Quotes About Morning

SATURDAY morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh, and brimming with life.

We did not oversleep at St. Nicholas. The church-bell began to ring at four-thirty in the morning, and from the length of time it continued to ring I judged that it takes the Swiss sinner a good while to get the invitation through his head.

Wake & Bake. More like Wash & Bake. Half a bowl of cereal and a shot of bourbon later, I'm there, my friendly haze having finally arrived. I'm ready for work.

I no longer wake up tired. I wake up tired and afraid.

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.

It is early, early morning. It's that time when it's still dark but you know the day is coming. Blue is bleeding through black. Stars are dying.

It was a Sunday, an arsonist sunrise.

As we walk back, it feels like the city is engulfing us. Adrenalin still pours through our veins. Sparks flow through to our fingers. We've still been running in the mornings, but the city's different then. It's filled with hope and with bristles of winter sunshine. In the evening, it's like it dies, waiting to be born again the next morning.

He left Himmel Street wearing his hangover and a suit.

She didn't see him watching as he played, having no idea that Hans Hubermann's accordion was a story. In the times ahead, that story would arrive at 33 Himmel Street in the early hours of morning, wearing ruffled shoulders and a shivering jacket. It would carry a suitcase, a book, and two questions. A story. Story after story. Story within story.

It feels like the mornings clap their hands. To make me wake.

Steam was rising weirdly from his clothes. His hangover was visible. It heaved itself to his shoulders and sat there like a bag of wet cement.

Very quickly, very suddenly, words fell through my mind. They landed on the floor of my thoughts, an in there, down there, I started to pick the words up. They were excerpts of truth gathered from inside me. Even in the night, in bed, they woke me. They painted themselves onto the ceiling. They burned themselves onto the sheets of memory laid out in my mind. When I woke up the next day, I wrote the words down , on a torn-up piece of paper. And to me, the world changed color that morning.

She especially loved to see him hit the silver, sparkled button—the C major.) The accordion's scratched yet shiny black exterior came back and forth as his arms squeezed the dusty bellows, making it suck in the air and throw it back out. 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.

There's ache in her arms and ache in her legs and heart. But on her face is the beauty of the morning.

I walk out into the foyer. It's caked in sunshine.

In the morning's early hours, quiet voices were loud.

God is faithful. He will stick with you even when you won't. He will forgive you even when you can't. His mercies are brand new every morning. This morning, He wants to give this day to you, and all the rest of your days, too. All you have to do . . . is say yes.

It's a drag, not being young, but at least I don't have to take a test tomorrow morning.

on daytime drinking] 'Yes, well it all comes down to choices, doesn't it?' he said. 'It's the same in the evenings. Do you want to feel good at night or do you want to feel good in the morning? It's the same with life. Do you want to feel good young or do you want to feel good old? One or the other, not both.

When we wake up in the morning (he thought), it's the first task that lies ahead of us: the separation of the true from the false. We have to dismiss, to erase the mocking kingdoms made by sleep. But at the close of day it was the other way round, and we sought the untrue and the fictitious, sometimes snapping ourselves awake in our hunger for nonsensical connections.

The darkest hour of our struggle had become the hour of victory. Disappointment, sorrow, and despair are born at midnight, but morning follows. I

And, too, there was that delightful freshness of mist and dewy grass that lingered like spirits at dawn. Marietta

I think everyone should take time, at least once a week, to catch a sunrise. Just to feel alive and that there's hope.