Quotes About Breathless

We used to play touch football, where you put the little rag in your pocket. I was good because I was fast. I wasn't the greatest at catching. Sometimes the ball would come so hard and fast that it'd knock the wind out of me.

Almost every byelection is described by breathless commentators as the most important since Norwich/Hillhead/Orpington, but there is no requirement for political parties to overreact as well.

been literally breathtaking

It was a soft breathless June morning, with a promise of sultriness later...

A mouth that has no moisture and no breath Breathless mouths may summon; I hail the superhuman; I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.

I hyperventilate quite a lot.

Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.

Once, when she was six years old, she had fallen from a tree, flat on her stomach. She could still recall that sickening interval before breath came back into her body. Now, as she looked at him, she felt the same way she had felt then, breathless, stunned, nauseated.

I sat down in the sand, breathless with shame and failure. God, I thought, some defender of the weak. Some freedom fighter: Joan of Arc in sunscreen.

Nobody whispers it in your ear. It is like something you memorized once and forgot. Now it comes back and rips away your breath. You find and finger a phrase at a time; you lay it down cautiously, as if with tongs, and wait suspended until the next one finds you: Ah yes, then this; and yes, praise be, then this.

The universe was very beautiful. I looked out through the lock into the darkless night, and the hugeness of the galaxy took my breath away.

If she could breathe then it could be heard, but she was breathless.

life picked up speed, and then most of it was gone—made you breathless, really.

She was in so fast that she didn't have a chance to scream. The icy cold water stole her breath away…

'The Expats' is a thriller, but one that tends more toward general fiction than toward breathless pulp.

Those hot pants of hers were so damned tight, I could hardly breathe.

Her breathing ragged, her body went lax under his. "We're not done," he rasped, fisting a hand in her dark, short hair. Law greedily took her mouth as he started to ride her again—deep, hard. So damned hungry, so damned hungry … If she'd had the breath, she might have told him to give her a minute. But even if she had had the breath? He would have stolen it away again.

What question? I ask, breathless. Whether you're as beautiful in the morning as you are during the rest of the day.

O Real me dá asma.

I recently read a collection of stories called 'Boondock Kollage,' by Regina Bradley. The stories follow multiple characters through the South, through the past and present. I loved reading that book: the first time I read the opening story, I was breathless and incoherent.

I don't seem to have time to breathe. Everything's happening so quickly, and so much is happening all the time.

Rosa Hubermann was sitting on the edge of the bed with her husband's accordion tied to her chest. Her fingers hovered above the keys. She did not move. She didn't ever appear to be breathing.

Steel shards, his eyes held hers. Breathless, Patience blinked up at him. His face was hard, a warrior's mask. Waves of anger and aggression lapped about her. When it comes to distraction, he informed her through clenched teeth, nothing in this world could top you. His words were invested with meaning- a meaning she didn't understand.

And in the attic, if she had managed to find her way up the steep and crumbling steps, she would have found the one room left open to the light, she would have stood, breathless, picking cobwebs from her fingers and her face, staring at a whole meadow of wildflowers and grasses, poppies and oxeyes and flowering coriander, all flourishing in bird droppings and all lunging pointedly towards the one square foot of available sky.