Quotes About Stitched

alien meant in a world where members of his own species stitched themselves together into colony minds, or summoned their own worst nightmares back from the Pleistocene to run the stock market.

For some of us, listening to him was like being pricked repeatedly with a pin—the sensation a discomfort radiating out from its point of entry. A poem of nerve ends, of images that stitched you up in a zigzag pattern and then scissored you open again.

Place is the fabric of our lives, memory and identity are stitched through it. Without having somewhere of one's own, a place that is home, freedom is an empty word.

Beauty was deceptive. I would rather wear my pain, my ugliness. I was torn and stitched. I was a strip mine, and they would just have to look. I hoped I made them sick. I hoped they saw me in their dreams.

Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.

Africa is a land of dreams and memories. It is rifts of remembrance stitched together with the sighs of time.

but monsters are always hungry, darling, and they're only a few steps behind you, finding the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren't stitched up quite right, the place they could almost slip right through if the skin wasn't trying to keep them out, to keep them there, on the other side

Our lives are like quilts - bits and pieces, joy and sorrow, stitched with love.

Memories are stitched with love.

I'd barely worn it out. Life had been a suit I'd only put on for special occasions. Most of the time I kept it in the back of my closet, forgetting it was there. We were meant to die when it was barely stitched anymore, when the elbows and knees were stained with grass and mud, shoulder pads uneven from people hugging you all the time, downpours and blistering sun, the fabric faded, buttons gone.

Life had been a suit I'd only put on for special occasions. Most of the time I'd kept it in the back of my closet, forgetting it was there. We were meant to die when it was barely stitched anymore, when the elbows and knees were stained with grass and mud, shoulder pads uneven from people hugging you all the time, down pours and blistering sun, the fabric faded, buttons gone.

moon was sewn into the sky that night. Clouds were stitched around it.

the moon was sewn into the sky that night. Clouds were stitched around it.

I have stitched life into me like a rare organ, And walked carefully, precariously, like something rare. I have tried not to think too hard. I have tried to be natural. I have tried to be blind in love, like other women, Blind in my bed, with my dear blind sweet one, Not looking, through the thick dark, for the face of another. I did not look. But still the face was there.

She walks, on the streets, with a face that, doesn't belong.It smiles more than, many put together, whole day long.Her heart misfit, a little chipped.And she likes to, call it once broken, but now stitched.

Our lives are like quilts — bits and pieces, joy and sorrow, stitched with love.

I was torn and stitched, I was a strip mine, and they would just have to look. I hoped I made them sick. I hoped they saw me in their dreams.

An ombré ball gown, its color deepening from white near my throat, through palest blue to deepest indigo at my feet. Over that is stitched the stark outlines of trees, the way I see them from my window as dusk is falling. The seamstress has even sewn on little crystal beads to represent stars.

Seperation Your absence has gone trough me like thread trough a needle. Everything I do is stiched with it's color.

Separation Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.

One of the first things Vincent explained to Norma was that there was a certain freedom of language in the Village that mustn't shock her. It wasn't vulgar. 'So we sat darning socks on Waverly Place and practiced the use of profanity as we stitched. Needle in, shit. Needle out, piss. Needle in, fuck. Needle out, cunt. Until we were easy with the words.

One of the first things Vincent explained to Norma was that there was a certain freedom of language in the Village that mustn't shock her. It wasn't vulgar. 'So we sat darning socks on Waverly Place and practiced the use of profanity as we stitched. Needle in, . Needle out, piss. Needle in, . Needle out, c. Until we were easy with the words.

She washed he hands,then looked at my side. "you haven't even had it stitched?" She said incredulously. "I've been rather busy," I said. "With the running like hell and hiding all night.