Quotes About Sensory

Si los paseantes de Poe arrojan todavía vistazos carentes de sentido en todas direcciones, los contemporáneos se ven obligados a prestar su máxima atención a las señales viales. De tal manera es que la técnica subyugaba al aparato sensorial humano a un arduo entrenamiento, hasta que llegó el momento en que el cine tuvo correspondencia con una novedosa y perentoria necesidad de estimulación.

Sometimes everybody touches in the dark. You touch to see what you can stand to touch, what you can to feel with your fingers probing parts you never though you could probably probe - Gray

Queremos que, cuando abras la caja de un iPhone o de un iPad, la experiencia táctil condicione cómo vas a percibir el dispositivo, señaló.

Mrs. Turner gripped my baby finger. It's amazing how a man can feel sex anywhere on his body.

Flows of shit» , muttered Bat, «I'd go insane, listening to that all day. It's just a river of 'Hey, this crazy, disgusting thing just happened, and hey, here's another one, and another, and another, has your brain caught fire yet?' It's like disaster porn or something.

bask in the magnificence of what is seen and sensed

My heart stopped. It just stopped beating. And for the first time in my life, I had that feeling. You know, like the world is moving all around you, all beneath you, all inside you, and you're floating. Floating in midair. And the only thing keeping you from drifting away is the other person's eyes. They're connected to yours by some invisible physical force, and they hold you fast while the rest of the world swirls and twirls and fall completely away.

My heart stopped. It just stopped beating. And for the first time in my life, I had that feeling. You know, like the world is moving all around you, all beneath you, all inside you, and you're floating. Floating in midair. And the only thing keeping you from drifting away is the other person's eyes. They're connected to yours by some invisible physical force, and they hold you fast while the rest of the world swirls and twirls and falls completely away.

She caught a whiff of man-scent piss from where Easy had tucked the undershirt next to his dick.

The political impact of new technologies has been massive. They shape the nature of our reasoning and our discourse. They've moved us away from a public square tempered by logic, debate, and reflection based on the printed word, to a visual and sensory one, emotionally charged and spontaneous.

Orwell was wrong. You don't need repression. You need only the sensory overload of an age of numbingly ephemeral social media.

Science is insulating man from life - separating his mind from his senses. The worst of it is that it soon anaesthetises his senses so that he doesn't know what he's missing.

To us—those who seek the solace of the marsh—it is a stage where God paints—yellow in the morning, green toward noon, brownish in the afternoon, and blood red toward evening. It is the sentinel that stands guard at the ocean's edge, protecting the sea from the runoff that would kill it. It is a selfless and sacrificial place. And when I close my eyes, it is also the smell of home.

Music is meant to be experienced, not described.

Music is an art that expresses the inexpressible. It rises far above what words can mean or the intelligence define. Its domain is the imponderable and impalpable land of the unconscious.

??????? ????? ??? ?? ??????? ???? ???? ?????? ?? ??? ?????? ? ????????? ?? ?? ?????? :: Watermelons Green Buddhas On the fruit stand. We eat the smile And spit out the teeth.

Her own bedroom, her own bed. Her own yard. Without a restaurant downstairs, or sirens or cops or dead bodies. No fishy garbage fumes, or flumes of mildewing vegetation, no cacophony of five dialects being smashed together, a solid block of sensory overload rising up the dank central corridor of INT. CHINATOWN SRO.

He was reminded of TV ads for plug-in air fresheners where some woman would stick the little plastic thing in a socket and animated fumes would waft out and everyone would lift their faces, close their eyes, breathe in deeply and go 'Aaaaaah'. Like they were taking some kind of drug rather than inhaling chemicals.

Hear with your eyes, see with your ears

He knew how to touch her, how hard to thrust, when to roll his hips, when and how to angle himself so she could not only feel him inside her, but rubbing against her clitoris, brushing, sensitizing. The fiend knew how to make her agony last, how to suspend it until he would allow her to reach out for it and surrender.

She followed the melting flakes, revelling in the thickness, the softness of his hair, which he wore long. She had loved to run her fingers through it before. Tug at it in mounting pleasure. Snuggle into it in the shared intimacy of their loving.

Fastidiously, she investigated, learning his shape, awed by the variations of velvet over steel. She pampered and played, altering the pressure, the speed, the length of her caress. Amazingly, with the slightest modification, he reacted accordingly.

Descriptive writing is more than visual; it employs all the senses.

I walked through the spiderwebs, feeling them like magic on my face.