Quotes About Sensory

On the road, it's constant sensory overload, and it's easy to lose track of days and time and to get caught up in the constant giving of yourself.

First time I kissed you, I lost my legs.

I cut my own hair most of the time. You just do it all by feel.

You may see all that is around you But you may feel nothing at all. So try and close your eyes so tight And listen to the night time fall.

It smelled like aging wood and creosote, plastic book covers, and old paper. Old paper, which my mom used to say was the smell of time itself.

I'm trying to think of the last time I had onions.

Synesthesia has interested me for a long time, both as a literary device and as a puncturing of the membranes that organize how the world comes into someone's head.

This soft grass suggests 'softness' to me, but also at the same time 'lying-down-ness'.

This time, it was more of a thought than a feeling, a soft heat that began at her mouth and unfurled through the rest of her.

There is a real, living unity in our time, as in any other, but it lies submerged under a superficial hubbub of sensation.

Mere life is a luxury, and the color of the grass, of the flowers, of the sky, the wind in the trees, the outlines of the horizon, the forms of clouds, all give a pleasure as exquisite as the sweetest music to the ear famishing for it. The

In many ways, Navidson's house functions like an immense isolation tank. Deprived of light, change in temperature and any sense of time, the individual begins to create his own sensory [ ], [ ]d depen[ ]ng on the duration of his stay begins to project more and more of [ ] personality on those bare walls and vacant []allways.

In the kitchen on those mornings, Papa made the accordion live. I guess it makes sense, when you really think about it. How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.

She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.

Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.

Snowflakes of ash fell so lovelily you were tempted to stretch out your tongue to catch them, taste them. Only, they would have scorched your lips. They would have cooked your mouth.

We smell the impact of traffic and humans. Humans and traffic. Back and forth. We taste our moment, swallowing it, knowing it. We feel our nerves twitching inside our stomaches, lunging at our skin from beneath.

The only sound I'll hear after that will be my own breathing, and the sound of the smell, of my footsteps

She enjoyed the small fragments of pain.

A veces, en el sótano, se levantaba con el regusto del acordeón en sus oídos y saboreaba el resquemor dulzón del champán en la lengua.

Snowflakes of ash fell so lovelily you were tempted to stretch out your tongue to catch them, taste them. Only, they would have scorched your lips. They would have cooked your mouth. Clearly

Sitting in the water, she imagined the smell of it, mapped out on her papa's clothes. More than anything, it was the smell of friendship, and she could find it on herself, too. Liesel loved that smell. She would sniff her arm and smile as the water cooled around her.

There was the smell of pea soup, something burning and confrontation.

No-one's urine smells as good as your own.