Quotes About Nightmare

It was almost like a reverse nightmare, like when you wake up from a nightmare, you're so relieved. I woke up into a nightmare. And what is that nightmare, Craig? Life.

I didn't want to wake up. I was having a much better time asleep. And that's really sad. It was almost like a reverse nightmare, like when you wake up from a nightmare you're so relieved. I woke up into a nightmare.

And what is that nightmare, Craig? Life Life is a nightmare Yes

I didn't want to wake up. I was having a much better time asleep. And that's really sad. It was almost like a reverse nightmare, like when you wake up from a nightmare you're so relieved. I woke up into a nightmare." "And what is that nightmare, Craig?" "Life." "Life is a nightmare.

Life is a nightmare

It was the worst nightmare possible for a boy like Steele. He felt responsiblity, even when he was just very little. Something in him needed to help all of us.

The image of a well-dressed older woman making on a goopish spoonful of artificial boon spooge was running across the lobes of his brain like a stuttering nightmare.

La febbre aveva catapultato Tucker Case in un sogno nel quale veniva gettato in mezzo a grandi onde elastiche di demoni dalle ali di pipistrello - sbriciolato, soffocato, morso e graffiato - e là, nel caos, vedeva con la coda dell'occhio un foglietto rosa di ammorbidente, a riprova del fatto che lo avevavno sbattuto nel cestello di una lavatrice infernale.

Eu sonho com sangue, com uma solidão tão vazia que nem o eco sobreviveria nela e acordo a gritar, ensopado no meu próprio suor, e mesmo depois de acordar a sensação solidão mantém-se durante algum tempo.

The world's a nightmare, my love. I'd like to get off, but they tell me we can't, we're on an express train.

The terror-the terror, the terror-lingered, and there was something else. It came with the dream, every time, and didn't recede with it but stayed like something a tide had washed in. Something awful-a rank leviathan corpse left to rot on the shore of her mind. It was remorse. But god, that was too bloodless a word for it,. This feeling the dream left her with, it was knives of panic and horror resting bright atop a red and meaty wound-fester of guilt.

A dream, just a dream. Damn it. How had it gotten in? Lurking vulture dreams, circling, just waiting for her to nod off.

I'm not a dream," said Sarai. There was bitterness in her voice. "I'm a nightmare.

How many days had passed in this way, living from nightmare to nightmare?

What were you dreaming about?" "You." He twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. "I always dream about you." "Oh, yeah? Because I thought you were having a nightmare." He tipped his head back to look at her. "Sometimes I dream you're gone," he said. "I keep wondering when you'll figure out how much better you could do and leave me.

Pines and spruces can't be sheared like yew or hemlock, but they are stately in large landscapes, where their eventual size is a plus. (But they are a nightmare in small yards, where their eventual size is like having a brontosaurus nesting in the front yard.)

One of the ways unconscious drives sneak into the conscious mind is through dreams, with the unconscious material camouflaged by symbols. But Freud argues that if you interpret and free-associate to these symbols, it's possible to figure out what the unconscious is trying to impart. If the dream is too well camouflaged, the meaning may be lost; if it's not camouflaged enough, it will be a nightmare.

History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. —JAMES JOYCE

A nightmare is only a dream that hits turbulence.

We, helpless infants in arms or creeping quadruped-like on the floor, dreamed our dreams of air flight. Yes; and we endured the torment and torture of nightmare fears of dim and monstrous things. We newborn infants, without experience, were born with fear, with memory of fear; and memory is experience.

The question of identity is a question involving the most profound panic—a terror as primary as the nightmare of the mortal fall.

We are controlled here by our confusion, far more than we know, and the American dream has therefore become something much more closely resembling a nightmare, on the private, domestic, and international levels. Privately, we cannot stand our lives and dare not examine them; domestically, we take no responsibility for (and no pride in) what goes on in our country; and, internationally, for many millions of people, we are an unmitigated disaster.

Joyce is right about history being a nightmare - but it may be the nightmare from which one *can* awaken. People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them.

Joyce is right about history being a nightmare - but it may be the nightmare from which no one *can* awaken. People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them.