Quotes About Sensory

Es ist, als ob mein Gehirn so schnell laufen würde, dass ich nicht mitkomme. Worte. Farben. Klänge. Manchmal schiebt sich alles andere in den Hintergrund, und was zurückbleibt, ist der Klang.

It's like my brain is firing so fast that it can't keep up with itself. Words. Colors. Sounds. Sometimes everything else fades into the background and all I'm left with is sound. I can hear everything, but not just hear it—I can feel it too. But then it can come on all at once—the sounds turn into light, and the light goes too bright, and it's like it's slicing me in two

This bread has been anointed by God, I said to myself. He wants me to have it.... All I know is, when I am old, gray and bedbound and everything else has gone, I will still remember how good it tasted.

All night, I talked to other people. I didn't look in his direction, but I always knew where he was. I was painfully aware of him. When he was nearby, my body hummed. When he was away, there was this dull ache. With him near, I felt everything.

I have a feeling that when I'm Stormy's age, these everyday moments will be what I remember: Peter's head bent, biting into a chocolate chip cookie; the sun coming through the cafeteria window, bouncing off his brown hair; him looking at me.

The air tasted just the same, smelled just the same. The wind making my hair feel sticky, the salty sea breeze, all of it felt just right. Like it had been waiting for me to get there.

His voice made my shiver, it was like the sound f water when it pulls off sand.

His voice made me shiver, it was like the sound of water when it pulls off the sand.

The hum of a memory, blurry around the edges, soft and nothing particularly special, all kind of blending into one moment.

My hair was hanging low, and from the backseat, all of a sudden, I felt Conrad touching it, running his fingers through the bottom. I think I stopped breathing. We were sitting in perfect silence, and Conrad Fisher was playing with my hair.

our favorite part of the day. We're eating Popsicles, cherry ones. My shirt is sticking to my back, and my hands feel sugary and warm, but my lips are cool. The sun is turning that fiery pink I love, and I turn to Mark the way I always do. I look at him, really look

Bailamos lento y me alegré de que la música estuviese tan alta, porque así él no podría oír el latido de mi corazón.

It is impossible to feel calm in cities, he believes, because we so rarely hear birdsong there. Our ears evolved to be our warning systems. We are on high alert in places where no birds sing. To live in a city is to be forever flinching.

But the smell of her hair. The way she clasped her hand around my fingers. This was like medicine.

But the smell of her hair. The way she clasped her hand around my fingers. This was like medicine. For once, I didn't have to think. The animal was ascendant.

With my eyes closed and my memories open, I could almost feel his hands and mouth on my skin.

I love eating chicken with my bare hands. It makes me want to snarl at people, even more than usual.

Even the second time around, the lyrics and melody reached through my ears, bypassed my brain, and went straight to my heart, where they wriggled around, causing a hundred different pains.

Art is two parts agency and one part inner heat. The artist loves going down rabbit holes, working toward and against something at the same time, translating sensory and extrasensory impressions that all have their own sovereignty or joy, each of them on a journey to bring something back from a personal underworld, to build a new body out of disparate parts and materials. In this way, art is something like an undoing of death.

When I was a kid, I could taste the difference between different colored M&Ms. I thought the red was heartier, more of a main course M&M. And the light brown was a mellower, kind of after-dinner M.

We weren't touching, but my skin could feel her skin buzzing.

A waft of sweet hash drifted by, and I wanted to float after it like Wimpy levitating at the scent of a hamburger.

Her skin felt smooth and firm. Her hair smelled faintly of motor oil. Her mouth tasted like coffee. She was absolutely real, and it was the sexiest combination on the planet.

The principles of true art is not to portray, but to evoke.