Miu Quotes

An empty shell. Those were the first words that sprang to mind. .... Something incredibly important - .. - had disappeared from Miu for good. Leaving behind not life, but its absence

If I'm going to merely ramble, maybe I should just snuggle under the warm covers, think of Miu, and play with myself.

In the instant Miu touched her hair, Sumire fell in love, like she was crossing a field and bang! a bolt of lightning zapped her right in the head. Something akin to an artistic revelation.

And most likely, that was the future in a nutshell, Sumire growing ever more distant. It made me sad. I felt like I was a meaningless bug clinging for no special reason to a high stone wall on a windy night, with no plans, no beliefs. Sumire said she missed me. But she had Miu beside her. I had no one. all I had was-me. Same as always.

Being tough isn’t in and of itself a bad thing. Looking back on it, though, I can see I was too used to being strong, and never tried to understand those who were weak. I was too used to being fortunate, and didn’t try to understand those less fortunate. Too used to being healthy, and didn’t try to understand the pain of those who weren’t. Whenever I saw a person in trouble, somebody paralyzed by events, I decided it was entirely his fault––he just wasn’t trying hard enough. People who complained were just plain lazy. My outlook on life was unshakable, and practical, but lacked any human warmth. And not a single person around me pointed this out.’” - Miu

I couldn't save Kataoka. "If I loved him, I had to grant him his last wish. "So I told him what he wanted to hear. "I said, 'No, you're no longer human.'" I hadn't been able to say anything. I couldn't speak, I couldn't move, I couldn't understand a word of what Miu was telling me. "Kataoka smiled kindly. "Like he was thanking me. "Then he jumped off the roof. "Osamu Dazai and I killed him.

You have savings?" she was astonished. As a woman who lived on the very extreme edges of her budget, whose credit card bills were a source of monthly concern, the idea of savings was just so alien. But then this was Ed, a different kind of person altogether. "Why do I know nothing about your savings?" she'd asked. "I wonder!" he'd answered with a smile. "Maybe because I don't want my savings to be translated into "really great investments" like Miu Miu shoes or Hermès handbags.

Turning your energy toward what’s to come, leaning into the light. When you were born, your father wanted you to have my name. Miu: a seedling. He liked that idea, you as our little sprout. But I chose his: Gardner. One who makes things grow. I wanted you to be not only the grown, but the grower. To have power over your own life, turning your energy toward what’s to come, leaning into the light.

Ali nisam mogao a da se živ ne pojedem danima razmišljajući o tome kako znati što je za tebe dobro ili loše, koja je odluka ispravna ili pogrešna. Kako na bezbrojnim životnim raskrižjima znati koji put vodi u propast, a koji ka sreći koja je ipak samo zakratko odgodi taj naš posljednji pad koji će jednog, možda baš poput današnjeg vedrog i lijepog jesenjeg dana doći, ma što god miu međuvremenu činili ili propuštali da učinimo ... Možeš bježati cijeloga života, no ne možeš pobjeći od onog što nosiš u sebi, a u sebi nosiš baš sve.

Miu let age naturally rise to the surface, accepted it for what it was, and made her peace with it.

In the instant Miu touched her hair, Sumire fell in love, like she was crossing a field and bang!

Ever since that day, Sumire's private name for Miu was Sputnik Sweetheart

What I liked most about Miu was that she didn’t try to hide her age. According to Sumire, she must be thirty-eight or thirty-nine. And indeed she looked that age. With her slim, tight figure, a little makeup and she’d easily pass for late twenties. But she didn’t make the effort. Miu let age naturally rise to the surface, accepted it for what it was, and made her peace with it. M

With her slim, tight figure, a little makeup and she'd easily pass for late twenties. But she didn't make the effort. Miu let age naturally rise to the surface, accepted it for what it was, and made her peace with it.

If I do tell you the story,” Miu said, “the two of us will always share it. And I don’t know if that’s the right thing to do. If I lift open the lid now, you’ll be implicated. Is that what you want? You really want to know something I’ve sacrificed so much trying to forget?

Weren’t you sorry to give it up? You’d almost made it.” Miu gazed into Sumire’s eyes searchingly. A deep, steady gaze. Deep within Miu’s eyes, as if in a quiet pool in a swift stream, wordless currents vied with one another. Only gradually did these clashing currents settle.

She and Miu shared similar musical tastes, it turned out. They both loved piano music and were convinced that Beethoven’s Sonata no. 32 was the absolute pinnacle in the history of music. And that Wilhelm Backhaus’s unparalleled performance of the sonata for Decca set the interpretive standard.

Don’t worry.” Miu laughed. “The more we leave behind, the more people in the restaurant will be able to try it. The sommelier, the headwaiter, all the way down to the waiter who fills the water glasses. That way a lot of people will start to acquire a taste for good wine. Which is why leaving expensive wine is never a waste.

You're family, but that doesn't mean you have the right to govern my relationships, love or otherwise.

I love the curve of Miu's rear end. The exquisite contrast between her jet-black pubic hair and snow-white hair, the nicely shaped arse, clad in tiny black panties. Talk about sexy. Inside her black panties, her T-shaped pubic hair, every bit as black. I've got to stop thinking about that. Switch off the circuit of pointless sexual fantasies (click) and concentrate on writing - Sumire, p.150.

Rome, Greece, Timbuktu, Aruanda - it didn't matter. She was far, far away. And most likely that was the future in a nutshell, Sumire growing ever more distant. It made me sad. I felt like I was some meaningless bug clinging for no special reason to a high stone wall on a windy night, with no plans, no beliefs. Sumire said she missed me. But she had Miu beside her. I had no one. All I had was - me. Same as always.

MIU was still stuffed into their overheated office space. Luckily somebody had sprung for an industrial-sized cooling fan with a face the same diameter as a dustbin lid and an unfortunate tendency to blow any unsecured paperwork out the nearest window. If we’d had a green screen we could have shot the live elements to a low budget disaster movie.

There are signs, however, that a good time was had all last night. Jo might have found herself caught in the middle of a love triangle, but she clearly didn't mind staying around when she thought that one of the angles had been dispensed with. The remains of dinner still grace the table---dirty dishes, rumpled napkins, a champagne flute bearing a lipstick mark. There's even one of the Chocolate Heaven goodies left in the box---which is absolute sacrilege in my book, so I pop it in my mouth and enjoy the brief lift it gives me. I huff unhappily to myself. If they left chocolate uneaten, that must be because they couldn't wait to get down to it. Two of the red cushions from the sofa are on the floor, which shows a certain carelessness that Marcus doesn't normally exhibit. They're scattered on the white, fluffy sheepskin rug, which should immediately make me suspicious---and it does. I walk through to the bedroom and, of course, it isn't looking quite as pristine as it did yesterday. Both sides of the bed are disheveled and I think that tells me just one thing. But, if I needed confirmation, there's a bottle of champagne and two more flutes by the side of the bed. It seems that Marcus didn't sleep alone. Heavy of heart and footstep, I trail back through to the kitchen. More devastation faces me. Marcus had made no attempt to clear up. The dishes haven't been put into the dishwasher and the congealed remnants of last night's Moroccan chicken with olives and saffron-scented mash still stand in their respective saucepans on the cooker. Tipping the contents of one pan into the other, I then pick up a serving spoon and carry them both through the bedroom. I slide open the wardrobe doors and the sight of Marcus's neatly organized rows of shirts and shoes greet me. Balancing the pan rather precariously on my hip, I dip the serving spoon into the chicken and mashed potatoes and scoop up as much as I can. Opening the pocket of Marcus's favorite Hugo Boss suit, I deposit the cold mash into it. To give the man credit where credit is due, his mash is very light and fluffy. I move along the row, garnishing each of his suits with some of his gourmet dish, and when I've done all of them, find that I still have some food remaining. Seems as if the lovers didn't have much of an appetite, after all. I move onto Marcus's shoes---rows and rows of lovely designer footwear---casual at one end, smart at the other. He has a shoe collection that far surpasses mine. Ted Baker, Paul Smith, Prada, Miu Miu, Tod's... I slot a full spoon delicately into each one, pressing it down into the toe area for maximum impact. I take the saucepan back into the kitchen and return it to the hob. With the way I'm feeling, Marcus is very lucky that I don't just burn his flat down. Instead, I open the freezer. My boyfriend---ex-boyfriend---has a love of seafood. (And other women, of course.) I take out a bag of frozen tiger prawns and rip it open. In the living room, I remove the cushions from the sofa and gently but firmly push a couple of handfuls of the prawns down the back. Through to the bedroom and I lift the mattress on Marcus's lovely leather bed and slip the remaining prawns beneath it, pressing them as flat as I can. In a couple of days, they should smell quite interesting. As my pièce de résistance, I go back to the kitchen and take the half-finished bottle of red wine---the one that I didn't even get a sniff at---and pour it all over Marcus's white, fluffy rug. I place my key in the middle of the spreading stain. Then I take out my lipstick, a nice red one called Bitter Scarlet---which is quite appropriate, if you ask me---and I write on his white leather sofa, in my best possible script: MARCUS CANNING, YOU ARE A CHEATING BASTARD.

He nods coolly. “Slept with a Miu Miu model last week.

我在近代的中國人中，最敬佩孫中山先生。他曾說，中國人的自由太多，不是太少。我為他這句話，回想中國歷史上，至少言論一項，可算是很自由的了。

După masă, taică-miu își băga mâinile în pantaloni, ca Al Bundy, și spunea: «No, fiule, ia cântă-ne și nouă o baladă.» Cred că de atunci urăsc «Balada» lui Ciprian Porumbescu.

I don't trust love very much. It's a temporary impulse that makes you lose yourself and forget what's important to you.

I love his eyes. He nods coolly. “Slept with a Miu Miu model last week.” I hate his eyes.

Inside the Galleria it was dark and dank, with fountains and foliage unchanged from the 1980s. I instantly knew it—an old friend—despite having never stepped foot inside, and the loneliness that had been haunting me all day lifted in an instant. Even though I was two thousand miles from it, I was home. I had just moved from Philly, and I didn’t know a soul. My new life was feeling so empty, I needed cheap stuff to fill it up, and there was something particularly alluring that drew me to the Galleria that day—a store I had heard about that was becoming ubiquitous in Los Angeles, popping up faster than a rash of Starbucks in the cityscape. It was a fast-fashion empire to rule them all—pitch-perfect knockoffs of designer styles on an endlessly rotating trend carousel that changed out daily. If you couldn’t afford a Murakami Louis Vuitton monogram bag or the Miu Miu pleated micro mini, you could pacify yourself with their bogus cousins for a fraction of the price, and not feel bad tossing them when the trends shifted in a month or two. I spotted the store’s golden logo overhead. Forever 21. The name alone was pure poetry written in the California sand. Forever 21—like the spirit of a roller-skating bikini girl riding into the Venice Beach dusk. Forever 21—like Madonna, like Angelyne—faces and bodies sculpted into youthful approximations of their aging corporal forms. Forever 21—the true spirit of Los Angeles. I felt it enter me, I was possessed.

«Un omo dovrebbe campare quanto è di giusto. Novant'anni sono assà, troppi. E addiventano ancora chiussà quanno che uno è obbligato a ripigliare le cose in mano doppo che pinsàva d'essersene sbarazzato. E la facenna di Japichinu mi ha consumatu, dottore. Non dormu per la prioccupazione. È macari malatu di petto. Io ci dissi: consegnati ai carrabbinera, almeno ti curano, Ma Japichinu è picciotto, tistardu come tutti i picciotti. Comunque, io ho dovuto ripinsàri a pigliari la famiglia in manu. Ed è difficili, difficili assà. Pirchì intantu lu tempu è andato avanti, e gli òmini si sono cangiati. Non capisci cchiù come la pensano, non capisci quello che gli sta passando per la testa. Un tempu, tantu pi fari un esempiu, su una data facenna complicata ci si ragiunava. Macari a longo, macari pi jorna e jorna, macari fino alle mali parole, alla sciarriatina, ma si ragiunava. Ora la genti non voli cchiù ragiunari, non voli pèrdiri tempu». «E allora che fa?». «Spara, dottore mio, spara. E a sparari semu tutti bravi, macari u cchiù fissa di la comitiva. Se lei, putacaso, ora comu ora scoccia il revorbaro che tiene nella sacchetta...». «Non ce l'ho, non cammino armato». «Daveru?!». Lo sbalordimento di don Balduccio era sincero. «Dottore mio, 'mprudenza è! Con tanti sdilinquenti ca ci sono in giro...». «Lo so. Ma non mi piacciono le armi». «Manco a mia piacevano. Ripigliamo il discorso. Se lei mi punta un revorbaro contro e mi dice: "Balduccio, inginocchiati", non ci sono santi. Essendo io disarmato, mi devo inginocchiari. È ragionato? Ma questo non significa che lei è un omo d'onore, significa solo che lei è, mi pirdonasse, uno strunzo con un revorbaro in mano». «E invece come agisce un omo d'onore?». «Non come agisce, dottore, ma come agiva. Lei viene da mia disarmato e mi parla, m'espone la quistione, mi spiega le cosi a favori e le cosi contro, e se iu in prima non sugnu d'accordu, u jornu appressu torna e ragiunamu, ragiunamu fino a quannu iu mi fazzu convintu ca l'unica è di mettermi in ginocchiu comu voli lei, nell'interessi miu e di tutti». Fulmineo, nel ricordo del commissario s'illuminò un brano della manzoniana Colonna Infame, quando un disgraziato è portato al punto di dover pronunziare la frase «ditemi cosa volete che io dica» o qualcosa di simile. Ma non aveva gana di mettersi a discutere di Manzoni con don Balduccio. «Mi risulta però che macari a quei tempi beati che lei mi sta contando si usava ammazzare la gente che non voleva mettersi in ginocchio». «Certo!» fece con vivacità il vecchio. «Certo! Ma ammazzare un omo pirchì si era refutato d'obbediri, lo sapi lei che significava?». «No». «Significava una battaglia persa, significava che il coraggio di quell'omo non ci aveva lasciato altra strata. Mi spiegai?».

Noua perla a lui frati-miu "Cu ce se hranesc scorpionii? Cu caca de roboti.

The neighbors are dead quiet. In this building, the first response to a scream for help is to bolt the door and stay put. Miu then called 999. We never call the police for help. We settle everything our way, without government interference. I suppose this is an extraordinary situation. “Yes, yes. The crazy woman’s still in here. She’s locked herself in the bathroom. She’s got a knife,” she said breathlessly, unnecessarily loud. “He’s fainting, bleeding a lot. Maybe dying. Hurry, lah, Ah Sir!” To support her claim, Kit Zai groaned in the background like a pig in the slaughterhouse. Well, she was wrong. I don’t have a knife. I have a pair of scissors, brand new, German made, top quality, used only once so far to fantastic effect. His dick offered less resistance than blanched pig chitterlings, my favorite bedtime snack. She may be right about me being a lunatic, though. I’ve been suspecting that for years. But hey, look around, who isn’t? Only that I know and they don’t.

Thyroid. Test Thyroid Stimulating Hormone annually. The test is called TSH and could indicate thyroid problems if too high. In such cases, energy levels will be low, and exercise will have less benefit. The standard “too high” level is 4 uiu/ml (or miu/L), but the warning bells should chime at anything above 2.5. For men, a doctor should be seen if this is the case and total testosterone is below 350/dl. For women, T3 and T4 should measured, and a doctor seen if they are low. We cannot give a precise number here, because different labs use different tests for this one. So here “low” should be taken to mean low according to the lab report. The cure for a weak thyroid is levothyroxine, a very inexpensive prescription medicine.

Odmalička ji vedli k dodržování pravidel, k víře, že řádný chod světa závisí na její poslušnosti, a ona je tedy dodržovala – a věřila. Od dívčích let měla svůj plán a také se ho svědomitě držela: střední škola, vysoká škola, vážná známost, sňatek, zaměstnání, hypotéka, děti. Sedan s airbagy a automatickými bezpečnostními pásy. Sekačka na trávu a fukar na sníh. Pračka a sušička ve stejném designu. Udělala zkrátka všechno správně a vybudovala si dobrý život, takový, jaký chtěla, jaký chce každý. A náhle tu byla tahle Mia, dočista jiný typ ženy s dočista jiným životem, která jako by si tvořila vlastní pravidla a nehodlala se za to omlouvat. Stejně jako ta fotografie pavoučí tanečnice to paní Richardsonové připadalo znepokojivé, ale podivně přitažlivé. Zčásti toužila Miu zkoumat jako antropoložka, pochopit, proč – a jak – dělá to, co dělá. Jiná její část – ačkoli v tom okamžiku si to uvědomovala teprve mlhavě – pociťovala tíseň, chtěla si Miu pohlídat, jako si hlídáte nebezpečné zvíře.