Murphy Bed Quotes

I wanted to structure a day where a hypothetical random snapshot of me looked like Carrie Bradshaw in her kimono, totally relaxed, not Brittany Murphy in Girl, Interrupted, diddling an old chicken under her bed. The

He was split, one part of him never left this mental chamber that pictured itself as a sphere full of light fading into dark, because there was no way out. But motion in this world depended on rest in the world outside. A man is in bed, wanting to sleep. A rat is behind the wall at his head, wanting to move. The man hears the rat fidget and cannot sleep, the rat hears the man fidget and dares not move. They are both unhappy, one fidgeting and the other waiting, or both happy, the rat moving and the man sleeping.

Lesson learned? Don’t have sex on the top bunk in a dorm room. It doesn’t matter if the girl weighs a buck-oh-five and you know you plan on only lasting for ten minutes tops. Those bunk beds are made out of sticks.

Make love to me,” she whispered. “If you make love to me then it is two of us. There is just one of him when he takes my blood, but we are two.” “We are two and more than two,” he whispered in her ear, and then he lifted her and carried her to the bed.

His arms surround me like a nice, yellow house. A warm house, a safe house, probably in the suburbs with a white picket fence. But your arms; they were a home. A home with an old soul (maybe a lake house in the fall) with a wood stove and kitchenette and a murphy bed imprinted with bodies shaped like ours. Granted, there were a few leaks here and there, and the wind got in at night, but I don’t remember ever feeling cold. My head wants the house, but no matter how I try, my heart just wants to go home. The heart wants what it wants

You're going to have to take care of yourself," Karrin said quietly. "Over the next few weeks. Rest. Give yourself a chance to heal. Keep the wound on your leg clean. Get to a doctor and get that arm into a proper cast. I know you can't feel it, but it's important that--" I stood, leaned over the bed, and kissed her on the mouth. Her words dissolved into a soft sound that vibrated against my lips. Then her good arm slid around my neck, and there wasn't any sound at all. It was a long kiss. A slow kiss. A good one. I didn't draw away until it came to its end. I didn't open my eyes for a moment after. "...oh...," she said in a small voice. Her hand slid down my arm to lie upon mine. "We do crazy things for love," I said quietly, and turned my hand over, fingers curling around hers.

I like having her in my bed every night. Waking up with her every morning. Just knowing she's with me gives me a sense of peace I can't remembering ever having in my life.

One is forced to examine one's life when trapped in the wall by a Murphy bed.

We fall onto the bed together and I am careful not to land on her since she is so little. And perfect

My fingers play with my hospital bracelet. I stare at my name. Carley Connors. Thirteen letters. How unlucky can one person be? I think about my mother. Still there, lying in her hospital bed like an eggplant.

On the couch that was also my bed in the apartment I'd lived in all my life, I sat, sucking my thumb, thinking of the terrible things he'd said to me, using them to ignite a small fire, to get myself warm and moving, to get myself gone.

Lying in the hotel bed, Hector conceded that, all through ’93, ’94, and ’95, an ever-widening river of good data, mixed with a steady ambient wash of self-importance, had anesthetized his grief. He’d needed that. But now a maw of emptiness and rage was opening beneath him. Idly, he rubbed his bare, trimmed chest beneath the sheets. He’d faithfully hit the gym through these past years of high-level consultancy, grunting out his misery over barbells and machines. His chest was broad and he wished beyond anything that the arm caressing it at this moment was Ricky’s, not his own. But that sunny, silly cutie, like a blond sliver of sunshine on the timeline that Hector envisioned as his life, had missed the drawbridge, along with Issy and Korie and a baleful lot of others. It had all happened in the very, very worst years of sickness and death, Clinton’s first term, overwhelming loss mingled confusingly with tidings of the coming respite.

But she is, and disappoitment crashes over me. I draw closer to her bed and see that she's on her side facing the window, the covers tucked around her shoulders, her eyes closed and lips pursed. Without thought I settle on the edge of the bed as gently as possible., seeking her warmth. Reaching out, I touch her hair, letting the dark brown strands sift through my fingers. She's the total opposite of me. Dark hair to my blond, chocolate-brown eyes to my pale blue ones, sweet to my bastard-like ways.

I’m sorry, Shiloh,” I whisper, over and over, both hands on him so’s he won’t try to get up. The blood’s just pouring from a rip in his ear. “I’m so sorry! Jesus help me, I didn’t know Bakers’ dog could leap that fence.” When we get to the bottom of the lane, instead of going up the road toward Judd’s place, Dad turns left toward Friendly, and halfway around the first curve, he pulls in Doc Murphy’s driveway. Light’s still on in a window, but I think old doc was in bed, ’cause he come to the door in his pajamas. “Ray Preston?” he says when he sees Dad. “I sure am sorry to bother you this hour of the night,” Dad says, “but I got a dog here hurt bad, and if you could take a look at him, see if he can be saved, I’d be much obliged. We’ll pay. . . .” “I’m no vet,” says Doc Murphy, but he’s already standing aside, holding the screen open with one hand so we can carry Shiloh in. The doc’s a short man, round belly, don’t seem to practice what he preaches about eating right, but he’s got a kind heart, and he lays out some newspapers on his kitchen table.

Several years ago on an extremely hot day, a crew of men were working on the road bed of the railroad when they were interrupted by a slow moving train. The train ground to a stop and a window in the last car— which incidentally was custom made and air conditioned—was raised. A booming, friendly voice called out, “Dave, is that you?” Dave Anderson, the crew chief called back, “Sure is, Jim, and it’s really good to see you.” With that pleasant exchange, Dave Anderson was invited to join Jim Murphy, the president of the railroad, for a visit. For over an hour the men exchanged pleasantries and then shook hands warmly as the train pulled out. Dave Anderson’s crew immediately surrounded him and expressed astonishment that he knew Jim Murphy, the president of the railroad, as a personal friend. Dave then explained that twenty-three years earlier he and Jim Murphy had started work at the railroad on the same day. One of the men, half jokingly and half seriously, asked Dave why he was still working out in the hot sun and Jim Murphy had gotten to be president. Rather wistfully, Dave explained, “Twenty-three years ago I went to work for $1.75 an hour and Jim Murphy went to work for the railroad.

I’m not hungry for food right now. Please, take me back to bed.

Why do you always garden at the night? I mean, isn’t it a day job? Oh I wish I could. The thing is every time my wife sings in bed; I go out to garden so my neighbors don’t get the idea that I indulge in domestic violence.

It was a decrepit studio apartment in Hollywood, with a Murphy bed that came out of the wall.

Drill to stay on as class teacher to this year’s Form Four. We are trying hard to find a new gym mistress for later in the term, so Form Four can count themselves lucky that Miss Drill will be able to keep them fit and healthy until gym classes are up and running again.” Maud and Enid glanced sideways at Mildred, who was looking desperate. “During the holidays,” said Miss Hardbroom, “there have been exciting improvements in all the bedrooms. Glass has been fitted in every pupil’s window.” There were whoops of joy from the entire school, except the bewildered first-years, who had no idea that their bedrooms would not have had proper windows in the first place; but there was great rejoicing from all the old hands as they imagined snuggling up in a cosy bed, without rain and wind blowing onto their pillows. In particularly bad weather, they had all had to move their beds away from the open stone windows. “Settle down now, girls!” barked Miss Hardbroom. “What is it, Mildred?

White Coffee was pissed. His ears were pinned back, and his tail was waving from side to side. As I approached the bed, I heard a guttural growl. When I went to pet him, he hissed at me. Eventually, we were able to get a few pictures with him and he even let me pick him up, but the magic was gone. I’d flown too close to the sun. Pam and I said our thank yous and our goodbyes. When we got back in the car, Pam was pissed. Her ears were pinned back, and her head was waving from side to side. I heard a guttural growl. When I reached for Pam’s hand, she hissed at me. “I

You spend about eight out of every twenty-four hours, or one third of your entire life, in sleep. This is an inexorable law of life. This also applies to the animal and vegetable kingdoms. Sleep is a divine law, and many answers to our problems come to us when we are sound asleep upon the bed. Your subconscious mind never rests or sleeps. It is always active, controlling all your vital forces. The healing process takes place more rapidly while you are asleep as there is no interference from your conscious mind. Remarkable answers are given to you while you are asleep.

But, Father Murray didn’t want to say Mass, he wanted to play a round of golf. Father Murray told his associate pastor that he wasn’t feeling well, and asked him if he would say Mass for him at nine o’clock. The younger priest agreed, and suggested that Father Murray go back to bed. Father Murray loaded his clubs into the trunk, drove to a distant golf course, where he hoped not to be seen, and started his golf game. Up in Heaven, Saint Peter was appalled. He said, ‘Lord, are you going to let him get away with this?’ and the Lord replied, ‘Patience, Peter.’ Meanwhile, Father Murray was playing the game of his life. He was driving the ball three hundred and fifty yards, and making forty foot putts. Again, Saint Peter asked the Lord, ‘Lord, surely you don’t intend to reward Father Murray’s behavior?’ Again, the Lord told Peter to be patient. Finally, Father Murray reached the last hole. He lined up the tee shot, and hit a sizzling shot which headed right for the cup. It dropped, rolled, and fell in for a hole-in-one. Father Murray was overjoyed. Saint Peter was baffled. ‘Lord, why would you allow Father Murray to skip Mass, tell a lie, and then play the best golf game of his life?’ The Lord answered, ‘Who’s he gonna tell?

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When he starts talking, that's my signal to climb out of bed and go check on him

I admit it, Officer. I ran away. Take me to the pokey and throw away the key.” Murphy, to her credit, seemed to be handling things fairly well for someone who had just confronted the monster under the bed. She recovered her nightstick and went to Faith, examining her for injuries before directing a suspicious gaze at Nick and me. “Hoo boy,” Nick said, planting his stocky bulk squarely beside mine. “Here it comes. You get the top bunk, stilts,

I never can understand why most people imagine a bed – some sort of bed: any sort of bed – to be a prerequisite of sleep.

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Aubade" I know my leaving in the breakfast table mess. Bowl spills into bowl: milk and bran, bread crust crumbled. You push me back into bed. More “honey” and “baby.” Breath you tell my ear circles inside me, curls a damp wind and runs the circuit of my limbs. I interrogate the air, smell Murphy’s Oil Soap, dog kibble. No rose. No patchouli swelter. And your mouth— sesame, olive. The nudge of your tongue behind my top teeth. To entirely finish is water entering water. Which is the cup I take away? More turning me. Less your arms reaching around my back. You ask my ear where I have been and my body answers, all over kingdom come.

It is but as yesterday," he claimed, "that darkness and solitude - cut off from the rest of mankind like the lepers of old - the dismal cell, the bed of straw, the iron chain, and the inhuman scourge, were the fearful lot of those who were best entitled to human pity and to human sympathy, as being the victims of the most dreadful of all mortal calamities.

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