Quotes About Windows

The windows let in a perfect light, a vibrant light such as you get in the north, where a kind of grey gauze turns the sun to silver. And such solitude, such quiet.

He felt alone, prey to the tedium, to the dreariness of time, especially at the approach of twilight which, during those late-autumn days, came in through the windows, settling on the furniture with a leaden pallor, sending the mirrors into mourning at light's farewell ...

The shop owners were busy, too. Ms. Reit and Sylvia Pepper were putting the finishing touches on their shop windows. Mr. Ames from the hardware store was hanging a large banner that proclaimed, GREENFIELD WINTER FESTIVAL.

Apple's iTunes program was once the envy of the world. A combined digital music store and player, it could also sync your iPod. And it worked on both Mac and Windows. It was reasonably fast and very sure-footed.

The Cingular-branded 2125 Smartphone is an example of how Windows Mobile 5.0 can create a flexible, powerful phone that helps mobile information workers access their most essential business data in a compact form factor.

Mark Hammond is working in this area, with Windows Scripting Host. It is definitely an area where Python fits almost perfectly. That's quite independent from Java, actually.

The subject must be thought of in terms of the 20th century, of houses he lives in and places he works, in terms of the kind of light the windows in these places let through and by which we see him every day.

It was a narrow, twisting hallway, paneled and floored in elaborate interlocking patterns of light and dark wood. False windows flanked every corner, their frames elaborately carved and fretted: looking through one, I discovered a flat, painted landscape like nothing I had ever seen-twisted trees and dark, jeering rocks and the gilt sun lying against the painted sky like a counterfeit coin.

Fragments of poems are Leaking out through the Blood… If you listen closely, You can hear the sounds of windows closing, locking, being sealed. I believe in you and yours Do you Me and mine?

I like the desert for short periods of time, from inside a car, with the windows rolled up, and the doors locked. I prefer beach resorts with room service.

We live in a box of space and time. Movies are windows in its walls.

And so now, in the shadow of unspoken events, I watch Zampanò's courtyard darken. Everything whimsical has left. I try to study the light-going carefully. From my room. In the glass of memory. In the moonstream of my imagination. The weeds, the windows, every bench. But the old man is not there, and the cats are all gone. Something else has taken their place. Something I am unable to see. Waiting. I'm afraid. It is hungry. It is immortal. Worse, it knows nothing of whim.

Outside a thunderstorm begins to crack and spit rain at the windows. Lightning builds shadows. A wind howls like the wounded, filling everyone with cold, bone weary dread.

The only sign of war was a cloud of dust migrating from east to west. It looked through the windows, trying to find a way inside, and as it simultaneously thickened and spread, it turned the trail of humans into apparitions. There were no people on the street anymore. They were rumors carrying bags.

Why do they have windows? Is it to let a glimpse of the world in? Or for us to see out? Our own place is small perhaps, but when your old man is eaten up by his own shadow, you realize maybe that in every house, something so savage and sad and brilliant is standing up, without the world even seeing it. Maybe that's what these pages of words are about. Bringing the world to the window.

The only sign of war was a cloud of dust migrating from east to west. It looked through the windows, trying to find a way inside, and as it simultaneously thickened and spread, it turned the trail of humans into apparitions.

I watched the daylight slowly creep in through the windows, and saw before me in mental gaze the vision of Death.

Her fear kept her as caged as her canaries. The glass windows were no different than their metal bars.

Outside the wind howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely against the windows. It was strange there, in the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man's handiwork on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London was no more than the molehills that dot the fields.

The bars on his windows were his old thoughts, thoughts he trusted were true, but which actually prevented him from venturing out into the Maze. His beliefs were holding him prisoner!

That above all else. They did not look out their windows. No matter what noises or dreadful possibilities, no matter how awful the unknown, there was an even worse thing: to look the Gorgon in the face.

Flakes of snow swirled and danced across the porch. The Overlook faced it as it had for nearly three-quarters of a century, its darkened windows now bearded with snow, indifferent to the fact it was now cut off from the world… Inside its shell the three of them went about their early evening routine, like microbes trapped in the intestine of a monster.

Faith goes up the stairs that love has built and looks out the windows which hope has opened.

The front windows as are the watchmen of grief - I've been looking beyond expectation - Beyond myself - and I do not know as I love you - Which one of us is missing.