Quotes About Passion

I play until my fingertips are raw. Until I rip a nail and bleed on the strings. Until my hands hurt so bad I forget my heart does.

Her grey eyes sparkled with passion as she spoke. Sid looked into them and for a second he glimpsed her soul. He saw what she was - fierce and brave. Upright. Impatient. And good. So good that she would sit covered in gore, shout at dangerous men, and keep a long, lonely vigil - all to save the likes of him. He realized she was a rare creature, as rare as a rose in winter.

The guitar's still around me. I slip it off and put it down. I want to feel him. To feel his breath on my neck. The warmth of his skin. To feel something other than sadness. Hold me, I tell him silently. Hold me here. To this place. This life. Make me want you. Want this. Want something. Please

Why do you write?' Because I love words and stories so much. Because I would be grief stricken every day of my life if I couldn't write. Because I'm obsessed and compelled. Because I'd be utterly useless at anything else.

He pressed himself into me and kissed my neck, and it was as if everything strong and solid inside me, heart and bones and muscle and gut, softened and melted from the heat of him.

I did not want His cold love. I wanted human love—clasping, selfish, and hot. I wanted to smell the rank sweat of the men… I wanted love—reeking, drunken, hungry love.

Maybe his quietness masked a great and boiling soul.

It was more than a book, more than a story. It was like nothing she'd ever known. And everything she'd ever wanted.

But eating was the last thing on my mind. And I didn't see how Miss Wilcox could eat, or teach, or sleep or ever find any reason to leave this room. Not with all these books in it, just begging to be read.

He was a flame and she'd gotten burned, and the pain was terrible, yet it didn't make the fire any less alluring.

His arms around her felt like nothing she'd ever known and everything she'd ever wanted.

I take a seat high above the BQE, stare at Manhatten for a bit, and then I play. For hours. I play until my fingertips are raw. Until I rip a nail and bleed on the strings. Until my hands hurt so bad I forget my heart does.

All her life, she'd loved books. She loved the look of them, the smell of them, the sweet weight of them in her arms. Most of all, she loved the feeling she got every time she picked one up-the feeling of holding an entire world in her hands.

She questioned everything and was obedient to only one thing—her heart.

I am my head and my heart, all that I know, all that I love, everything I hope for. I am the blue waters of the Rhine, sparkling in the sun.

Love is so strong, so ferocious, that she frightens even me. Me , Belle. A woman who strolls through battlefields and sick houses. Who takes tea with executioners.

I head out of the Castle van Epp, down to the Promenade. It's snowing. I take a seat high above the BQE, stare at Manhattan for a bit, and then I play. For hours. I play until my fingertips are raw. Until I rip a nail and bleed on the strings. Until my hands hurt so bad I forget my heart does.

the hunger that hides in our hearts is the one that kills us" ~Isabelle, Step sister

I'm still kissing her…

It's the hunger in our hearts that kills us.

I play until my fingers are blue and stiff from the cold, and then I keep on playing. Until I'm lost in the music. Until I am the music--notes and chords, the melody and harmony. It hurts, but it's okay because when I'm the music, I'm not me. Not sad. Not afraid. Not desperate. Not guilty.

My knee radiated heat. As I watched him pull himself from the car and walk casually across the brightly lit parking lot, I thought dumb things. I will never wash my knee again. I will never wash these jeans again. I will cut the knee out of these jeans and sew a pillow to sleep on every night, just to have a molecule of him in my bed with me.

AOAN LOVES LOKI.

Nothing says "I love you" like a dead body