Sofa Nap Quotes

We talked--recent history only--and Lucas relayed the story of how Francis came to be his roommate. "He showed up at the door one night, demanding to be let in. Napped on the sofa for an hour, then demanded to be let out. It turned into a nightly ritual, with him staying longer and longer, until at some point I realized he'd moved in. He's basically the most brazen squatter ever.

I was flesh thirst desire dust blood lips cracking feet blistered knees skinned hips bruised, but I was so happy not to be napping on a sofa under a blanket with an older man by my side and a baby on my lap.

It might have felt easier if she'd been able to say that she moved across the room to him in a trance, as if he were a vampire exerting some kind of mind control. That would have been a cop-out, though. Not to mention a lie. She was exquisitely aware of every movement she made as she uncurled her legs, rose from her chair and walked slowly and carefully around the end of the coffee table towards him. She felt the wide hem of her yoga pants sway around her ankles, felt the nap of the blue-and-green area rug and then the cool smoothness of the wooden floorboards beneath her feet. She felt the way the thick sofa cushions gave beneath her as she sat beside him and the pull of gravity when his heavier weight made a deeper depression that her body rolled naturally into...And then she felt everything.

big sofas for a nap on Sunday afternoon; comfy reading chairs with good light and a view out the window for daydreaming

But, as Margaret half suspected, Edith had fallen asleep. She lay curled up on the sofa in the back drawing-room in Harley Street, looking very lovely in her white muslin and blue ribbons. If Titania had ever been dressed in white muslin and blue ribbons, and had fallen asleep on a crimson damask sofa in a back drawing-room, Edith might have been taken for her. Margaret was struck afresh by her cousin's beauty. They had grown up together from childhood, and all along Edith had been remarked upon by every one, except Margaret, for her prettiness; but Margaret had never thought about it until the last few days, when the prospect of soon losing her companion seemed to give force to every sweet quality and charm which Edith possessed. They had been talking about wedding dresses, and wedding ceremonies; and Captain Lennox, and what he had told Edith about her future life at Corfu, where his regiment was stationed; and the difficulty of keeping a piano in good tune (a difficulty which Edith seemed to consider as one of the most formidable that could befall her in her married life), and what gowns she should want in the visits to Scotland, which would immediately succeed her marriage; but the whispered tone had latterly become more drowsy; and Margaret, after a pause of a few minutes, found, as she fancied, that in spite of the buzz in the next room, Edith had rolled herself up into a soft ball of muslin and ribbon, and silken curls, and gone off into a peaceful little after-dinner nap.

Two jobless grown-ups, we spent weeks wandering around our Brooklyn brownstone in socks and pajamas, ignoring the future, strewing unopened mail across tables and sofas, eating ice cream at ten A.M. and taking thick afternoon naps.

Besides, I'm okay alone. I don't always want to answer a question about why I'm coughing if I'm coughing. I like falling into Return to a Place Lit by a Glass of Milk without being asked what am I reading. I appreciate not being interrupted in the middle of thinking about nothing. Nobody shoos my dogs off the sofa or objects to the three of them with sardine breath farting under the covers in bed at night. I like moving furniture around without anyone wishing I wouldn't or not noticing that I have. I like cooking or not, making the bed or not, weeding or not. Watching movies until three am and no one the wiser. Watching movies on a spring day and no one the wiser. To say nothing of the naps.

I’ve always enjoyed sherry at room temperature on a summer afternoon. I’m not fond of cold drinks on hot days. I’ll take a drink of sherry and, a little later, lie down for a nap, and fall asleep before I know it. When I wake up, some of the day’s heat is gone. I hope I can die that way—drink a little sherry on a summer afternoon, stretch out on a sofa, drop off to sleep, and never wake up.

This wasn't sadness--there were no feelings of desperation or disaster, nothing like depression with its one slowed-down realization of having been badly and untraceably misunderstood--but rather a plain, artless form of loneliness; something uninteresting, factual, and teachable, perhaps, to children or adults, with flashcards of household items (toothbrush, pillow), coloring books of fleeting, unaccompanied things (hailstones that melt midair; puddles formed and unseen and gone; illusions of friends in the periphery), and a few real-world assignments (post-nap trip to the pet store in the early, breezy evening; Halloween night asleep on the sofa; Saturday night dinner in the parking lot, looking through the windshield at the pizza buffet restaurant you just got take-out from).

Delaying gratification is a process of scheduling the pain and pleasure of life in such a way as to enhance the pleasure by meeting and experiencing the pain first and getting it over with.” He adds, “It is the only decent way to live.” I completely agree, but there’s more. In addition to delaying gratification, discipline demands that you also make key decisions in advance—relationally, physically, financially and spiritually. Let’s keep going. Relationally. Delayed gratification is important first and foremost in training children. A lot of parents are unwilling to make the sacrifices that are necessary in order to meet their children’s deepest needs. A promotion at work, a TV show or a nap on the sofa may all seem much more enticing than playing Candy Land with a three-year-old. There’s no question about it: it is hard to devote yourself wholeheartedly and regularly to bringing up your children properly. But hard work during the children’s early, impressionable years usually forms strong character in them. Parents who discipline themselves to do this, trusting God for the strength to keep going, are likely to enjoy the payoff of a lifetime of solid relationships with their children.

What I want to know is whether or not I can expect a repetition of it, if I were to agree with what Alexandra wants.” Drowning in angry mortification, Elizabeth nevertheless managed not to flinch or drop her gaze, and although her voice shook slightly, she managed to say calmly and clearly, “I have no control over wagging tongues, your grace. If I had, I would not have been the topic of scandal two years ago. However, I have no desire whatever to reenter your society. I still have scars enough from my last sortie among the Quality.” Having deliberately injected a liberal amount of derision into the word “Quality,” Elizabeth closed her mouth and braced herself to be verbally filleted by the old woman whose white brows had snapped together over the bridge of her thin nose. An instant later, however, the pale hazel eyes registered something that might have been approval, then they shifted to Alexandra. With a curt nod the dowager said, “I quite agree, Alexandra. She has spirit enough to endure what they will put her through. Amazing, is it not,” continued the dowager to Elizabeth with a gruff smile, “that on the one hand we of the ton pride ourselves on our civilized manners, and yet many of us will dine on one another’s reputations in preference to the most sumptuous meal.” Leaving Elizabeth to sink slowly and dazedly into a chair she’d shot out of but moments before, the dowager then walked over to the sofa and seated herself, her eyes narrowed in thought. “The Willington’s ball tonight will be a complete crush,” she said after a moment. “That may be to our advantage-everyone of importance and otherwise will be there. Afterward there’ll be less reason to gossip about Elizabeth’s appearance, for everyone will have seen her for themselves.” “Your grace,” Elizabeth said, flustered and feeling some expression of gratitude was surely in order for the trouble the dowager was about to be put to, “it-it’s beyond kind of you to do this-“ “Nonsense,” the woman interrupted, looking appalled. “I am rarely kind. Pleasant, at times,” she continued while Alexandra tried to hide her amusement. “Even gracious when the occasion demands, but I wouldn’t say ‘kind.’ ‘Kind’ is so very bland. Like lukewarm tea. Now, if you will take my advice, my girl,” she added, looking at Elizabeth’s strained features and pale skin, “you will immediately take yourself upstairs and have a long and restorative nap. You’re alarmingly peaked. While you rest”-she turned to Alexandra-“Alexandra and I will make our plans.” Elizabeth reacted to this peremptory order to go to bed exactly as everyone reacted to the dowager duchess’s orders: After a moment of shocked affront she did exactly as she was bidden.

NAP ON A MUGGY AFTERNOON When we part, all the closeness and pleasure of our time together immediately dissolves into lonely agitation. Having shared a cool iron bed with a warm and beautiful woman, I return home and lie incapacitated on the sofa: drained, dismantled, wracked with longing and restlessness; yet somehow, despite the dismal aftereffects, it seems worth it. The Hate Poems John Tottenham

You’re going to pay for this, Dodger!” The mischievous creature thought everything in the world was for his own amusement. No basket or container could go without being overturned or investigated, no stocking or comb or handkerchief could be left alone. Dodger stole personal items and left them in heaps beneath chairs and sofas, and he took naps in drawers of clean clothes, and worst of all, he was so entertaining in his naughtiness that the entire Hathaway family was inclined to overlook his behavior. Whenever Poppy objected to the ferret’s outrageous antics, Beatrix was always apologetic and promised that Dodger would never do it again, and she seemed genuinely surprised when Dodger didn’t heed her earnest lectures.

ceremony rehearsal, and one of the groomsmen dared to suggest that Evan might want to take a small sedative before the real wedding, which, as you can imagine, did not go over well. Oh, and Francois threatened to quit halfway through the final menu tasting.” Harmony cringed. “Yikes.” “I think if Francois would have quit, I would have too.” I sighed. “I believe it. I’ve never seen you use the coffee table as an ottoman before.” I smiled and wiggled my toes. “I don’t know why not.” “Well, as you explained to me, this here is an authentic Jason Partillo design,” Harmony replied, a lilt in her voice as she gently needled me with her elbow. I laughed softly. “Are you trying to say that those of us who live in diva houses shouldn’t throw shoes?” She barked a laugh. “No. This Evan guy sounds like he left diva in the dust a long time ago and plowed straight into narcissistic jerk land.” “Can’t argue with that.” I closed my eyes, my head leaning against the back of the sofa. “Two days and then it’s over and they won’t be my problem anymore. I have fifteen weddings between now and June. That’s going to feel like a walk in the park compared to this nonsense.” “And in the meantime, you get the rest of the night off to spend with me and your bestie!” Harmony said. “Assuming I can stay awake, that is,” I replied, peeling my eyes open. “I should have left room in the schedule for a pre-dinner nap.” Harmony laughed and sprang off the sofa to continue getting ready. “Do you think I should wear my black tights with the red sweater dress, or can I get away with jeans? Is the place we’re going fancy fancy or fancy-ish?” I smiled at my sister’s nervous musings. She wasn’t one to ask for my fashion advice, mostly because I preferred my clothes hole-free and didn’t own anything with spikes or studs on it. While she could dress up when the situation warranted, Harmony tended toward a certain grunge-chic aesthetic with colorful streaks in her otherwise bleached-blonde hair, four piercings in each ear, and a penchant for artfully torn clothing and bomber jackets. And she’d recently added a small crystal stud to her nose. “It’s fancy-adjacent,” I told her. “Go with the leggings and dress.” Harmony nodded, even as her teeth worked nervously at her lower lip. I smiled. “She’s going to love you, Harmony. Stop stressing.” Holly Boldt, my good friend and fellow witch, was coming into the Seattle Haven to speak at a potion making conference, and we’d made plans

Ma naps on the sofa, and for a moment I can imagine what she’ll look like when she dies, when her face slackens and the air abandons her lungs. Around her are objects, papers, photo frames filled with faces she hasn’t seen in years. Among these things her body looks lifeless and alone, and I wonder if the pressure of an audience is what forces the blood to pump. It’s easy to unravel when no one is watching.

Ma naps on the sofa, and for a moment I can imagine what she’ll look like when she dies, when her face slackens and the air abandons her lungs. Around her are objects, papers, photo frames filled with faces she hasn’t seen in years. Among these things her body looks lifeless and alone, and I wonder if the pressure of an audience is what forces the blood to pump. It’s easy to unravel when no one is watching .

Some people can have out-of-body experiences without severe harm to their health. This happened to Gram a few times, though she never made it all the way to Heaven. When Gram was pregnant with my mom, she remembered fainting from anemia and seeing her grandmother who’d died. She was about to go to her, but she heard her mom calling her name and said to her grandma, “I gotta go! My mom’s calling!”--and she came to. Many years later, Gram was lying on the sofa and felt her soul rise out of her body. When she told my mom about it, Mom said she could have had an out-of-body experience like astral projection, where the soul separates from the physical body and travels around. Shortly after, Gram was napping and felt like she was coming out of her body, this time from her back, and recognized what was happening. “Whoa, where do you think you’re going?” she said to herself. With that, everything went back to normal.

You are going to nap.” “What?” She sank onto the end of his sofa. “I’m starting to feel like you’re being obtuse on purpose. Is my English incorrect? A nap, James. It is the act of sleeping during the day. Hounds do it, children do it, and now so will you.

How quickly my life has become another life, how pitiless this becoming is, and yet how slow I am to adapt. Okey sends me a video of an elderly woman who walks through our front door, crying, and I think, I have to ask Daddy who she is. In that small moment, what has been true for the forty-two years of my life is still true—that my father is tangible, inhaling, exhaling; reachable to talk to and to watch the twinkle of his eyes behind his glasses. Then, with a horrible lurch, I remember again. That brief forgetting feels like both a betrayal and a blessing. Do I forget because I am not there? I think so. My brother and sister are there, face to face with the desolation of a house without my father. My sister kneeling by his bed, weeping. My brother wearing one of his newsboy hats, weeping. They can see that he is not at the dining table for breakfast, on his chair backing the window’s light, and that after breakfast he is not settled on the sofa in his mid-morning ritual of napping, reading and napping again.