Quotes About Imagination

A KEY WORD*** Imagined

She gathered the books like clouds and words poured down like rain.

I only know that all of those people would have sensed me that night, excluding the youngest of the children. I was the suggestion. I was the advice, my imagined feet walking into the kitchen and down the corridor.

He watched them grow, until eventually, great forests of words had risen throughout Germany.... It was a nation of farmed thoughts.

How many books had she touched? How many had she felt?

The question is, what colour will everything be at that moment when I come for you? What will the sky be saying?

From a Himmel Street window, he wrote, the stars set fire to my eyes.

Sometimes I imagined how everything looked above those clouds, knowing without question that the sun was blond, and the endless atmosphere was a giant blue eye

What I like best is walking with my hands in my pockets, having the Doorman next to me, and imagining that Audrey's on my other side. I always picture us from behind.

Un ojo abierto, el otro soñando.

The Proclaimers thunder through my head. Imagine it. Imagine killing someone to the tune of two Scottish nerds wearing glasses and flattop haircuts. How will I ever listen to that song again? What will I do if it comes on the radio? I'll think of the night I murdered another man and stole his life with my own hands.

The stars set fire to my eyes.

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

If you feel like it, come with me. I will tell you a story. I'll show you something.

I wish I could hold up that knife and tear open the world. I'd slice it open and climb through to the next one.

Around six-thirty, Rory was across the street, leaning against a telegraph pole, smiling just for laughs; the world was filthy, and so was he. After a short search, he pulled a long strand of girls' hair from his mouth. Whoever she was, she was out there somewhere, she lay open-legged in Rory's head. A girl we'll never know, or see.

I've come to the realization that I really only want to write books that maybe I can't write.

So many humans. So many colors. They keep triggering inside me. They harass my memory. I see them tall in their heaps, all mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-colored clouds, beating like black hearts. And then. There is death.

How do you give someone a piece of sky?

I told her about school and how I sat on a wall there and felt stories and words move through me ...

Papa would say a word and the girl would have to spell it aloud and then paint it on the wall, as long as she got it right. After a month, the wall was recoated. A fresh cement page.

One eye open. One still in a dream

Sometimes, I imagined how everything appeared above those clouds, knowing without question that the sun was blond, and the endless atmosphere was a giant blue eye.

Now he turned on to the side street, making his way to number thirty-three, resisting the urge to smile, resisting the urge to sob or even imagine the safety that might be awaiting him. He reminded himself that this was no time for hope.