Quotes About Atmosphere

There is something eerie about the odd stillness that settles on the living room then . . . It is as if this scene has been impossibly fixed and will never change again.

The day was gray, the color of Europe.

Shadows of cloud lurked in the water, like holes the sun forgot about.

There was rain like a ghost you could walk through. Almost dry when it hit the ground.

Sometimes I imagined how everything looked above those clouds, knowing without question that the sun was blond, and the endless atmosphere was a giant blue eye

He was skinny with soft hair, and his thick, murky eyes watched as the stranger played one more song in the heavy room. From face to face, he looked on as the man played and the woman wept. The different notes handled her eyes. Such sadness.

Outside, the world whistled. The rain was stained.

Sometimes, I imagined how everything appeared above those clouds, knowing without question that the sun was blond, and the endless atmosphere was a giant blue eye.

The buildings appear to be glued together, mostly small houses and apartment blocks that looked nervous. There is murky snow spread out like carpet. There is concrete, empty hat-stand trees, and gray air.

ducking around twisted trees whose fingers are branches spread like cracked ceilings under gray sky.

the moon was sewn into the sky that night. Clouds were stitched around it.

The crowd was itself. There was no swaying it, squeezing through or reasoning with it. You breathed with it and you sang its songs. You waited for its fire.

It felt as though the whole globe was dressed in snow. Like it had pulled it on, the way you pull on a sweater.

I watched the sky as it turned from silver to grey to the colour of rain. Even the clouds tried to look the other way.

The moment is so thick around me that I feel like dropping into it to let it carry me. I love the laughter of this night.

When you looked out my window you could see the whole city crouched under a blanket of car smog.

It felt as though the while globe was dressed in snow. Like it had pulled it on, the way you pull on a jumper.

El libro se abrió... Una ráfaga de viento amplificada por la quietud de la noche.

el día era gris, el color de Europa

The boy was twelve, reveling in the strange dust-smelling murk of a New Orleans library, watching motes flash gold in a beam of sun. He loved the ceiling lights on chains and the table lamps with their green glass shades. The room was as beautiful as another world.

A light bulb creates an environment by its mere presence.

The air itself was ebony, like the denial, the refutation, of the idea of light.

The night was electric - The night was in italics.

All nights should be so dark, all winters so warm, all headlights so dazzling. The