boys who would’ve most certainly ridiculed my love of a cappella. And if they didn’t like my music, they wouldn’t like me, right? Right? If there are any young women reading this and those above sentences sound familiar, if you’re hiding parts of yourself to look cool or make someone love you, please repeat after me: fuck that noise. You are perfect. You matter. Hold on to what you love, the songs and books and style and obsessions and causes and questions that make you you. Find people who love these things, too. When you get lost, they’ll help you find your way back to yourself.
Megan Stielstra (The Wrong Way to Save Your Life: Essays)
Indie Rokkers" i like the line between your belly and your thighs the smell of your hair the sparkle in your eyes the smoke in your breath the breathing hard and heavy the back of your neck the shine on your Chevy the moon was so big when i drove it to the levy, girl i found blood and i saw stars all in the backseat of your car and i told you it was love but you don't wanna know the truth i was young and in my prime with my heart still filled with fear and it goes on bleedin' the clean dreams, the sexy limousine Jason's (?) got the energy he used to be a coke fien the skinny brown arms coming round in your shirt heart is in the right place brain is in the dirt you live life like everyone's an enemy i found blood and i saw stars all in the backseat of your car and i told you it was love but you don't wanna know the truth i was young and in my prime with my heart still filled with fear and it goes on bleedin
MGMT
. . .In a heartbeat, you will fall right into that novel, that poem, the story that you are most in love with right now. When you learn to be able to decide in the moment to take breaks from your internal voices—even though it’s only for a split second—you will be taking your first baby steps toward the full-out exhilaration of living in the midst of the wholly realized writer’s life. Then all the negatives—yes, even your cherished writer’s block ego trip—will fade into background noise, then you will find silence, and your story will take over. Before you know it, you will be working calmly and clearly for hours, rather than for a couple minutes. 1 hour, not 1 second, 2 hours, not 2 seconds, 3 hours, 4 hours, 5 hours of allowing your mind to come to rest from the horrid, every day, mental chatter we lock ourselves up with—a time to anchor within the natural spaciousness that you already know instinctively, know from deep within will make you feel full inside. . . .
Terry Kennedy (The Zen of Marketing Kindle Ebooks: The Publishing Guide To Selling Ebooks On Amazon (The Zen of Indie Books #1))
Sweetheart, you are alive. I am alive. And since I cannot be the pirate I always dreamed of being, I fell in love with one instead. I am not a traitor, I am not a deserter, and in time I will explain it all to you. For now, just trust that I am your Gallant Knight.”  He smiled. “Your officer.” She stared at him, uncomprehending. “My friends call me Gray. My men address me as Sir Graham. And the rest of the world knows me as”—he smiled a sheepish, charming grin that pushed a dimple into his chin—“Rear Admiral Sir Graham Falconer, Knight of the Bath and Commander of the Leeward Islands squadron of the Royal Navy’s West Indies Station. My flag is hoisted on His Majesty’s Ship Triton, and we're on our way to Barbados to pick up a convoy of merchant ships to escort back to England, where I shall enjoy a long-deserved leave with you as my wife, if you’ll have me, before duty returns me to my post. Maeve?” Her eyes were slipping shut. “Maeve?” But the shock was too much for her. The Pirate Queen had fainted.
Danelle Harmon (My Lady Pirate (Heroes of the Sea #3))
It was a damned near-run thing, I must admit,' said Jack, modestly; then after a pause he laughed and said, 'I remember your using those very words in the old Bellerophon, before we had our battle.' 'So I did,' cried Dundas. 'So I did. Lord, that was a great while ago.' 'I still bear the scar,' said Jack. He pushed up his sleeve, and there on his brown forearm was a long white line. 'How it comes back,' said Dundas; and between them, drinking port, they retold the tale, with minute details coming fresh to their minds. As youngsters, under the charge of the gunner of the Bellerophon, 74, in the West Indies, they had played the same game. Jack, with his infernal luck, had won on that occasion too: Dundas claimed his revenge, and lost again, again on a throw of double six. Harsh words, such as cheat, liar, sodomite, booby and God-damned lubber flew about; and since fighting over a chest, the usual way of settling such disagreements in many ships, was strictly forbidden in the Bellemphon, it was agreed that as gentlemen could not possibly tolerate such language they should fight a duel. During the afternoon watch the first lieutenant, who dearly loved a white-scoured deck, found that the ship was almost out of the best kind of sand, and he sent Mr Aubrey away in the blue cutter to fetch some from an island at the convergence of two currents where the finest and most even grain was found. Mr Dundas accompanied him, carrying two newly sharpened cutlasses in a sailcloth parcel, and when the hands had been set to work with shovels the two little boys retired behind a dune, unwrapped the parcel, saluted gravely, and set about each other. Half a dozen passes, the blades clashing, and when Jack cried out 'Oh Hen, what have you done?' Dundas gazed for a moment at the spurting blood, burst into tears, whipped off his shirt and bound up the wound as best he could. When they crept aboard a most unfortunately idle, becalmed and staring Bellerophon, their explanations, widely different and in both cases so weak that they could not be attempted to be believed, were brushed aside, and their captain flogged them severely on the bare breech. 'How we howled,' said Dundas. 'You were shriller than I was,' said Jack. 'Very like a hyena.
Patrick O'Brian (The Commodore (Aubrey/Maturin, #17))
Not everyone will like what you write but there's a certain group who'll love what you write. Keep WRITING for them.
David Chuka
I remember the summer of 1996, at a drunken wedding with one of my professors, a Hendrix-freak baby boomer, when he was complaining about the 'bullet-in-the-head rock and roll' the kids were listening to today, and he asked Renée, 'What does rock and roll have today that it didn't have in the sixties?' Renée said, ‘Tits’, which in retrospect strikes me as not a bad one-word off-the-dome answer at all. The nineties fad for indie rock overlapped precisely with the nineties fad for feminism. The idea of a pop culture that was pro-girl, or even just not anti-girl - that was a 1990s mainstream dream, rather than a 1980s or 2000s one, and it was real for a while. Music was not just part of it but leading the way - hard to believe, hard even to remember. But some of us do.
Rob Sheffield (Love Is a Mix Tape: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time)
Powerful and Positive thoughts create Pure and Transcendental emotions that can instantly connect two individual soul in different part of this world or universe through the medium of love
Indy Bissessur
There was so much that was “right” about my friend’s Mr. Right. He was my age, also an indie parent to a young son. He was smart, funny, and handsome. We both valued family above all else. He really in many ways was everything I thought I was looking for in a partner. The only thing that was missing was that magic, the sense that we had been brought together by a force greater than ourselves. Within three months, we knew that what we had was good, but it wasn’t what either of us really desired.
Meggan Watterson (How to Love Yourself (and Sometimes Other People): Spiritual Advice for Modern Relationships)
But if mixed-race people in the United States in the late nineteenth century found themselves legally classed as “black,” mixed-race people in the West Indies more often found themselves classed with “whites.” In the 1855 census of Grand Cayman Island, for example, “blacks” constituted one category; “white and coloured” another. “It was found impracticable to distinguish between the white and coloured population,” explained the missionary census takers. “The greater proportion of these…are persons of colour, but, of course, of various shades of complexion.”15
Martha A. Sandweiss (Passing Strange: A Gilded Age Tale of Love and Deception Across the Color Line)
Dante Alighieri wrote his first book in the prosimetrum genre – La Vita Nuova – in 14th century Florence. Since I’m compiling this collection – my first indie publication – in Florence, just blocks from Dante’s house, and since his book involves a lost love, and ‘A New Life,’ I thought it fitting to emulate this style in my own casual, intuitive fashion. My hope is that the juxtaposition of poems, journal entries, essays and prose will create a story; a memoir in anarchistic vignettes.
Jalina Mhyana (Dreaming in Night Vision: A Story in Vignettes)
You need to find someone for you, Indi. He has a girl and that’s way too much baggage. You are too cute to be a side bitch,
Jahquel J. (Thugs Need Love (Thugs Need Love #1))
The concert was magnificent. It was the second time she saw Floor and she loved them. Psychedelic rock. Indie. Hardcore. They always started with this great classic love song they sang a capella backstage while passing around some whisky. They each took a swig as they sang. The beautiful melodies that came out of this were amazing and the audience sang along. It was always a breathtaking moment.
Ruth Ann Oskolkoff (Zin)
Make a challenge. Pick a new or unknown indie author's book every week and read one of their books. You might find your favorite tale. #IndieAuthorsDeserveLoveToo
Nandra Hoffman
How can anyone call this angel a monster? How can anyone see this angel as a mistake? So young and alive, her soul is less than a day old, her body was made from scratch, but her blood holds billions of years of history… history passed down through her ancestors, history that she herself will soon tell future generations... And yet, new history begins with her.
Mary Gehad
Life is like the Indy 500. Five hundred laps. Five hundred laps with pit stops. You’ve got to tune up, change the tires, recharge the battery.
Ayaz Virji (Love Thy Neighbor: A Muslim Doctor's Struggle for Home in Rural America)
That everyone in the corporate food chain, up to Price and even Bezos, was convinced of the need to work with theaters on their terms and not put their movies on Amazon Prime until five months after they debuted on the big screen proved the company was all-in on art-house movies. It was, in fact, the core of Amazon’s strategy. Rather than serve everyone everything they might want, as Netflix was doing with its mix of Adam Sandler comedies, Will Smith action flicks, and some indies, Amazon wanted to build a distinct identity for its Prime Video service. By making a particular kind of movie, everyone at Amazon figured, they would build an identity for their service, one that made it noticeably different from what almost everyone else in Hollywood was doing. Sure, many people wouldn’t be interested in the weird, depressing, or simply outré works that it was releasing, but at least those who were into it would love it. Amazon executives distinctly didn’t want a studio that was as bland as the company’s selection of USB cables. “We don’t want something that 80 percent of the audiences eventually gets around to watching,” said Hope. “We want the thing that 20 percent of the audience is so passionate about, they’ll break up with you if you don’t feel the same way. We want to inspire an urgent need to see.” In addition, the people who go to art-house movies tend to be upscale, well-educated people who live in cities and who like to shop online. If the ultimate goal of Amazon’s movie business was to attract, retain, and engage Prime subscribers, it only made sense to draw people who would buy the most computers, books, and Kindles online. “They are often very good retail customers,” Price said sheepishly. “So that’s not a bad thing.
Ben Fritz (The Big Picture: The Fight for the Future of Movies)
The famous Barodan Necklace has re-appeared after 70 years,” he said. “What the hell,” Indi turned the volume up a bit. “For the love of Ganesh...now I know what she’s up to.
Kim Akhtar (A Suitable Necklace)
Es noliku savu bagāžu nepazīstamās istabās, okšķerēdams visapkārt, lai redzētu, vai viņa jau ir ieradusies, es devos strādāt, pārrados vakarā, lūdzot debesis, lai viņa būtu manā gultā. Reizēm viņa tur bija, reizēm ne. Viņa atnāca nakts vidū, un mēs apmaldījāmies viens otrā, nepārmīdami ne vārda. Mēs smējāmies zem palagiem, sajūsmināti, ka te atrodamies. Nu jā. Tik tālu. Tik tuvi. Reizēm viņa ieradās tikai nākamajā dienā, un es pavadīju nakti, sēžot pie bāra letes un ieklausoties vestibila trokšņos. Reizēm viņa apmetās citā istabā un lika man ierasties agri no rīta. Reizēm viņa neatbrauca, un es viņu ienīdu. Es atgriezos Parīzē neciešamā noskaņojumā. Sākumā man patiešām bija ko darīt, un tad arvien mazāk un mazāk… Ko tik es neizgudroju, lai varētu aizbraukt. Reizēm es redzēju pilsētu un reizēm neredzēju neko citu kā vien viesnīcas istabu. Mums pat gadījās palikt lidostas teritorijā… Tas bija smieklīgi. Pavisam absurdi. Reizēm mēs aizgūtnēm runājām, citreiz mums nebija ko teikt. Uzticīga savam solījumam, Matilde gandrīz nekad nerunāja par savu jūtu dzīvi. Vai arī gultā. Viņa pieminēja cilvēkus vai situācijas, kas mani darīja traku, bet tas bija gultā… Es biju šīs sievietes varā, viņas smalkā, koķetā izskata varā, kad viņa izlikās, ka tumsā sajauc vārdu. Es likos aizvainots, bet biju iznīcināts. Es ņēmu viņu vēl brutālā, lai gan alku turēt savās skavās.. Kad viens no mums abiem spēlējās, otrs cieta. Tas bija pilnīgi absurdi. Es gribēju sagrābt viņu un tik ilgi purināt, līdz viņa izspļauj savu indi. Līdz viņa man saka, ka mīl mani. Lai viņa reiz to man pasaka. Bet es nevarēju, nelietis biju es. Tas viss bija mana vaina…
Anna Gavalda (Someone I Loved (Je l'aimais))
Fine Tuning My fingers My hands My wrists hurt so bad from working all these years- Working on being something, always feeling like nothing Some days, it hurts to even turn the dial on the radio But I don’t have to turn anymore cause you’re the right frequency (self) And when you come to ground me, I know that’s where I’m meant to be stationed. Set the pre-set to Love.
Casey Renee Kiser (Will to Flutter)
His rental SUV moved at a snail’s pace behind a line of traffic that was not at all typical for his hometown. It wasn’t until he crawled around the next curve and saw balloons and banners above the road announcing the annual Indie Film Festival that he realized what weekend it was. He uttered a curse. He
Melissa Foster (The Bradens at Weston, CO (The Bradens at Weston, CO, #1-3; The Bradens, #1-3; Love in Bloom, #4-6))
Smith had imagined that there would be time again for serious speech between the two of them, on the return leg to New-York; but as well as a hold full of sacks and a deck laden with casks, the lugger had also taken on a moderate clutch of New-York-bound passengers, from Dutch farm-wives carrying baskets of eggs to several more would-be sailors for the Indies voyage, and a talkative attorney, up, he said, from Baltimore to view the northern colonies. Smith and Tabitha were parted by the casks and the crowd, and he spent the journey back into fog and darkness on the ebb tide, obliged to lob back the attorney’s conversational sallies; and thinking wonderingly, where he could betwixt the distractions, as young men are likely to do in these circumstances, how very ordinary and general and unremarkable a destiny it must be, how predictable a part of the universal portion of mankind it is, to love and to feel oneself beloved; and yet how astonishing it seems when it happens to you, yourself; what a stroke of glorious, undeserved, unprecedented, unsuspected luck it turns out to be, that you should be permitted, in your own person, to share in the general fate. It was not until the end of the voyage that she squeezed her way back to his side. They
Francis Spufford (Golden Hill)
You are the explosion of carnations in a dark room. Or the unexpected scent of pine miles from the woods of Maine. You are a full moon that gives midnight it's meaning. And the explanation of water For all living things. You are a compass, a sapphire, a bookmark. A rare coin, a smooth stone, a marble. You are an old lore, a small shell, a saved silver dollar. You are a fine quartz, a feathered quill, and a fob from a favorite watch. You are a valentine tattered and loved and reread a hundred times. You are a medal found in the drawer of a once sung hero. You are honey, and cinnamon and West Indies spices, lost from the boat that was once Marco Polo's. You are a pressed rose, a pearl ring, and a red perfume bottle found near the Nile. You are an old soul from an ancient place a thousand years, and centuries and millenniums ago. And you have traveled all this way just so I could love you. I do.
James Patterson (Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas)
No physical connections with, for him to love her the way he did?
Desirée (Chaos (Skye Indie Film Series Book 3))
the bushes no more. I stare up at the looming, lit, downtown skyscrapers, the Transamerica Building, Grace Cathedral and Coit Tower spearing black skies beyond crooked hills, the Bay Bridge’s running lights behind me like an airport landing strip, Alcatraz and the Golden Gate, the roaring Pacific leading to the Great Highway’s abandoned beachheads where the Boys of Belvedere and I used to stay up all night building giant driftwood sculptures and setting them on fire at dawn, dancing like Indians, and I know nowhere I go can compare to this place, because nowhere else can offer me what this city has, standing on 22nd and Mission, two o’clock on some random Sunday afternoon, fat, orange sun splashing, the mango, melon, and papaya peddlers on rolling carts camped beneath the giant Woolworth’s sign, the Mexican panadarias baking empanadas, rich, wheat breads, taquerias stewing al pastor and grilling carne asada, onions and avocado and horchata, greasy spoons carved into alley walls and indie beaneries brewing pungent coffees, the bead and trinket stores with their Jesus and Mary candles for 99 cents, the outlandish drag queen fashions in the Foxy Lady display window,
Joe Clifford (Junkie Love)
I loved music. What struck me most about a song wasn’t the lyrics or genre but simply the way it sounded. It’s like when you hear that right song, no matter where you are or what you are doing, the way it sounds just stirs something inside of you. Maybe it’s the melody, the instruments, or the singer’s voice, but for that short moment you forget everything else on your mind and just feel.
J. Aleong (A Most Important Year)
Her light brown hair fell in the way that he liked, in a single braid that snaked down the back of her dress. Her dark-green silk skirt complimented his tunic and set off her deep blue eyes nicely. Such eyes any man in love could easily get lost in.
Sydney Williams (Princes and Kings)
Her soothing voice lapped at his body like the soft ripples of a pond — a strange reaction that he pushed aside.
Jemma Frost (Charming Dr. Forrester (The Garden Girls, #0))
I love staying with people,” says MacKaye. “I love doing the driving. I love having to load equipment. The experiences are things that a lot of people never have.
Michael Azerrad (Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground, 1981-1991)
KNOW THE SECRET: ROCK ‘N’ ROLL IS A TEENAGE SPORT, MEANT TO BE PLAYED BY TEENAGERS OF ALL AGES—THEY COULD BE 15, 25 OR 35. IT ALL BOILS DOWN TO WHETHER THEY’VE GOT THE LOVE IN THEIR HEARTS, THAT BEAUTIFUL TEENAGE SPIRIT…
Michael Azerrad (Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground, 1981-1991)
The Blasters proved to be the most prominent and popular of these acts by far. Originally a quartet, the band was bred in Downey, just down the freeway from East L.A. In their teens, brothers Phil and Dave Alvin were bitten by the blues bug; they became habitués of the L.A. club the Ash Grove, where many of the best-known folk and electric blues performers played, and they sought out the local musicians who could teach them their craft, learning firsthand from such icons as Big Joe Turner, T-Bone Walker, and Little Richard’s saxophonist Lee Allen (who would ultimately join the band in the ’80s). But the Blasters’ style was multidimensional: they could play R&B, they loved country music, and they were also dyed-in-the-wool rockabilly fans who were initially embraced by the music’s fervent L.A. cultists. Their debut album, 1980’s American Music, was recorded in a Van Nuys garage by the Milan, Italy–born rockabilly fanatic Rockin’ Ronnie Weiser, and released on his indie label Rollin’ Rock Records, which also issued LPs by such first-generation rockabilly elders as Gene Vincent, Mac Curtis, Jackie Waukeen Cochran, and Ray Campi. By virtue of Phil Alvin’s powerful, unmannered singing and Dave Alvin’s adept guitar playing and original songwriting, the Blasters swiftly rose to the top of a pack of greasy local bands that also included Levi and the Rockats (a unit fronted by English singer Levi Dexter) and the Rockabilly Rebels (who frequently backed Ray Campi). Los Lobos were early Blasters fans, and often listened to American Music in their van on the way to their own (still acoustic) gigs. Rosas says, “We loved their first record, man. We used to play the shit out of that record. Dave [Hidalgo] was the one who got a copy of it, and he put it on cassette.
Chris Morris (Los Lobos: Dream in Blue)
Scoring my first goal as a Gunner felt like a million pounds. Realising I love Indie Porter…felt like a billion.
Amy Daws (Challenge (Harris Brothers, #1))
Mother Tahr *had* written a letter to Tau-indi, explaining that she had to go away for a while. But she'd sent the letter to Padrigan to deliver, and he'd put off reading it. For as long as it was unopened, you see, it might still be a love note. Of such things, the Whale Words tell us, are the destinies of empires made. Not of armies or great notions or the glitter of wealth, but the most delicate motions of our hearts.
Seth Dickinson (The Monster Baru Cormorant (The Masquerade, #2))
From what I could make out, all this free love they preached translated into a lot of sex and drugs. This meant a lot of stoned guys spreading a lot of STDs and unwanted, unplanned babies. Ever been to a commune? If so, you know what I’m talking about. If not, you missed nothing, believe me.
P.L. Jones
I remember the friendliness of everyone. Shaking hands and kissing when they said hello and goodbye, it was so removed from the cold and unfeeling place we had come from. I was beginning to appreciate the place we were in and loving Europe and its way of life. It was so laid-back compared to my old world.
P.L. Jones
David Gittlin’s TIME TERMINUS (Expect the Unexpected) offers a clever twist on time travel stories and murder mysteries and adds a sweet and poignant love story to boot. ~Catherine Langrehr for IndieReader
Catherine Langrehr
A memoir in which the author shares his impressive journey of emigrating to the United States to escape a difficult life in an impoverished Nigerian village. Born into an extremely poor family in Nigeria, ‘Deji Ayoade had early memories of wanting to come to America to do better for himself. For years, he dreamed about having a bright future in the United States. At seven, he promised his mother that one day he would be a doctor in America and take her and his siblings away from their dangerous and impoverished existence. By the age of thirty-three, ‘Deji had been in the United States for five years and was living his dream. He had earned a master’s degree, married and had a child, been recruited into the Navy, and become a US citizen. He makes good on the promise to his mother and brings her, his sister, and his sister’s baby to the United States. UNDERGROUND: A Memoir of Hope, Faith, and the American Dream is a well-structured, compelling memoir written by a determined man with big dreams, ambitious goals, and the strength to never lose sight of where he is headed. Commitment, intelligence, and drive contribute to his fulfilling what he deems to be his purpose in life. His accomplishments in the armed services are nothing short of admirable. Ayoade draws readers into the 1980s culture of the poorer regions of Nigeria with vivid descriptions of the sights, sounds, and smells of areas in which they lived. His credible recreation of scenes reveals insight into the civilization that had considerable influence on him. Family dynamics also play a significant role in Ayoade’s life. His recollection of his father’s contradictory behaviors both confuse and enlighten him. His fond memories of his grandmother—the family member he trusted the most—are heartfelt and touching. While coming to the United States offers many positive experiences for Ayoade, it doesn’t come without problems, and one that the author talks about with deep emotion and candidness is racism. Thoughtful in the way he acknowledges possible differences of perspectives, he describes how it feels to be looked at differently. One scene in particular demonstrates just how prejudiced and insensitive people can be when it comes to racial biases. Ayoade writes from the heart with emotion and honesty that demonstrate his passion for what he does in life. His ability to weave together a cohesive story from so many disparate fragments is remarkable. His religious faith and commitment to never-ending improvement for himself are inspiring and a basis for being a role model for others. UNDERGROUND: A Memoir of Hope, Faith, and the American Dream–author ‘Deji Ayoade’s reflections on overcoming enormous obstacles and emigrating from Nigeria to the United States–is candid, heartwarming, and inspirational.
IndieReader
You don’t love me. How could you? I’m broken and tarnished irreparably damaged. I’m not worth it, Maddox.
Indie Black (Destroyed (Tainted by Ruin Trilogy, #2))
Oh, Indy.” She places her hand on top of mine, the both of us watching Ryan and Sarah. “That man loves you. That right there is quiet love.
Liz Tomforde (The Right Move (Windy City, #2))
Even though the cut was about twenty minutes longer than the ultimately released movie, Pulp Fiction was an even better movie than Reservoir Dogs. The structure was not only more audacious; the movie was funny as hell and had some extremely intense suspense sequences. Afterward, when Quentin asked me what I thought, remembering the Reservoir Dogs screening, I demurred and bit my tongue. I didn’t want to make a casual comment that might inadvertently influence this great movie. Even though a scene or two might have been tightened I just told him how much I loved it, which was true. As I was walking to my car I looked over and was surprised to find Dennis Hopper walking beside me. Usually I try to give celebrities their space and not bother them in public, but Hopper’s Easy Rider had made a huge impact on me at a very young age and it was hard to contain myself. I decided to keep it simple and just said, “I really loved Quentin’s film.” Hopper stopped in his tracks and suddenly it was like I was standing beside Francis Ford Coppola’s character the “photojournalist,” right out of his Apocalypse Now. Just him and me. “Yeah, man. Quentin really did it, man. I mean really. He really did it.” We both stood there in silent contemplation for a long moment, then wished each other good night and that was that.
Don Coscarelli (True Indie: Life and Death in Filmmaking)
McCartney II has similarly attained cult status among indie fans and artists who regard it as forward-thinking avant-electronica. But those people didn’t hear McCartney II in the context in which it was released. The album came out four months after McCartney spent nine days in a Japanese jail for possession of 219 grams of weed while on tour with Wings. The band fell apart after the tour was canceled, prompting McCartney to release his solo recordings as McCartney II. It’s not difficult to understand why McCartney was perceived at the time to be sort of dumb and perpetually stoned, and how this perception influenced the opinion that McCartney II was mere folly, rather than visionary genius. I think the truth about McCartney II is somewhere in the middle. I love the album because the songs are good and weird and utterly unlike anything else in McCartney’s catalog. But I also love it because the dumb/stoned aspects of the record are inextricable from the visionary-genius aspects. McCartney II is good because it’s good, and good because it’s bad.
Steven Hyden (Twilight of the Gods: A Journey to the End of Classic Rock)
Tell me why," she says. "Why would you want to lie to me? Why would you take a choice from me?" Her gaze has softened and she's looking at me as Ky again- the person she loves- and somehow that's even worse. All the reasons I lied run through my head: because I can't lose you, because I was jealous, because I don't trust anyone, because I can't even trust myself, because, because, because. "You know why," I say, anger flaring in me suddenly. At everything. Everyone. The Society, the Rising, my father, myself, Indie, Xander, Cassia. "No, I don't," she beings, but I don't let her finish. "Fear," I say, holding her gaze. "We were both afraid. I was afraid of losing you. You were afraid, back in the Borough. When you took my choice away from me.
Ally Condie (Crossed (Matched, #2))
Well, when the place you run to is a single person, then you know you found it.
Abi Maya