Quotes About Ink

Yay. Rah. Go, him. Next tat he got was going to be of the frickin' halo over his head. As

the stars are fixed in rooftops like ink.

War soaks into your bones, drills down into the marrow like a parasite. It blots your life like ink spilled on snow white paper, and it has its perils even long after you've given it up.

Here is an animal with venom like a snake, a beak like a parrot, and ink like an old-fashioned pen. It can weigh as much as a man and stretch as long as a car, yet it can pour its baggy, boneless body through an opening the size of an orange. It can change color and shape. It can taste with its skin. Most fascinating of all, I had read that octopuses are smart.

Tattoos are permanent and a lifelong commitment, the same as marriage.

Marriage is supposed to be permanent. It's like a tattoo that yells at you.

The expenditure of paper and printer ink had been somewhat lavish. Two generations from now, if any humans survived, they would look on this heap of documents with some combination of disgust and amazement. Because paper was going to be scarce by then, and they would view its use for such purposes in roughly the same way as Americans of the twenty-first century had viewed the use of sperm whale oil to fuel streetlamps.

Yeah, it's Pushaz Ink for life. Me, YG, and Mustard started a movement, and we brought back the West.

If Amy had one ounce of romance in her soul, she would be sighing with gratification. Instead, she said acerbically, "All that's missing is the love poem." Jermyn deposited her in a chair by the table. "I'll order a pen and ink for you.

The Torpedo Ink club members were lost, wandering through a world they didn't fit into. They needed direction.

Steele felt the weight of that sacred ink on his back. It was there for a reason, to remind all of them they were stronger together.

The clouds of night opened like ink blossoming in water.

Shadows crept along the ground like slowly seeping India ink, moved up the sides of the house, and slipped through the slats on the picket fence. Sunset tinted the sky purple and pink.

São apenas livros – disse a si mesmo. Apenas papel e tinta. Papel, tinta e anos. Papel, tinta, anos e seu sonho. Ele balançou a cabeça. O sonho estava em sua mente e em sua alma. Thyon podia roubar seus livros, mas não podia lhe roubar isso.

Karou stood straight. Her hair had been caught as in a backdraft, sucked forward and then turned loose, and it floated on the churning air. She was still smiling, cold. With her drifting hair, and her palms outfaced with their staring ink eyes, she looked malevolent, even to Zuzana, like some species of fell goddess in the unconvincing guise of a girl. Zuzana, Mik, and

Excellent. I've been told I have a lovely, melodic reading voice." He flipped the book open to the front page, where the title was printed in ornate script. Across from it was a long dedication, the ink faded now and barely legible, though Clary could make out the signature: With hope at last, William Herondale.

What is a book? Is it the binding, the ink, the pages, or the sum of the words contained?

Cordelia had thought a tattoo would be rather more like their Marks, but it reminded her of something else instead. It was ink, the way books and poems were made of ink, telling a permanent story.

The Sirens flicked their wings at the wall, inscribing it with their own blue ink: Even in penance is beauty; blessed are all the ocean's drowned!

I only sweat when I'm nervous, and when I'm nervous no antiperspirant will protect me, so I avoid wearing light colors when I have to teach or perform in some way. But Pryor dares to wear silk, which is so unbreathable it exposes his sweat like ink on blotting paper.

The ink of timeless books transmutes in tinge and shade from one century to another but classic words never fade.

Browsing the dim back corner Of a musty antique shop An old book of poetry fell open Gold-gilded dust filled the air Angels flew out from the pages I caught the whiff of a soul The ink seemed fresh as today Was that voices whispering? The tree of the paper still grows.

The bony elbows Of power-walking purists Punch the air like little pistons, A well greased paradise-pursuing machine... Nowadays the prophet of real estate has spoken. As our tree population reaches rock bottom Wooden roofing joists shine Like gold bars in the sun. Razor-wired peace-walls rise daily, Funny way to put it But we love each other really. Black as Edgar Poe's ink-stained soul...

History is stained with the bloody ink of truth — beware historians who whitewash.