Quotes About Sensory

The omelette tasted like flannel.

I fucked that slicked up cock like a dirty girl and he banged me right back until my wetness was slapping and my tits were bouncing. My hands gripped his pecs and I was warbling for sweet Jesus and I thought my head would explode

Most of us become great artists for me I cannot hear music only have memories of sounds. Feeling vibrations, I'm able to read music.

Usually he went stark naked to experience the full effects of the sensory elements within the Coffin.

The burst of flavour and juice was a glorious thing. Moaning, he attacked the rest of it and had eaten down to its stumpy core

She grabbed both of his hands in hers, squeezed. Then she rested her head on his shoulder, her nose nestled against his neck—she had to be standing on the tips of her toes. Each breath from her sent a new wave of chills across his skin.

We burned down rooms. We knew what everything meant. We understood terror and fury as no one else had. It hurt to be together and hurt more to be apart. Our mouths clashed. Our teeth scraped. Our arms ached from the meld. We knew each other's smells and heard each other's voices and told each other things that no one else ever had.

synaesthetic

One sees the environment not with the eyes but with the eyes-in-the-head-on-the-body-resting-on-the-ground.

The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.

Her lips touched his brain as they touched his lips, as though they were a vehicle of some vague speech and between them he felt an unknown and timid preasure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odor.

She stopped me cold when she said, 'What color is the wind?'

He drew me to him and kissed me on the mouth, softly, without aggression. His face, which had ripped me raw with its stubble in the night, was smooth and soft now. His body was warm and hairy. And his cock—that ever ready cock—was pointing to the ceiling again.

At first I couldn't believe it. I waited, not moving my cock, which was rock hard thanks to this pulsing grip. But yes, here it was again. The same pattern, the same rhythm. I was being signaled by an asshole in Morse code. And it was signaling SOS.

A scent of jasmine and a rasp of sand.

cloudbursts of memory and hallucination crashing in on me from all sides

But even that day, there on the porch, with Charles beside me and the smell of wood smoke in the air, it had a quality of a memory; there it was, before my eyes, and yet too beautiful to believe

It was so dark I could hardly see her. The weight of her arm was wonderfully comfortable, and her gin-sweet breath was warm on my cheek.

The sky was a fierce, burning blue, the trees ferocious shades of red and yellow.

Hot thunder of whisper against my cheek.

my shoes squelching on the dewy grass

And yet I thought of him almost every day. The Russian novels I had to read for school reminded me of him; Russian novels, and seven pillars of wisdom, and so too the Lower East Side—tattoo parlors and pierogi shops, pot in the air, old polish ladies swaying side to side with grocery bags and kids smoking in the doorways of bars along Second Avenue.

a drve?e je ispred na cesti cvalo bijelim praskovima delirija.

Her ears, lightly fringed with white that looked silver, lifted and moved, back, forward, listening and sensing. Her face turned, slightly, after each new sensation, alert. Her tail moved, in another dimension, as if its tip was catching messages her other organs could not. She sat poised, air-light, looking, hearing, feeling, smelling, breathing, with all of her, fur, whiskers, ears -- everything, in delicate vibration.