Temp Cover Quotes

Asparagus, tinged with ultramarine and rosy pink which ran from their heads, finely stippled in mauve and azure, through a series of imperceptible changes to their white feet, still stained a little by the soil of their garden-bed: a rainbow-loveliness that was not of this world. I felt that these celestial hues indicated the presence of exquisite creatures who had been pleased to assume vegetable form, who, through the disguise which covered their firm and edible flesh, allowed me to discern in this radiance of earliest dawn, these hinted rainbows, these blue evening shades, that precious quality which I should recognise again when, all night long after a dinner at which I had partaken of them, they played (lyrical and coarse in their jesting as the fairies in Shakespeare’s Dream) at transforming my humble chamberpot into a bower of aromatic perfume.

I felt that these celestial hues indicated the presence of exquisite creatures who had been pleased to assume vegetable form, who, through the disguise which covered their firm and edible flesh, allowed me to discern in this radiance of earliest dawn, these hinted rainbows, these blue evening shades, that precious quality which I should recognise again when, all night long after a dinner at which I had partaken of them, they played (lyrical and coarse in their jesting as the fairies in Shakespeare's 'Dream') at transforming my humble chamber into a bower of aromatic perfume.

Reluctantly she threw back the covers, crawled out of the cocoon, and headed into the closest thing to a rainforest she’d ever get to see. She didn’t understand how anyone could spend a scant five minutes in that shower and not want to set up camp. But she’d give it her best shot. She played with the buttons on the panel to set the water temp a tad hotter. As Pearl Jam battered the senses through the speakers, she closed her eyes and did her best to imagine standing naked under a waterfall in a green and balmy rainforest.  

„The air was saturated with the finest flour of a silence so nourishing, so succulent, that I could move through it only with a sort of greed, especially on those first mornings of Easter week, still cold, when I tasted it more keenly because I had only just arrived in Combray: before I went in to say good morning to my aunt, they made me wait for a moment, in the first room where the sun, still wintry, had come to warm itself before the fire, already lit between the two bricks and coating the whole room with an odour of soot, having the same effect as one of those great country ‘front-of-the-ovens’, or one of those château mantelpieces, beneath which one sits hoping that outdoors there will be an onset of rain, snow, even some catastrophic deluge so as to add, to the comfort of reclusion, the poetry of hibernation; I would take a few steps from the prayer stool to the armchairs of stamped velvet always covered with a crocheted antimacassar; and as the fire baked like a dough the appetizing smells with which the air of the room was all curdled and which had already been kneaded and made to ‘rise’ by the damp and sunny coolness of the morning, it flaked them, gilded them, puckered them, puffed them, making them into an invisible, palpable country pastry, an immense ‘turnover’ in which, having barely tasted the crisper, more delicate, more highly regarded but also drier aromas of the cupboard, the chest of drawers, the floral wallpaper, I would always come back with an unavowed covetousness to snare myself in the central, sticky, stale, indigestible and fruity smell of the flowered coverlet.

I half expected her to be gone by the time I came out of the shower. She ran. That’s what she did with me. The half of me that expected her to still be here would have put money on her cleaning the place. But when I came out, she was on the couch. I knew immediately something was wrong. I flew to her side. “Kristen, what is it?” She panted. “I can’t see. My…my eyes are blurry.” She was covered in sweat. Shaking, breathing hard. I pulled back her eyelid and she swatted at me. Combative. Hypoglycemic. I ran to the kitchen, praying that she hadn’t tossed all the trash. I spotted an old In-N-Out cup with Coke in it from yesterday and grabbed it, running back to the couch. “Kristen, I need you to drink this. You’re not going to like it, but I need you to do it.” It was flat, old, and room temp, but it was all I had in the apartment. I put the straw to her lips. She shook her head violently and clenched her teeth. “No.” “Listen, your glucose levels are low. You need sugar. Drink this. You’ll feel better. Come on.” She tried to knock the cup from my hands, and I protected it like it was the cure for cancer. If she didn’t get her blood sugar up, she could have a seizure next. Slip into unconsciousness. And her symptoms were already advanced. Panic overcame me. My heart pounded in my ears. What’s wrong with her? “A few swallows, please,” I begged. She took the straw in her lips and drank, and my relief was palpable. It took a few minutes and a few more sips, but she stopped shaking. I got a wet washcloth and wiped her face as she came back around. I peeled her sweatshirt off her—my sweatshirt. “When’s the last time you ate?” I asked. She was still a little disoriented. When she looked at me, her eyes didn’t really focus. “I don’t know. I didn’t.” I checked my watch. Jesus, it was almost 2:00 p.m. “Come on—I’m taking you to get some food.” I helped her up, putting an arm around her waist. She was so frail. The sides of her stomach were hard. Something is wrong.

The Disruption Machine What the gospel of innovation gets wrong. by Jill Lepore In the last years of the nineteen-eighties, I worked not at startups but at what might be called finish-downs. Tech companies that were dying would hire temps—college students and new graduates—to do what little was left of the work of the employees they’d laid off. This was in Cambridge, near M.I.T. I’d type users’ manuals, save them onto 5.25-inch floppy disks, and send them to a line printer that yammered like a set of prank-shop chatter teeth, but, by the time the last perforated page coiled out of it, the equipment whose functions those manuals explained had been discontinued. We’d work a month here, a week there. There wasn’t much to do. Mainly, we sat at our desks and wrote wishy-washy poems on keyboards manufactured by Digital Equipment Corporation, left one another sly messages on pink While You Were Out sticky notes, swapped paperback novels—Kurt Vonnegut, Margaret Atwood, Gabriel García Márquez, that kind of thing—and, during lunch hour, had assignations in empty, unlocked offices. At Polaroid, I once found a Bantam Books edition of “Steppenwolf” in a clogged sink in an employees’ bathroom, floating like a raft. “In his heart he was not a man, but a wolf of the steppes,” it said on the bloated cover. The rest was unreadable.

You are a man without a heart, Dr. Leddell. And you, Mary Cooper, are a meddler. A woman can be forgiven for many transgressions but not that. I have been called worse. And by people I hold in more esteem than you. Ha! I pity the poor man unfortunate enough to marry you someday. He writes his own ticket to hell. If he does, then I'll make that hell as pleasant a place for him as I know how. But I won't deceive him and tell him it's heaven, then stoke the fires behind his back and cover it all with the scent of lilacs".

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[The curve of your eyes] La courbe de tes yeux fait le tour de mon coeur, Un rond de danse et de douceur, Auréole du temps, berceau nocturne et sûr, Et si je ne sais plus tout ce que j’ai vécu C’est que tes yeux ne m’ont pas toujours vu. Feuilles de jour et mousse de rosée, Roseaux du vent, sourires parfumés, Ailes couvrant le monde de lumière, Bateaux chargés du ciel et de la mer, Chasseurs des bruits et sources des couleurs, Parfums éclos d’une couvée d’aurores Qui gît toujours sur la paille des astres, Comme le jour dépend de l’innocence Le monde entier dépend de tes yeux purs Et tout mon sang coule dans leurs regards. *** The curve of your eyes goes around my heart, A round of dance and sweetness, Halo of time, nocturnal and safe cradle, And if I don’t know any more all that I’ve lived through It’s because I haven’t always been seen by you. Leaves of day and scum of dew, Reeds of the wind, perfumed smiles, Wings covering the world with light, Ships filled with the sky and the sea, Hunters of noises and sources of colours, Perfumes bloomed from a brood of dawns That always lies on the straw of the stars, As the day depends on innocence The whole world depends on your pure eyes And all my blood flows in their looks. Paul Éluard , L’Amour la poésie (1929) Translated by Anne-Charlotte Husson

You look hot,” he blurted. Shit. Why had he said that? Meg turned red as a strawberry, pulled her robe tighter around her neck, and tugged the belt tight. “Warm,” he rushed to say. “You know, flushed—like, from your bath.” For someone who was usually Mr. Rico Suave, he was really bumbling everything. He swept his gaze up and down her magnificent body. “I’m just sad your ass is covered.” Fuck, what was he doing? He tripped over his words to cover. “I mean, glad. Really glad. After the rip and everything.” Sweat rolled down his back. Maybe he needed to take his own temp. Because he really wasn’t acting like himself.

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I’m not blind, Beau. I’m not saying I think I’m ugly. I know I’m passably cute. I’ve got good hair and my complexion isn’t bad. I don’t have big, blue eyes or long lashes, but my eyes aren’t bad. I’m not exactly exciting or striking. Sawyer is perfect. It’s hard to believe he wants me sometimes.” I turned away from her, afraid the incredulous expression on my face would tell her more than she needed to know. I wanted to tell her how her green eyes made guys want to defend her or the way her sweet, pink lips were mesmerizing or how that one single dimple caused my pulse rate to increase. I wanted to point out how those long, tanned legs caused guys to trip over themselves, and when she wore tight shirts, I fought the urge to go cover her up so every male who saw her wouldn’t go home and jack off with her image in their head. But I couldn’t say any of those things. Forcing my expression to remain casual, I glanced back at her. “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. Sawyer didn’t just choose you because of your looks.” That’s all I needed to say. She sighed and leaned back on her hands. I had to turn my head away from her again before my eyes could zero in on her tits. I didn’t need to study them to know they were perfectly round, soft, plump, and temping at hell. “I’m not always good. I try really hard to be good. I want to be worthy of Sawyer--I really do--but it’s like there is this other me inside who’s trying to get out. I fight it, but I’m not good at it all the time. Sawyer has to keep me in line.” Keep her in line Wait…what? Shaking my head to clear my thoughts from how sweet her nipples would taste, I forced myself to focus on what she was saying instead of how she would taste. She didn’t think she was good enough for Sawyer? Had Sawyer made her think something was wrong with her? Surely, he didn’t know she felt this way. “Ash, you’ve been nothing but perfect since you decided to grow up. Sure, you used to help me put frogs in people’s mailboxes, but that girl’s gone. You wanted to be perfect, and you achieved it.” She laughed and sat back up. I chanced a glance over at her. The dimple was there tucked into her cheek as she gazed down at the water. “If you only knew,” was all she said. “Tell me.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Why?” Because I want you. Just you. The girl I know is in there hiding from the world. I want my Ash back.