Warm And Cozy Quotes

Snowflakes swirl down gently in the deep blue haze beyond the window. The outside world is a dream. Inside, the fireplace is brightly lit, and the Yule log crackles with orange and crimson sparks. There’s a steaming mug in your hands, warming your fingers. There’s a friend seated across from you in the cozy chair, warming your heart. There is mystery unfolding.

When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender, of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.

She taught me to crave something more than cold and lonely perfection. Something warm and cozy and sweet. Something wild and savage and provocative. Her. I crave her.

The smell of that buttered toast simply spoke to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cozy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.

He found himself in a room not unlike the shop. All books again, packed tight on shelves or laying in piles on every surface. It was a cozy room, for all that ; it smelled of warm, rich words and very deep thoughts.

A single poem is worth a hundred cozy winter nights kind words and healed wounds.

Everyone has a happy place, the scene that comes into view when you close your eyes and let your mind transport you to the dot on the globe where life is cozy, safe, warm.

I focused on the passing houses filled with couples who’d somehow survived this teenage craziness of ‘he likes her but she likes him and he likes somebody else, you just can’t win.’ How did they do it? How did they end up in their golden, warm and cozy living rooms with their 2.3 children and dogs and cats? Because getting from where I was to where they were seemed millions of light years away.

And then I head toward our little hut without setting her down on her feet. She’s still wrapped around me like ivy, happy and cozy and warm in my arms. Just where she belongs.

For Breakfast I like my coffee warm and cozy and my eggs funny side up.

It's been a long, hard day, and bit by bit you have been transformed into a single, vertical, barely ambulatory ache. All that awaits you now is another long, lonely night on the hard, cold ground. "What am I doing out here?" you ask yourself. "I must be mad!" Indeed, you are mad. Otherwise right now you could be warm and cozy and stretched out in front of your beloved TV, munching popcorn and swigging down ice-cold brew, just like a civilized person. "Oh well," you sigh to yourself. "I'd better stop and get a fire going.

I’m fairly sure God designed your body to drive men into insanity,” Remo said darkly. Stifling the excited thrill Remo’s words sent through me, I retorted, “You believe in God?” “No. I don’t. But looking at you, I could turn into a believer.” I huffed. “There’s a cozy warm place in Hell reserved just for you.

[...] life can turn from being cheerful, warm and cozy to negative in a sec, and all it takes is us handing the power of happiness over to another human being.

All day the storm lasted. The windows were white and the wind never stopped howling and screaming. It was pleasant in the warm house. Laura and Mary did their lessons, then Pa played the fiddle while Ma rocked and knitted, and bean soup simmered on the stove. All night the storm lasted, and all the next day. Fire-light danced out of the stove's draught, and Pa told stories and played the fiddle.

Good friends are like cozy sweaters, they'll always be there to keep you warm when the rest of the world leaves you shivering.

Having her favorite breakfast always made her feel cozy, like a warm blanket was being wrapped around her.

The roses started him thinking, how the oddity of them was beautiful and how that oddity was contrived to give them value. “It just struck me – clear and complete all at once – no long figuring about it.” He realized that children could be designed. “And I thought to myself, now that would a rose garden worthy of a man’s interest.” We children would smile and hug him and he would grin around at us and send the twins for a pot of cocoa from the drink wagon and me for a bag of popcorn because the red-haired girls would just throw it out when they finished closing the concession anyway. And we would all be cozy in the warm booth of the van, eating popcorn and drinking cocoa and feeling like Papa’s roses.

What can it matter to you? You just drift along. You don't give a good godamm about the universal consequences that can flow from our most trifling acts, our most unforeseen thoughts . . . It's no skin off your ass . . . You're caulked . . . hermetically sealed . . . Nothing means anything to you . . . Am I right? Nothing. Eat! Drink! Sleep! Up there as cozy as you please . . . All warm and comfy on my couch . . . You've got everything you want . . . You wallow in well-being . . . the earth rolls on . . . How? Why? A staggering miracle . . . how it moves . . . the profound mystery of it . . . toward an infinite unforeseeable goal . . . in the sky all scintillating with comets . . . all unknown . . . from one rotation to the next . . . Each second is the culmination and also the prelude of an eternity of other miracles . . . of impenetrable wonders, thousands of them, Ferdinand! Millions! billions of trillions of years! . . . And you? What are you doing in the midst of this cosmologonic whirl? this vast sidereal wonder? Just tell me that! You eat! You fill your belly! You sleep! You don't give a damn . . . That's right! Salad! Swiss cheese! Sapience! Turnips! Everything! You wallow in your own muck! You'll loll around, befouled! Glutted! Satisfied! You don't ask for anything more! You pass through the stars . . . as if they were raindrops in May! . . . God, you amaze me, Ferdinand! Do you really think this can go on forever? . . ." I didn't say a word . . . I had no set opinion about the stars or the moon, but I had one about him, the bastard. And the stinker knew it.

I was so comfortable. I was warm and cozy, in that blissful, dreamy place between asleep and awake... Until my comfy pillow moved. And the blanket keeping me warm moved. I grumbled at them sleepily, and then my pillow and blanket chuckled. I looked up, trying to make sense of my thoughts, and I saw him. Cameron. My pillow and blanket was Cameron; a half asleep, chuckling Cameron. I groaned and let my head fall back on his chest, his arms tightened around me. "I wondered why my pillow moved." He chuckled again, and I could hear the sound resonate in my ear.

I had to say it gave me a warm feeling to picture Meredith Winslow spending twenty years or so in an ill fitting orange jumpsuit, cozying up to a great big girl named Beulah

It’s not a sock. It’s a cozy!” He stared at her blankly. “For a tea pot?” Surely, it was too small for that, too. With a tiny noise of frustration, she gestured at his face. “For your tusk. To keep it warm. But you don’t have to wear it if you don’t like it.

I began guitar after coming here as there wasn't a piano about. I taught myself, but my fingers just aren't cut out for the guitar, so I can't seem to get very good. Still, I like the innstrument. It's light, simple, straighforward, like a warm little room, nice and cozy.

But the main reason was that waking her would’ve meant telling her good-bye, and telling someone good-bye when you’re planning on walking into hell would’ve felt kind of…final. It was the same reason I hadn’t gone into the hut to find Mom, and why I’d skirted around Archer’s tent. I’d been nearly to the shore when I’d heard him softly call, “Mercer.” Kneeling in the doorway of his tent, his hair a mess, his Hex Hall uniform ridiculously wrinkled, he’d nearly broken my heart. And when I ran to him as soundlessly as I could and practically dove on top of him, I’d told myself that our kiss was just your normal boyfriend/girlfriend saying good morning thing. Even when he pulled me inside, the tent warm and cozy and smelling like him, I hadn’t let myself think that might be the last time I’d see him. And when he’d pulled me closer and murmured, “Mercer, I love-“ I had covered his mouth with my hand. “Don’t say that. Not now. Say it sometime when there is absolutely no chance of death on the horizon, okay?” He mumbled something beneath my palm, and I rolled my eyes as I pulled it away from his mouth. He dropped a kiss on the tip of my nose. “All I was going to say was that I love this tent you made for me. But I guess I can tell you again later. When you get back.” Curling my hand around the back of his neck, I’d pulled him down to me. “You better.” A blush creeping up my neck from the memory, I swung my gaze away from his tent and back toward the lake. I was coming back. I was going to be fine, and getting down into the Underworld to collect demonglass wouldn’t be hard at all. Maybe I’d make it back before lunch. Of course, I couldn’t make it back if I never left.

Sitting on the porch alone, listening to them fixing supper, he felt again the indignation he had felt before, the sense of loss and the aloneness, the utter defenselessness that was each man's lot, sealed up in his bee cell from all the others in the world. But the smelling of boiling vegetables and pork reached him from the inside, the aloneness left him for a while. The warm moist smell promised other people lived and were preparing supper. He listened to the pouring and the thunder rumblings that sounded hollow like they were in a rainbarrel, shared the excitement and the coziness of the buzzing insects that had sought refuge on the porch, and now and then he slapped detachedly at the mosquitoes, making a sharp crack in the pouring buzzing silence. The porch sheltered him from all but the splashes of the drops that hit the floor and their spray touched him with a pleasant chill. And he was secure, because someewhere out beyond the wall of water humanity still existed, and was preparing supper.

Mother do you think they'll drop the bomb? Mother do you think they'll like this song? Mother do you think they'll try to break my balls? Mother should I build the wall? Mother should I run for president? Mother should I trust the government? Mother will they put me in the firing line? Mother am I really dying? Hush now baby, baby, dont you cry. Mother's gonna make all your nightmares come true. Mother's gonna put all her fears into you. Mother's gonna keep you right here under her wing. She wont let you fly, but she might let you sing. Mama will keep baby cozy and warm. Ooooh baby ooooh baby oooooh baby, Of course mama'll help to build the wall. Mother do you think she's good enough -- to me? Mother do you think she's dangerous -- to me? Mother will she tear your little boy apart? Mother will she break my heart? Hush now baby, baby dont you cry. Mama's gonna check out all your girlfriends for you. Mama wont let anyone dirty get through. Mama's gonna wait up until you get in. Mama will always find out where you've been. Mama's gonna keep baby healthy and clean. Ooooh baby oooh baby oooh baby, You'll always be baby to me. Mother, did it need to be so high?

The power that was your father's." He looked at her bewildered face. "To get it, I need to take you away." "Where to?" "A vacation to somewhere warm and cozy." "Florida?" "Nearly. Hell." Piper glared. He shrugged. "I don't know why people are so down on hell. It never rains; it's always hot; you can get a nice tan; there's plenty to do.....

AUTUMN NIGHTS A crispy, cozy night on my wooden porch, Rustling leaves under my feet, Pinecones and pumpkin lights everywhere, A soft wool blanket in my chair, The smell of warm apple spiced candles, What a delight! I'm really falling for this October night.

The house was cozy, with a fire burning in every fireplace. The familiar scents of tea brewing in the samovar and Maman's warmed cherry brandy smelled like love to me.

A well-made turtleneck sweater will keep you warm, cozy, and protected from the cold. Your gums do the same thing for your teeth.

Reyna kept her voice as patient as possible, but inside her chest warmed. There was something special about being someone’s top priority.

It was the early 1960s, and the best-known names in home cooking—Fannie Farmer, Betty Crocker, Irma Rombauer, Dione Lucas—projected a warm and cozy domestic image that was the opposite of what she and David were after.

Dear you, take some time away from the clouds, the butterflies and the dreamy nights, take some time away from the cozy feelings, warm thoughts and the wild imaginations, see the truth, the reality. - To a girl with the wrong guy

I loved every bit of this season—when the air turned crisp and you could pull all the warm sweaters out of the back of your closet. It felt like the equivalent of wrapping yourself up in a warm, cozy blanket with a cup of hot apple cider in your hands.

Melissa Hopkins wanted more than anything to be home in her warm bed, securely tucked under her thick down comforter. For several hours now, she'd been sitting in a small windowless room at the local police headquarters, being interrogated by the same two cops non-stop. It made her head ache, although she supposed the drinks she'd had earlier could be a contributor to that as well.

her eyes have shed more tears than the skies her pen has bled more blood than her heart she sleep with her eyes open wide laughing, she says it's an art. the melancholy that she is they don't know the story of days she spends are warm and cozy at nights, her soul is ripped off

Mysig. Swedish adjective. Cozy. Warm. Soothing. The quality of sharing a comfortable moment with a person whose company one enjoys. “Mysig,” I whisper at my phone, like I’m the kind of person who has meaningful tête- à- têtes with fire hydrants. “Mysig,” I repeat with a small smile. I’m a mess. A failure. A ball of anxiety. All twisted. But also cozy.

To Zinkoff there is not one darkness, but many. There is the dark in the closet and the dark under the bed and the dark he can never see: the dark inside a drawer. No matter how fast he opens a drawer, trying to catch the dark, the light pours in faster. There is the dark of outside and the dark of inside. Unlike most children, Zinkoff is not afraid of the dark. Outside darkness does not frighten him. His father has told him that the stars are faraway suns, and the thought of all those suns up there gives Zinkoff a warm and cozy feeling at night. Inside, he seems to carry his own sunshine with him—he’s a sunshine bottle—even into the closet, where sometimes he hides from Polly without a twinge of fear.

The cats nestle close to their kittens, The lambs have lain down with the sheep. You’re cozy and warm in your bed, my dear. Please go the fuck to sleep.

But goblins know that every pile of clutter has a warm, dark, cozy center. There’s nowhere more comfortable than directly in the middle of all the things you love most.

come be cozy. grab a mug. fill it with a warm drink that you love. take a deep breath. maybe your first one all day. come be cozy. you deserve a safe place.

Just as my body suddenly yearns for long walks in the warm sunshine, so, too, my soul yearns to be stretched and watered after a somewhat stagnant season of comfortable coziness.

The words settled over the group of friends like a warm, cozy blanket on a wintry day.

Do any of those people in their warm and cozy living rooms have any idea what kind of life a beggar leads? Do any of those “good” and “kind” people ever wonder about the lives of so many of the children and adults around them? Granted, everyone has given a coin to a beggar at some time or another, though they usually just shove it into his hand and slam the door.

You’ve made yourself at home in my mind; this cozy nook with half-read books and records spilling their warm magic into the air, and from an open window comes that river rush that is my blood speeding with thoughts of you.

AN INCOMPLETE LIST OF NEIL MCNAIR’S FAVORITE WORDS - petrichor: the scent of the earth after it rains (English) - tsundoku: acquiring more books than you could ever read (Japanese) - hygge: a warm, cozy feeling associated with relaxing, eating, and drinking with loved ones (Danish) - Fernweh: a feeling of homesickness for a place you’ve never been (German) - Fremdschamen: the feeling of shame on someone else’s behalf; secondhand embarrassment (German) - davka: the opposite of what is expected (Hebrew)

After he left the planet with his brothers, he'd imagined he'd live out his life alone. That was until he met Annabelle. His memory lingered back to the day he stepped into her bakery. His brothers were still unpacking when he decided to take a walk into town. The first time he saw her, she was placing muffins into a customer's bag. Even with her messy hair bun and stained pink apron, she was pure perfection. His entire body warmed when he got a backside peek at her pink tank top and itty bitty jean shorts. Before he knew what was happening, he'd gone inside and sat down in the same booth he sat in now. And when she came to the table to take his order, she'd bit down on her bottom lip. He'd known then those lips would complicate his life, but he had no idea just how much.

Eric Greitens says that there are three primary forms of happiness: the happiness of pleasure, the happiness of grace, and the happiness of excellence5. He compares them to the primary colors, the basis on which the entire spectrum is created. The happiness of pleasure is largely sensory. It’s a good meal when you’re hungry, the smell of air after it rains, waking up warm and cozy in your bed. The happiness of grace is gratitude. It’s looking over to see the love of your life sleeping next to you and whispering, “thank you.” It’s taking inventory of what you do have. It’s when you speak to something greater than yourself, expressing humility and awe. And then there is the happiness of excellence. The kind of happiness that comes from the pursuit of something great. Not the moment you arrive at the top of the mountain and raise your fists in victory, but the process of falling in love with the hike. It is meaningful work. It is flow. It is the purpose that sears identity and builds character and channels our energy toward something greater than the insatiable, daily pursuit of our fleeting desires.

I’m sorry about our honeymoon,” Marlboro Man said when we woke up the next morning. It was 4:30, still dark outside, and we were wired, our internal clocks in a state of utter confusion. He caressed my side as I stretched and sighed. Our bed was so warm and cozy and dreamy. “It’s okay,” I said, smiling. “I’m so glad we came home…I love it here.” Our bedroom was tiny, about nine feet by nine feet. It cradled us like a protective cocoon. “I love you here,” he replied. We stayed in bed the entire morning, purposely denying that a world beyond our cocoon even existed.

I can understand the ignorant masses loving to soak themselves in drink—oh, yes, it's very shocking that they should, of course—very shocking to us who live in cozy homes, with all the graces and pleasures of life around us, that the dwellers in damp cellars and windy attics should creep from their dens of misery into the warmth and glare of the public-house bar, and seek to float for a brief space away from their dull world upon a Lethe stream of gin. But think, before you hold up your hands in horror at their ill-living, what "life" for these wretched creatures really means. Picture the squalid misery of their brutish existence, dragged on from year to year in the narrow, noisome room where, huddled like vermin in sewers, they welter, and sicken, and sleep; where dirt-grimed children scream and fight and sluttish, shrill-voiced women cuff, and curse, and nag; where the street outside teems with roaring filth and the house around is a bedlam of riot and stench. Think what a sapless stick this fair flower of life must be to them, devoid of mind and soul. The horse in his stall scents the sweet hay and munches the ripe corn contentedly. The watch-dog in his kennel blinks at the grateful sun, dreams of a glorious chase over the dewy fields, and wakes with a yelp of gladness to greet a caressing hand. But the clod-like life of these human logs never knows one ray of light. From the hour when they crawl from their comfortless bed to the hour when they lounge back into it again they never live one moment of real life. Recreation, amusement, companionship, they know not the meaning of. Joy, sorrow, laughter, tears, love, friendship, longing, despair, are idle words to them. From the day when their baby eyes first look out upon their sordid world to the day when, with an oath, they close them forever and their bones are shoveled out of sight, they never warm to one touch of human sympathy, never thrill to a single thought, never start to a single hope. In the name of the God of mercy; let them pour the maddening liquor down their throats and feel for one brief moment that they live!

All I ever wanted was that cozy kind of love. The gooey heart, curled toes, crinkled eyes kind of love. The kind that feels like hot cocoa warming my bones. Summer rain, fluffy socks, s’mores by the fire. That small kind of love you get lost in from too much happiness to ever wonder what else is out there.

The smell of that buttered toast simply spoke to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cozy parlor firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.

You’re as pretty as she is.” “Don’t be saying such things loud enough for herself to hear you, or she’ll skin us both.” Touched and amused, she kissed his cheek. And Shawn came through the door. It would have been comical, she decided, and was a pity that no one noticed but herself noticed the way he stopped dead in his tracks, stared, then jolted when the door swung back and slapped him in the ass. I liked how she was trying to make him jealous with Jack. Jack sighed into his beer when Brenna strode out. “She smells like sawdust,” he said more to himself than otherwise. “It’s very pleasant.” “What are you doing sniffing at her?” Shawn demanded. Jack just blinked at him. “What?” “I’ll be back in a minute.” He shoved up the pass-through on the bar, let it fall with a bang that had Aidan cursing him, then rushed through the door after Brenna. “Wait a minute. Mary Brennan? Just a damn minute.” She paused by the door of her truck, and for one of the first times in her life felt the warm glow of pure female satisfaction stream through her. A fine feeling, she decided. A fine feeling altogether. Schooling her face to show mild interest, she turned. “Is there a problem, then?” “Yes, there’s a problem. What are you doing flirting with Jack Brennan that way?” She let her eyebrows rise up under the bill of her cap. “And what business might that be of yours, I’d like to know?” “A matter of days ago you’re asking me to make love with you, and I turn around and you’re cozying up to Jack and making plans to have dinner with some Dubliner.” She waited one beat, then two. “And?” “And?” Flustered and furious, he glared at her. “And it’s not right.” She only lifted a shoulder in dismissal, then turned to open the truck door. “It’s not right,” he repeated, grabbing her again and turning her to face him. “I’m not having it.” “So you said, in clear terms.” “I don’t mean that.” “Oh, well, if you’ve decided you’d like to have sex with me after all, I’ve changed my mind.” “I haven’t decided—” He broke off, staggered. “Changed your mind?

I... um... couldn't sleep." She swallowed.... When Amelia saw his eyes soften, she was surprised when he leaned down and gave her a kiss on the lips. It was a warm delectable kiss, a kiss that took her breath away... As he gazed into her eyes, Rick said softly. "If you think you can fall into my bed and get away with not being kissed, you're sadly mistaken, lady.

Peter and I are warm and cozy in his car. Heat billows out the vents. I ask him, “Did you tell your mom about how we broke up?” “No. Because we never broke up,” he says, turning the heat down. “We didn’t?” He laughs. “No, because we were never really together, remember?” Are we together now? is what I’m wondering, but I don’t ask, because he puts his arm around me and tilts my head up to his, and I’m nervous again. “Don’t be nervous,” he says. I give him a quick kiss to prove I’m not. “Kiss me like you missed me,” he says, and his voice goes husky. “I did,” I say. “My letter told you I did.” “Yeah, but--” I kiss him before he can finish. Properly. Like I mean it. He kisses back like he means it too. Like it’s been four hundred years. And then I’m not thinking anymore and I’m just lost in the kissing.

Alice told Shadow a magical tale of the green wreath and the red ribbon. In the story, Father Sky, who reigned over the spirit, came to Mother Earth, who bore the form of a woman of clay named Mary. Sky and Earth married, and together they conceived a beautiful star child made of both spirit and earth. The Star Child grew up and walked the world. The child of Father Sky and Mother Earth taught the world to live with the spirit in their clay hearts. Alice said the red of the holiday bow signified the Star Child’s sacrifice, and the green balsam of the wreath signified the everlasting life that was for all people born to the spirit of Father Sky. Shadow loved the story. It reminded him of his own sweet mother and the tales of Thunderbird who flew the skies in bird form in service to Gitche Manitou. Thunderbird was Shadow’s guardian, just like Shadow was the guardian for Theo. Shadow adored the season of light. He always felt warm and cozy when it came around.

It was not far. Once away from the subdued lights of the buildings they were aware of the stars, snapping like sparks from a cold fire, in a clear black sky just engendering a few tattered snow-clouds in the east. In the garden, between the pleached hedges, it seemed almost warm, as though the sleeping trees breathed tempered air as well as cutting off the bleak wind. The silence was profound. The herb garden was walled, and the wooden hut where Cadfael brewed and stored his medicines was sheltered from the worst of the cold.

Was this my last walk? The wind was blowing and it was cold. Annika hadn’t told me how cold Venice could be before I got there, even in summer. It was something I had to figure out for myself. With the wind blowing, the beach houses looked warm and inviting. From the outside they made it look so easy to be alive on Earth, to hunker down all cozy and warm. I wondered if it felt that way for the people inside them, like a relief to be out of the elements. Or did they quickly forget about the chill outside and take the warmth for granted?

If you put a frog in water that is already boiling, it will jump right out from the sheer pain and collision of senses. But if you put a frog in water at room temperature, then steadily raise the heat one degree at a time until it is boiling, the frog will slowly but eventually die. Our culture–us–we’re that frog right now, thinking, This is nice and cozy, but the heat has been climbing. This book is me saying, Wait a minute. It’s starting to get a little warm in here. The values and pace of our culture, the speed at which it is moving, the demands and pressure we all collectively feel, the ethos of hustle injected into us all at birth–it’s boiling us alive. But we don’t notice it because it has happened steadily over the last century or so.

After we've stuffed ourselves, we scatter around the living room, falling into a comfortable quiet. The living room is a majestic place - I mean, it is massive - with vaulted log ceilings and old wood floors covered in wide woven rugs. Along one long wall, the fire crackles and snaps, heating the room to just below too warm. It's wood from town and nothing smells like it. I want to find a candle of this, incense, room spray. I want every living room in every house I live in for the rest of time to smell like the Hollis cabin does on December evenings. The hearth is expansive; when we were about seven, our chore was sweeping out the fireplace at the end of the holiday, Theo and I could almost stand up inside it. The flames actually roar to life. Even once they mellow into a rumbling, crackling simmer, the blaze still feels like a living, breathing creature in here with us.

It was time for me to go that Thursday night. We’d just watched Citizen Kane--a throwback to my Cinema 190 class at USC--and it was late. And though a soft, cozy bed in one of the guest rooms sounded much more appealing than driving all the way home, I’d never really wanted to get into the habit of sleeping over at Marlboro Man’s house. It was the Pretend-I’m-a-Proper-Country-Club-Girl in me, mixed with a healthy dose of fear that Marlboro Man’s mother or grandmother would drop by early in the morning to bring Marlboro Man some warm muffins or some such thing and see my car parked in the driveway. Or even worse, come inside the house, and then I’d have to wrestle with whether or not to volunteer that “I slept in a guest room! I slept in a guest room!”, which only would have made me look more guilty. Who needs that? I’d told myself, and vowed never to put myself in that predicament.

I was a bird. I lived a bird's life from birth to death. I was born the thirty-second chick in the Jipu family. I remember everything in detail. I remember breaking out of the shell at birth. But I learned later that my mother had gently cracked the shell first to ease my way. I dozed under my mother's chest for the first few days. Her feathers were so warm and soft! I was strong, so I kicked away my siblings to keep the cozy spot. Just 10 days after I was born, I was given flying lessons. We all had to learn quickly because there were snakes and owls and hawks. My little brothers and sisters, who didn't practice enough, all died. My little sister looked so unhappy when she got caught. I can still see her face. Before I could fly, I hadn't known that our nest was on the second-lowest branch of a big tree. My parents chose the location wisely. Snakes could reach the lowest branch and eagles and hawks could attack us if we lived at the top. We soared through the sky, above mountains and forests. But it wasn't just for fun! We always had to watch out for enemies, and to hunt for food. Death was always nearby. You could easily starve or freeze to death. Life wasn't easy. Once, I got caught in a monsoon. I smacked into a tree and lay bleeding for days. Many of my family and friends died, one after another. To help rebuild our clan, I found myself a female and married her. She was so sweet. She laid many eggs, but one day, a human cut down the tree we lived in, crushing all the eggs and my beloved. A bird's life is an endless battle against death. I survived for many years before I finally met my end. I found a worm at some harvest festival. I came fluttering down. It was a bad mistake. Some big guy was waiting to ambush hungry little birdies like me. I heard my own guts pop. It was clear to me that I was going to die at last. And I wanted to know where I'd go when I died.

Tamara Bunke was the only woman to fight alongside “Che” during his Bolivian campaign. She was an East German national, born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, on November 19, 1937, of Communist activist parents. As a child, her home was frequently used for meetings, hiding weapons and conducting other Communist activities. After World War II, in 1952 she returned to Germany where she attended Humboldt University in Berlin. Tamara met “Che” Guevara when she was an attractive 23-year-old woman in Leipzig, and he was with a Cuban Trade Delegation. The two instantly hit it off as she cozied up to him and, having learned how to fight and use weapons in Pinar del Rio in western Cuba, she joined his expedition to Bolivia. Becoming a spy for the ELN, she adopted the name “Tania” and posed as a right-wing authority of South-American music and folklore. In disguise, she managed to warm up to and entice Bolivian President René Barrientos. She even went on an intimate vacation to Peru with him.

Cookies are the cornerstone of pastry. But for many of us, they are also at the core of our memories, connecting our palate to our person. Cookies wait for us after school, anxious for little ones to emerge from a bus and race through the door. They fit themselves snugly in boxes, happy to be passed out to neighbors on cold Christmas mornings; trays of them line long tables, mourning the loss of the dearly departed. While fancy cakes and tarts walk the red carpet, their toasted meringue piles, spun sugar, and chocolate curls boasting of rich rewards that often fail to sustain, cookies simply whisper knowingly. Instead of pomp and flash, they offer us warm blankets and cozy slippers. They slip us our favorite book, they know the lines to our favorite movies. They laugh at our jokes, they stay in for the night. They are good friends, they are kind words. They are not jealous, conceited, or proud. They evoke a giving spirit, a generous nature. They beg to be shared, and rejoice in connection. Cookies are home.

Luke pulls me to him and crushes his mouth to mine. “I said I wasn’t going to do this,” he whispers on a kiss. “’S’okay.” I pull him closer, my hands snaking up his back. “Don’t mind.” His hands move up to cup my face, to tilt my head, to move his lips over mine again. “Bella?” “Hmmm?” I stifle a groan as Luke pulls away. Still holding my face in one hand, he runs his finger down my nose. Over my cheek. I lean into his palm and just try to breathe. “What?” “Do you know what this was?” he asks, his mouth near my ear. “The warm-up?” “A test.” My cozy smile drops. I step away. “You’re lying to yourself if you think you don’t want to be with me.” “I—I”—am so mad—“it was the moonlight. It was the popcorn at nine o’clock.” Luke reaches out and brushes a piece of hair behind my ear. “Face it—you’re totally into your editor.” He sighs dramatically. “I hope whatever is keeping us apart is worth it.” I stand there motionless, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth as Luke climbs into his 4Runner. I should say something. I should yell—or maybe throw a shoe? What would Ruthie do? No. I can’t moon him.

I still remember a small story from the Pañca Tantra which I was told as a small child. One rainy day, a monkey was sitting on a tree branch getting completely drenched. Right opposite on another branch of the same tree there was a small sparrow sitting in its hanging nest. Normally a sparrow builds its nest on the edge of a branch so it can hang down and swing around gently in the breeze. It has a nice cabin inside with an upper chamber, a reception room, a bedroom down below and even a delivery room if it is going to give birth to little ones. Oh yes, you should see and admire a sparrow’s nest sometime. It was warm and cozy inside its nest and the sparrow peeped out and, seeing the poor monkey, said, “Oh, my dear friend, I am so small; I don’t even have hands like you, only a small beak. But with only that I built a nice house, expecting this rainy day. Even if the rain continues for days, I will be warm inside. I heard Darwin saying that you are the forefather of human beings, so why don’t you use your brain? Build a nice, small hut somewhere to protect yourself during the rain.” You should have seen the face of that monkey. It was terrible! “Oh, you little devil! How dare you try to advise me? Because you are warm and cozy in your nest you are teasing me. Wait, you will see where you are!” The monkey proceeded to tear the nest to pieces, and the poor bird had to fly out and get drenched like the monkey. This is a story I was told when I was quite young and I still remember it. Sometimes we come across such monkeys, and if you advise them they take it as an insult. They think you are proud of your position. If you sense even a little of that tendency in somebody, stay away. He or she will have to learn by experience. By giving advice to such people, you will only lose your peace of mind. Is there any other category you can think of? Patañjali groups all individuals in these four ways: the happy, the unhappy, the virtuous and the wicked. So have these four attitudes: friendliness, compassion, gladness and indifference. These four keys should always be with you in your pocket. If you use the right key with the right person you will retain your peace. Nothing in the world can upset you then. Remember, our goal is to keep a serene mind. From the very beginning of Patañjali’s Sūtras we are reminded of that. And this sūtra will help us a lot.

tuff. Almost all of us have it in abundance. What can we do with it? One of my favorite hideaways is an old faithful: the cardboard box. Cover it with festive Contact paper and stuff away. Or hang a shelf about a foot from the ceiling, and use it to store items you don't want sitting around. It's also great in a child's room for toys that aren't played with often. Get old school lockers or trunks, paint them, and use them for storage. Clutter around your house can cause clutter in your emotional and spiritual life too, so clean up and spend your best time enjoying life. re you reluctant to share your home with others? Maybe it's not your dream house or you don't have the money right now to decorate the way you'd like to. But you know what? It's not about having a perfect home. It's about your spirit of hospitality, your willingness to share your home and your life with others. Don't wait until everything is perfect because that will never happen. Focus on making your home cozy and comfortable. Your place will always be at its most beautiful when you use it to warm hearts. aking time for your husband doesn't have to be difficult or a hassle. With a little imagination and the desire to make him happy, you can make him feel loved. Are you thinking, Oh great, now Emilie 's telling me what I'm doing wrong with my husband. Not at all! I just want to give you a few ideas to help you let your

Pumpkin Sugar Cookies Sugar Cookies just got better with a little pumpkin! This recipe creates soft, chewy, lightly spicy glazed pumpkin sugar cookies that are perfect for Fall! Ingredients: 1/2 cup softened butter 1/2 cup vegetable oil 1/2 cup pumpkin puree {canned pumpkin} 1 cup granulated sugar 1/2 cup powdered sugar 1/2 teaspoon vanilla 2 large eggs 4 cups all purpose flour 1/4 teaspoon baking soda 1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar 1/2 teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon cinnamon 1/2 teaspoon nutmeg For the glaze topping: 3 cups powdered sugar 4 tablespoons water 1/4 teaspoon pumpkin pie spice Instructions Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or silicone baking mat and set aside. In a large bowl, stir butter, oil, pumpkin, sugars, vanilla and eggs together until incorporated and smooth. Slowly mix in all dry ingredients until completely incorporated. Scoop onto prepared baking sheet using 1 1/2 tablespoon scoop and flatten to 1/2 inch thick using the bottom of a glass. If the dough is sticking to the glass, press the bottom of the glass in granulated sugar before flattening. Bake 8-9 minutes. While cookies bake, stir all ingredients together for glaze until smooth. Once cookies are finished baking, cool 3 minutes on baking sheet before transferring to cooling rack. Spread 1 1/2 teaspoons glaze over each warm cookie. Let glaze harden 2-3 hours before serving. OR eat them warm with lots of runny glaze.

I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal about me wearing the engagement ring,” Shay said to Michael from behind the wheel of his Range Rover. Before he had a chance to respond, she shifted from reverse to drive and shot out of the parking lot. Straight into oncoming traffic. “Shay, watch out for . . . ” He trailed off, his heart in his throat as she expertly avoided being creamed by another speeding SUV. With his hand still gripping the door and his foot pressed on the floor as if he could somehow miraculously slow the vehicle down, Michael said, “Obviously the ring is a big deal to you or you wouldn’t be trying to kill me.” “Being aggressive will save you. Being cautious, that’s what’ll kill you.” “No doubt you’ll live to be a hundred and ten, then.” He relaxed when the speedometer needle inched down toward a more reasonable speed. “I’m taking it that your life lesson only refers to driving; otherwise you would’ve been applauding my efforts at the club.” She glanced at him, a smile tipping up the corner of her mouth. “So, you actually choked on purpose to cozy up to Costello’s hired henchman and disrupted the dancer’s performance so the bouncers would haul you to Kozack’s office?” He ignored everything else but the part that would get him an answer to his earlier question. “I choked because you took my breath away, and—” She laughed. “Either you’re easily impressed or you don’t get out to many strip clubs. Kozack was going to fire me even before he found me in his office.” “Neither is true, but you didn’t let me finish. As incredible as you looked doing what you were doing on that pole, I choked because I saw the engagement ring on the chain around your neck.” He leaned across the console and slid his hand beneath her leather jacket. Her skin was like satin, and he could smell her warm, floral scent. The temptation to press his face to the tender spot between her shoulder and neck almost overwhelmed him. It was one of his favorite places to kiss her. One of her favorite places to be kissed.

Their forethought in cutting and depositing upon the bottoms of the waters and ingeniously fastening there vast quantities of the birch or willow, the bark of which was to serve as food during the long winter months, was far ahead of the habits of the improvident people, who literally took “no thought for the morrow,” and so were often at starvation point, while the industrious beavers in their warm, cozy homes had enough and to spare.

I wanted to feel warm and cozy and hopeful, to wrap myself up in everything powerful and all-consuming about love. I

Being in here like this, with you. It’s like being inside a snow globe. Untouchable to the outside world. Cozy. Warm.” “Protected,” Evian finishes. “Our own little bubble. Encasing this moment forever.

Our families can be the living room with the fireplace that is cozy and welcoming and warm while the storms of winter rage outside.

I loved every bit of this season—when the air turned crisp and you could pull all the warm sweaters out of the back of your closet. It felt like the equivalent of wrapping yourself up in a warm, cozy blanket with a cup of hot apple cider in your hands. 

I would like to note that this book is basically a Hallmark movie with spice. Minimal angst and drama, lots of Christmas cheer. Sometimes, you just want something warm and cozy and fluffy (and spicy, don’t you worry) this time of year,

I liked setting up Christmas. It was the gateway to the holidays, transforming regular homes into warm vessels that shipped you straight into coziness and joy, where it was socially acceptable to build a small house out of candy and immediately eat it.

You’d need somewhere specifically designed for a library. A cozy spot that balances natural light with warm wood tones. A nook for a deep, cushy couch or even a bay window where you could sit and read or look out into nature.

The happiness of pleasure is largely sensory. It’s a good meal when you’re hungry, the smell of air after it rains, waking up warm and cozy in your bed. The happiness of grace is gratitude. It’s looking over to see the love of your life sleeping next to you and whispering, “thank you.” It’s taking inventory of what you do have. It’s when you speak to something greater than yourself, expressing humility and awe. And then there is the happiness of excellence. The kind of happiness that comes from the pursuit of something great. Not the moment you arrive at the top of the mountain and raise your fists in victory, but the process of falling in love with the hike. It is meaningful work. It is flow. It is the purpose that sears identity and builds character and channels our energy toward something greater than the insatiable, daily pursuit of our fleeting desires.

Despite its apparent neglect, it was warm and cozy with extremely stereotypical British furnishings like paintings of the countryside, ceramic bulldogs, and a bust of Winston Churchill.

There’s no time limit on dreams,” Kirsten said, putting an arm around her other side so that Teddy was the filling in a warm, cozy best friend sandwich. “Colonel Sanders didn’t become a chef until he was forty, and look at what that man accomplished.

The place Quinn calls home is a penthouse in a skyscraper in the middle of the city that looks as if it were designed by Morticia Addams at the height of a depressive episode. Decorated entirely in shades of gray and black, the place is dark, sophisticated, and freezing. It’s somewhere a coven of vampires might feel cozy and welcome. Not a single speck of color enlivens the place. There isn’t a throw pillow, photograph, or plant in sight. There isn’t any carpeting or warm fabrics to soften the space, either. It’s all glass, marble, steel, and cold reflective surfaces. Looking around the echoing living room, I say, “My, how delightful. If I were a cyborg, I’d plug myself right in.

You can't set yourself on fire to keep others warm.

Round eyes blink up at him, and Iohmar is struck by the color - brown as the rich soils of his mountains stretching to the sky, browner than a fawn's coat and just as warm.

She carried him down into a lush cavern. It was a sprawling acre and a half, the floor a beautiful rolling meadow of wildflowers split by a zigzag freshwater stream which was fed by five cascade waterfalls streaming down in roaring torrents from towering one hundred fifty foot sheer walls. There were mineral-rich hot springs and abundant vegetation. Giant ferns, mushrooms, heather, blueberry, alpine strawberry, huckleberry. All thriving in the warm, wet air generated by the nearly constant emission of steam hissing out of geothermal vents. Eerie lava rock formations sprouted up throughout the grotto floor. Curving, organic shapes forming alcoves and niches and cozy recesses offering solitude to whomever, or whatever, required it.

When I grabbed the untouched bowl of ginataang bilo-bilo, Derek stopped me. "I haven't tried this yet. I can't write a full review if I don't taste everything on offer." I shrugged and slid it in front of him. "Knock yourself out. It's one of my favorite cold-weather treats, so I hope you enjoy it." Usually consumed for breakfast or at snack time for meryenda, it had all the comfort of a warm bowl of oatmeal but enough sweetness to qualify as dessert. While it wasn't the most Instagram-worthy dish, the various textures of soft and chewy with a bit of bite, combined with the sweet creaminess of the thickened coconut milk and my lola's deft touch made it the Filipino culinary equivalent of hygge. Pure coziness and warmth in a bowl.

Tuscan Chicken Macaroni and Cheese Recipe Ingredients: 2 large skinless boneless chicken breasts pounded to 1-inch thickness (or 4 boneless and skinless chicken thigh fillets) Salt and pepper, to season 1/2 teaspoon paprika 3 teaspoons olive or canola oil, divided per directions 2 tablespoons butter 1 small yellow onion chopped 6 cloves garlic, finely diced 1/3 cup chicken broth 4 oz (250g) sun dried tomato strips in oil (reserve 1 tablespoon of oil) 4 level tablespoons flour 2 cups chicken broth 3 cups milk OR light cream 2 teaspoons dried Italian herbs 10 ounces (3 cups) elbow macaroni uncooked (3 cups) 3/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese 1 cup mozzarella cheese shredded (or use six cheese Italian) 2 tablespoons fresh basil, chopped Directions: -Season chicken with salt, pepper, paprika and 2 teaspoons of the oil. Heat the remaining oil in a large pot or pan over medium-high heat. Add the chicken and sear on both sides until golden brown, cooked through and no longer pink in the middle. Transfer chicken to a warm plate, tent with foil and set aside. -Using the same pan, add the butter and fry the onion and garlic until the onion becomes transparent, stirring occasionally (about 2 minutes). Pour in the 1/3 cup chicken broth and allow to simmer for 5 minutes, or until beginning to reduce down.  -Add the sun dried tomatoes, along with 1 tablespoons of the sun dried tomato oil from the jar. Cook for 2-3 minutes.  -Stir the flour into the pot. Blend well. -Add the broth, 2-1/2 cups of milk (cream or half and half), herbs, salt and pepper, and bring to a low simmer.  -Add the uncooked macaroni and stir occasionally as it comes to a simmer. Reduce to medium low heat and stir regularly while it cooks (roughly 10 minutes), or until the sauce thickens and the macaroni is just cooked (al dente: tender but still firm).  -Remove pot from stove and immediately stir in all of the cheeses. Add salt and pepper to taste. If the sauce it too thick, add the remaining 1/2 cup milk (or cream) in 1/4 cup increments, until reaching desired thickness. -Slice the chicken into strips and stir through the pasta (pour in any juices left from the chicken). -Sprinkle with basil, stir thoroughly and serve.

Asher Beck kissed me like it was the end of the world and his last wish was to taste my lips. He growled into our connection, licking the seam of my lips until they parted and sweeping inside. He tugged me closer, flush against him. He was so broad and warm, being this close felt like burying myself into a heated blanket, cozy but with the potential to light me on fire if something went wrong.

I love a good shiver," he said. "The secret to being cozy is always to let one tiny part of yourself feel cold. If every part of you is toasty warm, it's too much and you'll feel stifled.

A humorous, but powerful Zen parable tells of two brothers in the womb, one of them very pessimistic, and the other more laid back. The pessimist brother complains often about the womb-space getting smaller, and more cramped, but the laid-back brother tries to see the bright side and points out how warm and cozy it is. The pessimist brother tells his sibling that he's heard of a thing called "birth", and how much it worries him, but his brother dismisses it as another day's problem. One day, they both feel strong spasms and begin to slip away from one another. The pessimist is quite distressed and calls out to his brother. His brother can only say "sorry, I'm going away, I don't know where"- and the pessimist finds himself alone in the womb. Just as he begins to feel himself pushed downward into the unknown, he cries out "Surely, this is the end of everything!

Should I call you Autie?” I say her nickname out loud. It’s adorable. “Actually, you should call her Pumpkin,” Julie says, nudging Autumn in the side. She turns to me. “No. No, do not call me that.” I chuckle, gripping the warm cup. Her cheeks are bright red. “Have a good day, Pumpkin.” It comes out in a deep gruff and she chews on the corner of her lip. “You too,” she whispers as I turn and walk toward the door.

Sitting inside a warm and cozy cafe laced with soft music, plush furniture, the smell of fresh coffee, books and newspaper, eating brunch served on a table made of cedar, surrounded by exposed brick walls, while looking at the locals run in the rain during Christmas time. The perfect day

The idea of them reading together on some cozy sofa popped into his brain and it warmed him straight through. He’d love that kind of domestic scene with Eva. Nothing big, just everyday closeness. Perfection.

Gulmarg in December is a winter wonderland nestled in the heart of the Indian Himalayas. As the first snowflakes blanket the landscape, the entire region transforms into a picturesque paradise. The quaint town of Gulmarg becomes a hub for snow enthusiasts, offering a myriad of activities such as skiing, snowboarding, and snowshoeing. The Gulmarg Gondola, one of the highest cable cars in the world, provides breathtaking views of the snow-capped peaks. Adventure-seekers can also explore the pristine forests on snowmobiles or enjoy a serene horse-drawn sledge ride. The cozy hotels and cottages offer warm hospitality and delicious Kashmiri cuisine, making Gulmarg in December an idyllic destination for a winter getaway amidst nature's splendor. click here to book now-

She felt warm and satisfied, but all the questions and uncertainty about the true nature of their connection still lurked there in the background, like wind rattling the windows of a cozy room. It was a long time before she slept.

It wasn’t a horror movie, Mama,” said Jody adamantly. “It had zombies, didn’t it?” “Yes, ma’am, but it’s a love story.” Rick laughed. He was amused with the young girl’s defense. “Have you seen it?” asked Jody. “It’s called Warm Bodies.” Rick shook his head. “No, I haven’t. Is it good?” Jody’s eyes brightened. “Oh my gosh! You have to see it…

Do you suppose Valentine is happy?” Women. They were forever pondering the imponderables and expecting their menfolk to do likewise. “Valentine delights in his music, the Philharmonic is ever after him to give up his ruralizing and come to Town to rehearse them. One must conclude his rustic existence appeals to him.” Her Grace set the letter aside. “Or being up in Oxfordshire appeals to him, or his wife appeals to him. I think Ellen is yet shy of polite society.” If their youngest son ran true to Windham form, he was spending the winter keeping his new wife warm and cozy, and perhaps seeing to the next generation of the musical branch of the family. His Grace reached over and patted his wife’s hand. “We’ll squire her around next Season, put the ducal stamp of approval on Val’s choice.

His eyes drifted shut. without opening them, he murmured, "I like the sound of your laugh. It's real and genuine. A lot of girls have this fake laugh. Not you." "I like your laugh, too." I whispered, feeling pulled in, cozy in the cacoon of his bed. "Yeah?" I flattened my palm over his chest, enjoying the sensation of the firm flesh, even warm as it was. He sighed, like my cool hand offered him some relief. "I laugh more since you came around," he said quietly, his lips barely forming the words. He did? I frowned. He must not have laughed at all before, then, because I didn't think he was particularly jovial. I held him through the night. And he held me back, tucking my head beneath his chin. His arms surrounded me and kept me close to his overly warm body. Almost like I was some kind of lifeline. I felt the moment his fever broke around one in the morning. I finally relaxed and fell asleep.

Imagine that you are in your house—no—you are locked in your house, cannot get out. It is the dead of winter. The drifted snow is higher than your windows, blocking the light of both moon and sun. Around the house, the wind moans, night and day. Now imagine that even though you have plenty of electric lights, and perfectly good central heating, you are almost always in the dark and quite cold, because something is wrong with the old-fashioned fuse box in the basement. Inside this cobwebbed, innocuous-looking box, the fuses keep burning out, and on account of this small malfunction, all the power in the house repeatedly fails. You have replaced so many melted fuses that now your little bag of new ones is empty; there are no more. You sigh in frustration, and regard your frozen breath in the light of the flashlight. Your house, which could be so cozy, is tomblike instead. In all probability, there is something quirky in the antiquated fuse box; it has developed some kind of needless hair trigger, and is not really reacting to any dangerous electrical overload at all. Should you get some pennies out of your pocket, and use them to replace the burned-out fuses? That would solve the power-outage problem. No more shorts, not with copper coins in there. Using coins would scuttle the safeguard function of the fuse box, but the need for a safeguard right now is questionable, and the box is keeping you cold and in the dark for no good reason. Well, probably for no good reason. On the other hand, what if the wiring in the house really is overloaded somehow? A fire could result, probably will result eventually. If you do not find the fire soon enough, if you cannot manage to put the fire out, the whole house could go up, with you trapped inside. You know that death by burning is hideous. You know also that your mind is playing tricks, but thinking about fire, you almost imagine there is smoke in your nostrils right now. So, do you go back upstairs and sit endlessly in a dark living room, defeated, numb from the cold, though you have buried yourself under every blanket in the house? No light to read by, no music, just the wail and rattle of the icy wind outside? Or, in an attempt to feel more human, do you make things warm and comfortable? Is it wise to gamble with calamity and howling pain? If you turn the power back on, will you not smell nonexistent smoke every moment you are awake? And will you not have far too many of these waking moments, for how will you ever risk going to sleep? Do you sabotage the fuse box? I

firm, nonslip blanket, yoga mat, beach towel, or exercise or camping mat can be used to lie on. A thin (one- to three-inch) cushion or pillow can support your head and maintain the neck’s natural arch. Be careful: a thick pillow easily creates tension in the neck and this is to be avoided. An eye pillow, wash cloth, or scarf can cover your eyes. Even though your eyes will be closed, the extra darkness and weight of the eye cover enhances relaxation significantly. It calms the brain and reduces restlessness by preventing unnecessary eye movements. Do not cover your nose. Firm bolsters or pillows can be used to support your back and legs. Cover up with a cozy blanket to keep warm. Your body temperature is likely to drop during deep relaxation. Getting cold is a nuisance.

Finally, the stores’ design, so critical to atmosphere, seemed to lack the warm, cozy feeling of a neighborhood gathering place. Some people called our interior spaces cookie-cutter or sterile: Clearly we have had to streamline store design to gain efficiencies of scale . . . [but] one of the results has been stores that no longer have the soul of the past. . . .

That’s right. You in just your socks, wrapped in a blanket, and drinking hot cocoa. I am so kinky.” Mr. B’s breath quickened as soon as the jeans were off along with the ax-patterned briefs, and his dick was out in the warm summer air, hard and ready. “If your kink is keeping me cozy and fed with donuts, I don’t mind one bit.