Stitch And Angel Quotes

Harper: In your experience of the world. How do people change? Mormon Mother: Well it has something to do with God so it's not very nice. God splits the skin with a jagged thumbnail from throat to belly and then plunges a huge filthy hand in, he grabs hold of your bloody tubes and they slip to evade his grasp but he squeezes hard, he insists, he pulls and pulls till all your innards are yanked out and the pain! We can't even talk about that. And then he stuffs them back, dirty, tangled and torn. It's up to you to do the stitching. Harper: And then up you get. And walk around. Mormon Mother: Just mangled guts pretending. Harper: That's how people change.

A heart can only break so many times. I'm not saying it fails entirely: just that it mends the wrong way. It warps. It's stitched together loose and askew and it doesn't work as it should.

I take four or five heavy steps beyond the front door and Mom comes rushing down the hallway. "Shane! What in the hell-" Now she sees me, in all my dignified glory. I tell her I'm fine. Swear I stuck up for my sister, not an alien but an angel. By the time I get to, "I think I might need stitches," Mom is my mommy. She may have forgotten my birthday. But today she remembers me.

We must be quite the sight. Raffe in his red mask with his demon wings spread out in all their scythe-edged glory. A scrawny teenage Daughter of Man brandishing an archangel sword. And a little girl stitched-up to look and behave like a nightmare who is clutching a pair of angel wings.

She waited for him, she stitched for years. And if he had come back broken and defeated from war, she would have loved him even more. And if he had returned mutilated, ugly, full of infection and horror, she would still have loved him; fed by pity, by a sharing of pain, she would love him even more, and even more, and she would never, never have prayed to God, please let him die if he can’t return to me whole and healthy and able to live a normal life . . . If he had died, she would have buried her heart with him. So what the fuck is the matter with me?

Some people come into our lives like angels, stitching together our torn pieces and thus keeping us from falling apart. They bestow upon us the gift of companionship, mend broken relationships, and bring divergent lives together.

He was shaking his head as he read some of the words that were written in the pie sections of the wheel; Meat Snatch, Gash and Stitch, Jaws of Life, Tongue Twister, Enema of Horror, Nailed, Dissection, Musical Hair Patches, Eye Deflation, Intestinal Jump Rope, Cooked Until Dripping, Spoon of Pain, Needle Works, Ball Squats, Cut and Rip, Two Headed Cock, Bone Collector, Joint Screws, Fused, Human Tesla Coil, Barbed Wired, Shit Faced, Root and Rod, Colon Blow, Skin Deep, Boiling Nuts, Sewn, Muscle Stimulator, Urethra Tug-o-war, Crack a Cap, Tendon Rubber Bands, Weenie Roast, Musical Extremities, Root Canal, Needle Mania, Tattooed Wall Art, Rod and Prod, Slice and Dice, Sex Change and Torched Beyond Recognition. I

Lord Dunmore, the last royal governor of Virginia, called upon slaves and indentured servants alike to rebel, and eight hundred immediately responded, making their way to Norfolk, a temporary British base. These were enrolled under Dunmore’s banner as the “Loyal Ethiopian Regiment” and wore shirts with the inscription LIBERTY TO SLAVES stitched across the front. “If [Dunmore] is not crushed before spring,” Washington wrote, “he will become the most formidable enemy America has. His strength will increase as a snowball.

what I wanted, and what I’d asked for. So, when I walked into this exam room, I was expecting another mundane case, considering the evening I’d had thus far. The smell of vomit had been the first thing that hit me when I entered, and I instantly groaned. God, I hated vomit. Give me blood and guts any day. I would rather stitch up anything then walk into a room that smelled like this. I was focused on the file, trying to re-learn how to breathe through my mouth when I looked up and saw my new patient lying in a hospital bed. She looked like an angel with a head full of long strawberry blonde curls and

Ranulf searched for something to distract him from what she was doing. Only one topic came to mind.Their kiss. "About this morning.Your memory is faulty." Concentrating,Bronwyn was just about to sever the final stitch. "How so?" she murmured. "I believe you kissed me." His nearness coupled with the unexpected reminder of their embrace caused her hand to quiver just as she sliced the last stitch, giving him a small scrape. "Ow! You did that on purpose!" Bronwyn jumped back. She was no longer nestled between his legs, but neither was she out of his reach. "I did no such thing. Besides,it is a small sratch, so stop disgracing yourself by acting so cowardly," she scolded, waving the sharp blade around as if it was another appendage. "Cowardly?" Ranulf bellowed, as he jerked the knife out of her hand. "You, angel, should be thanking me for being damn near to a saint! You have to be one of the most difficult women I have ever met." Bronwyn's chin popped up angrily, her deep blue eyes flashing. "I'm not difficult. You're the one yelling." She turned, grabbed his tunic, and threw it at him. "I'm done.You can get dressed now.

She was beauty and intelligence stitched together with no seams She lived in a world with no difference between reality and dreams Excellence as habit, she was much more than simple flesh and bone She walked in the way that forced her presence to be known If I viewed the world in melody, she is the only one I would see She could conquer that world in a day and still have time for tea Soft lips curved in confidence spilling sweetness with every breath Ideas remaining and growing even after the revolving dance of death Fingers curled with the power of creation and the ease with which it came She sat upon a throne as a queen playing the world like a simple game She was fire, and laughter, and the warmth both of them brought She made the idea of perfection appear as a simple afterthought Her body danced with the tidal currents of marvelous desire She could reach the sky in a day and then push on even higher She was the best getting better, the absolute antonym of threshold The words she wrote were gilded, laid heavy with amber glow gold She was one of very many, and yet, she was the only one of them all Her taste made my mouth water, her effect hit me harder than alcohol She was quality, and substance, an actual angel in every way real Her word was solid, it was a better guarantee than a devil with a deal She was better than just human, more like power that has taken shape and form And I the lucky one who holds her close, feels her heartbeat quicken like a storm

I wasn’t myself. The urge to scream until my voice was broken and I was as silent as my angel clawed at me daily.

Where do broken hearts go? Do Angels heal them, though the ruby love refuses stitches?

For the ambulance ride, the nasal cannula had been replaced with an oxygen mask, and throughout this ride, the angels (now I sensed more than one) kept telling me funny stories. I don’t remember what was said, but I remember laughing out loud repeatedly under that mask. And I told them, “Y’all are a stitch. You crack me up.

We break off into the streets, repairing the cobblestones with our brisk allegro. The townsfolk step aside in awe as my allongés stitch the pastel wood back into cottages and storefronts. Flowers grow from my quick bourrée steps, breathing life back into Luna Island in shades of pink and purple. Rainbows rise from the sea with my grand jeté, summoning the dolphins to leap alongside our dance. Damien catches me in his arms before lifting me into the air as I paint the sky bright blue. We laugh as the beauty of Luna Island blooms once again, running into the forest and turning the ash into lush green trees. Color bursts in the darkness as we chassé through the angels' village and past the glade where our story first began. With my pirouettes, I add extra pink petals to the garden where Damien and I once lay. I break into a series of chaîné turns as we make our way back down to the beach, unleashing the magic Luna bestowed upon me. The townsfolk watch in awe in the midst of the commotion, and I dust them in a veil of starlight that follows my path, healing bruises and stitching wounds until no one bleeds. They gather around me as I finish my dance, thrumming with applause and tossing the freshly spun flowers at my feet.

Tonight she'll be with Jeremy, her lieutenant, but she wants to be with Roger. Except that, really, she doesn't. Does she? She can't remember being so confused. When she is with Roger it's all love, but at any distance- any at all, Jack- she finds that he depresses and even frightens her. Why? On top of him in the wild nights riding up and down his cock her axis, trying herself to stay rigid enough not to turn to cream taper-wax and fall away melting to the coverlet coming there's only room for Roger, Roger, oh love to the end of breath. But out of bed, walking talking, his bitterness, his darkness, run deeper than the War, the winter: he hates England so, hates "the System," gripes endlessly, says he'll emigrate when the War's over, stays inside his paper cynic's cave hating himself... and does she want to bring him out, really? Isn't it safer with Jeremy? She tried not to allow this question to often, but it's there. Three years with Jeremy. They might as well be married. Three years ought to count for something. Daily, small stitches and easings. She's worn old Beaver's bathrobes, brewed his tea and coffee, sought his eye across lorry-parks, day rooms and rainy mud fields when all the day's mean, dismal losses could be rescued in the one look- familiar, full of trust, in a season where the word is invoked for quaintness or a minor laugh. And to rip it all out? three years? for this erratic, self-centered- boy, really. Weepers, he supposed to be past thirty, he's years older than she. He ought to've learned something, surely? A man of experience? /// If the rockets don't get her there's still her lieutenant. Damned Beaver/Jeremy IS the War, he is every assertion the fucking War has ever made- that we are meant work and government, for austerity: and these shall take priority over love, dreams, the spirit, the senses and the second-class trivia that are found among the idle and mindless hours of the day... Damn them, they are wrong. They are insane. Jeremy will take her like the Angel itself, in his joyless weasel-worded come-along, and Roger will be forgotten, an amusing maniac, but with no place in the rationalized power-ritual that will be the coming peace. She will take her husband's orders, she will become a domestic bureaucrat, a junior partner, and remember Roger, if at all, as a mistake thank God she did not make... Oh, he feels a raving fit coming on- how the bloody hell can he survive without her? She is the British warm that protects his stooping shoulders, and the wintering sparrow he holds inside his hands. She is his deepest innocence in spaces of bough and hay before wishes were given a separate name to warn they might not come true, and his lithe Parisian daughter of joy, beneath the eternal mirror, forswearing perfumes, capeskins to the armpits, all that is too easy, for his impoverishment and more worthy love. /// Jessica steps away from Roger to blow her nose. The sound is as familiar to him as a bird's song, ip-ip-ip-ip NGUNNGG as the hankerchief comes away..."Oh sooper dooper," she says, "think I'm catching a cold." You're catching the War. It's infecting you and I don't know how to keep it away. Oh, Jess. Jessica. Don't leave me....

Tonight she'll be with Jeremy, her lieutenant, but she wants to be with Roger. Except that, really, she doesn't. Does she? She can't remember being so confused. When she is with Roger it's all love, but at any distance- any at all, Jack- she finds that he depresses and even frightens her. Why? On top of him in the wild nights riding up and down his cock her axis, trying herself to stay rigid enough not to turn to cream taper-wax and fall away melting to the coverlet coming there's only room for Roger, Roger, oh love to the end of breath. But out of bed, walking talking, his bitterness, his darkness, run deeper than the War, the winter: he hates England so, hates "the System," gripes endlessly, says he'll emigrate when the War's over, stays inside his paper cynic's cave hating himself... and does she want to bring him out, really? Isn't it safer with Jeremy? She tried not to allow this question to often, but it's there. Three years with Jeremy. They might as well be married. Three years ought to count for something. Daily, small stitches and easings. She's worn old Beaver's bathrobes, brewed his tea and coffee, sought his eye across lorry-parks, day rooms and rainy mud fields when all the day's mean, dismal losses could be rescued in the one look- familiar, full of trust, in a season where the word is invoked for quaintness or a minor laugh. And to rip it all out? three years? for this erratic, self-centered- boy, really. Weepers, he supposed to be pas thirty, he's years older than she. He ought to've learned something, surely? A man of experience? /// If the rockets don't get her there's still her lieutenant. Damned Beaver/Jeremy IS the War, he is every assertion the fucking War has ever made- that we are meant work and government, for austerity: and these shall take priority over love, dreams, the spirit, the sense and the second-class trivia that are found among the idle and mindless hours of the day... Damn them, they are wrong. They are insane. Jeremy will take her like the Angel itself, in his joyless weasel-worded come-along, and Roger will be forgotten, an amusing maniac, but with no place in the rationalized power-ritual that will be the coming peace. She will take her husband's orders, she will become a domestic bureaucrat, a junior partner, and remember Roger, if at all, as a mistake thank God she did not make... Oh, he feels a raving fit coming on- how the bloody hell can he survive without her? She is the British warm that protects his stooping shoulders, and the wintering sparrow he holds inside his hands. She is his deepest innocence in spaces of bough and hay before wishes were given a separate name to warn they might not come true, and his lithe Parisian daughter of joy, beneath the eternal mirror, forswearing perfumes, capeskins to the armpits, all that is too easy, for his impoverishment and more worthy love. /// Jessica steps away from Roger to blow her nose. The sound is as familiar to him as a bird's song, ip-ip-ip-ip NGUNNGG as the hankerchief comes away..."Oh sooper dooper," she says, "think I'm catching a cold." You're catching the War. It's infecting you and I don't know how to keep it away. Oh, Jess. Jessica. Don't leave me,,,,

Supermodernism. the fact that we don't build places just to live in anymore. We build places to go through. To wait in. To be transient [. . .] Supermodern spaces. Places to go through. And now look at this bloody city [Los Angeles]. Two hundred thousand fucking miles of road. Not even a city. A dozen towns stitched together by motorways.

Some guys can charm the stitches off a baseball.