Quotes About Sensation

If I call it pain, and try to touch it With my hands, my own life, It lies still and the music thins, A pulse felt for through garments.

Carlos describes the sensation of having his cells vibrate and dissolve as he is transported by a light beam, leaving behind a kind of ghostly shape.

Fu come se avesse appoggiato le labbra su un pezzo di arrosto freddo

take off your sweater in the darkness and static flares as a tiny lightning storm - I am the same at the end of your fingertips ...

No appetite. No sensation in a dry stomach. No desire. No orchids sweet enough to taste. Not the sort of woman to eat sandwiches on a bus. At least not the sort of woman who would eat in the dark. Not anymore.

Sabes lo que experimenté después? Un miedo de lo más seductor. Esa sensación que le viene a uno cuando se da cuenta de que ha corrido un gran peligro. Esa clase de miedo que adquiere forma y se transfigura en las pesadillas.

También había conocido entonces el inconfundible olor del agotamiento, como si la fatiga poseyera un aroma propio.

Touch has a memory.

Chapter VII Of Simple Ideas of both Sensation and Reflection 1. Ideas of pleasure and pain. There be other simple ideas which convey themselves into the mind by all the ways of sensation and reflection, viz. pleasure or delight, and its opposite, pain, or uneasiness; power; existence; unity.

The kiss tasted of bitter sleep, the sourness of the wine. Something brought by each of them.

His own blood could not chill, but it might as well have, from the prickling sensation that crept along his arms.

I press my steel hand to my cheek, taking comfort in the coolness of metal.

Cold air prickled goose pimples on wet flesh.

His true voice rang Kit like a bell, with a sensation of flying. Or falling.

His gratification was a chill stone on her breast.

Perceval Conn glided through warm water, feeling the swirl and suck of eddying currents along her skin, over her scalp, through the tendrils of her unbound hair.

Through the resistance of their wardrobes, fingers brushed.

Sparks of sensation follow Michelangelo's hands as they cupped Vincent's skull and stroked his nape.

She could no longer thrust her hand into living flame and cup it like water, from palm to palm.

Much as she despised the man, she had to admit to a certain agreeable shiver when his lips brushed her glove.

It would heal quite perfectly. And the sensation of the thick salvaged blood beating from his wounds into David's mouth as David knelt over him, his blond locks stuck willy-nilly between the clenching knuckles of Sebastien's hand-that was a passion worth anything.

The parasite wings weighed almost nothing, but she felt them stir in the wind or with their own will.

The cold wind tugged Kit's hair, a sensation like the caress of Lucifer's feathers.

What settled over him felt like the brush of a silk sheet down his skin. What followed that touch was blackness, utter and complete.