Script Tattoos Quotes

My eyes trail from his hand to the tattoo written in small script across his forearm. Hopeless

tattooed a Michelangelo quote across his left ribs in graceful script: ‘I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.

The religious leaders of the day had written the script for the Messiah. When Jesus announced he was the Messiah, the Pharisees and others screamed at him, "There is no Jesus in the Messiah script. Messiahs do not hang out with losers. Our Messiah does not break all the rules, Our Messiah does not question our leadership or threaten our religion or act so irresponsibly. Our Messiah does not disregard his reputation, befriend riffraff, or frequent the haunts of questionable people." Jesus' reply? "This Messiah does"! Do you see why Christianity is called "good news"? Christianity proclaims that it is an equal-opportunity faith, open to all, in spite of the abundance of playwrights in the church who are more than anxious to announce, "There is no place for you in Christianity if you [wear an earring/have a tattoo/drink wine/have too many questions/look weird/smoke/dance/haven't been filled with the Spirit/aren't baptized/swear/have pink hair/are in the wrong ethnic group/have a nose ring/have had an abortion/are gay or lesbian/are too conservative or too liberal].

And it was then that I noticed the dark black cursive script etched on the pink skin, the outline of the letters an angry red color that bordered a new tattoo. “What?” I murmured, leaning forward so I could read it. MONROE. His cock was tattooed with my name.

He was covered with ink, but this piece stood out to her. The script that flowed over his forearm said “If I could, I would. Baby, I swear I would.” She looked the words up later, thinking they were song lyrics, but found nothing that matched. Maybe the tattoo artist had meant to do lyrics but had gotten it wrong. Or maybe she was misremembering, or maybe they were pathless, lyrics to nothing.

The scripted words tattooed over the scar read: One must cultivate one’s own garden. “It’s Voltaire,” she says, the soft cadence of her voice spilling into my head. “But you know that, I’m sure. It reminds me to stay in the present.

Unscripted, unedited, and wholly authentic people are almost universally admired, especially if they have flaws, are not afraid to make live, red-blooded mistakes, and rather than trying are busy simply being. Which is something you should consider hiring a tattoo artist to script across the palm of your hand: Be, Don’t Try. “Oh my God, I can’t do that. I would totally mess up.” You better pray to the corn god that you do. Messing up is how you tell other people, “It’s okay to like me, because I’m just like you.” Everybody feels a bit like a dented can inside. Even the slickest, most polished person you can think of is more aware of their shortcomings and flaws than their talents and gifts.

As he looked,she did the same.So far she'd always seen him partially clothed,but now...The top part of one arm was a complete sleeve of interwoven Celtic designs that were so beautiful and intricate she could only imagine how long it had taken the artist to tattoo them.On his lower forearm was a Celtic cross with a circle around it and what looked like names scripted parallel to the circle.She'd noticed part of it before but hadn't wanted to stare at him.Now she was looking her fill.On his other upper arm he had the Marine Corps eagle,globe and anchor.

The multiform meanings of the Chinese word for writing, wen, illustrate well this interpenetration of human and nonhuman scripts: The word wen signifies a conglomeration of marks, the simple symbol in writing. It applies to the veins in stones and wood, to constellations, represented by the strokes connecting the stars, to the tracks of birds and quadrapeds on the ground (Chinese tradition would have it that the observation of these tracks suggested the invention of writing), to tattoos and even, for example, to the designs that decorate the turtle’s shell (“The turtle is wise,” an ancient text says—gifted with magico-religious powers—“for it carries designs on its back”). The term wen has designated, by extension, literature….3 Our first writing, clearly, was our own tracks, our footprints, our

Without warning, he fingered the small, black tattoo on her lower back. “What does this script mean?” She did gasp then, as much from the shock of his touch as from her visceral reaction to it. She wanted to arch up to his hand and couldn’t understand why. She snapped, “Are you done groping me?” “Canna say. Tell me what the marking means.” Mari had no idea. She’d had it ever since she could remember. All she knew was that her mother used to write out that mysterious lettering in all of her correspondence. Or, at least her mother had before she’d abandoned Mari in New Orleans to go on her two-hundred-year-long druid sabbatical— He tapped her there, impatiently awaiting an answer. “It means ‘drunk and lost a bet.’ Now keep your hands to yourself unless you want to be an amphibian.” When the opening emerged ahead, she crawled heedlessly for it and scrambled out with her lantern swinging wildly. She’d taken only three steps into the new chamber before he’d caught her wrist, spinning her around. As his gaze raked over her, he reached forward and pulled a lock of her long hair over her shoulder. He seemed unaware that he was languidly rubbing his thumb over the curl. “Why hide this face behind a cloak?” he murmured, cocking his head to the side as he studied her. “No’ a damn thing’s wrong with you that I can tell. But you look fey. Explains the name.” “How can I resist these suave compliments?” He was right about the name though. Many of the fey had names beginning in Mari or Kari. She gave his light hold on her hair a pointed look, and he dropped it like it was hot, then scowled at her as if she were to blame.