Quotes About Morning

I only want sweet peace and kindliness when I awaken -- but there's always some finger pointing, telling me some terrible deed I committed during the night. It seems I make a lot of mistakes and it seems that I am not allowed any.

I don't remember going to bed, but in the morning, there I was.

In the morning it was morning and I was still alive. Maybe I'll write a novel, I thought. And then I did.

Love is kind of like when you see a fog in the morning, when you wake up before the sun comes out. It's just a little while, and then it burns away… Love is a fog that burns with the first daylight of reality.

It was like a church in there as only the truly lost sit in bars on Tuesday mornings at 8:00 a.m.

Never get out of bed before noon.

we sat there smoking cigarettes at 5 in the morning.

I decided to stay in bed until noon. Maybe by then half the world would be dead and it would only be half as hard to take.

one of Lorca's best lines is, "agony, always agony…" think of this when you kill a cockroach or pick up a razor to shave or awaken in the morning to face the sun.

I put on some bacon and eggs and celebrated with an extra quart of beer.

The idea, of course, might be to let them know that writing needn't be hard work; the hard work is getting out of bed in the morning or at noon; the hard work is looking at people's faces in long supermarket lines; the hard work is working for somebody else who is making money using your life's hours and years.

sweet music It beats love because there aren't any wounds: in the morning she turns on the radio, Brahms or Ives or Stravinsky or Mozart.

THEN MY DESK phone rang and I awakened.

and you turn over to your left side to get the sun on your back and out of your eyes

9:09 in the morning, the taste of liquor and cigarettes, no police, no lovers, walking the streets, this poem, this city, closing its doors, barricaded, almost empty, mournful without tears, aging without pity, the hardrock mountains, the ocean like a lavender flame, a moon destitute of greatness, a small music from broken windows… a poem is a city, a poem is a nation, a poem is the world…

Por la mañana era de día y yo seguía vivo. Quizás escriba una novela, pensé. Y eso hice.

morning, it touches the nerves quickly as if we were already in the hunter's sights. the body yawns and stretches in the light. the pilgrimage is about to begin.

How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?

I needed coffee, two coffees, a bite to eat.

to die on a kitchen floor at 7 o'clock in the morning while other people are frying eggs is not so rough unless it happens to you.

that they could imagine that I'd want to converse with them at 7 a.m. is an insult to whatever intelligent life is left in our dwindling universe.

eu só quero que o Sol me queime mais e mais de tal modo que ele suba ao céu às seis da manhã e permaneça por lá até depois da meia-noite

ÅŸafak sökmek üzere telefon kablosuna tünemiÅŸ kuÅŸlar bekliyorlar sessiz bir Pazar sabah?n?n alt?s?nda ben dünün unutulmuÅŸ sandviçini yerken. bir ayakkab? köÅŸede dik duruyor, diÄŸeri yan yatm??. evet, baz? hayatlar harcanmak için yarat?lm??.

1Morir en el suelo de la cocina a las siete de la mañana mientras otra gente hace huevos fritos no es tan grave salvo cuando te pasa a ti.