Quotes About Alley

They travelled crosstown now; the cab could rush fast down each block of the continuous alley, pausing only at the intersections where, to the right, canyonniched, the rumor of Grandlieu Street swelled and then faded in repetitive and indistinguishable turmoil, flicking on and past as though the cab ran along the rimless periphery of a ghostly wheel spoked with light and sound.

He'd missed the first wasp, when it built its paperfine gray house on the blistered paint of the windowframe, but soon the nest was a fist-sized lump of fiber, insects hurtling out to hunt the alley below like miniature copters buzzing the rotting contents of the dumpsters.

Outside the wind had picked up a little. Isaac sheltered his prize and walked quickly up the little alley that adjoined The Dying Child with Paddler Way and his workshop-home. He pushed open the green doors with his bum and backed into the building. Isaac's laboratory had been a factory and a warehouse years ago, and its huge, dusty floorspace swamped the little benches and retorts and blackboards that perched in its corners.

She lifts a bowl of kheer and her thoughts, flittering like dusty sparrows in a brown back alley, turn a sudden kingfisher blue.

And those who were awake and walking the streets were a fascinating blend of the wild, the lost, and the forgotten. Very few of whom would be missed if they were to meet Allan in a dark alley.

Of all the girls that are so smart,There's none like pretty Sally.She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.

The bowling alley called . . . they want their shoes back.

The Hollywood sirens are shrieking, while down some search lit alley runs some lost belief.

Destiny has no beeper; destiny always leans trenchcoated out of an alley with some sort of Psst that you usually can't even hear because you're in such a rush to or from something important you've tried to engineer.

See my style it varies, like drugs in an alley. My leather so soft my paint prettier than Halle.

it was clear, if you looked up, that the earth had turned its blue face away from the sun, that it was sweeping down its own dark alley in space

What a Wonderful World' is a love song to nobody and everybody. I'm thinking about songs like that in my writing with 'Take Me to the Alley.'

To the imaginative, it is always something of an adventure to walk down a pleached alley. You enter boldly enough, but soon you find yourself wishing you had stayed outside — it is not air that you are breathing, but silence, the almost palpable silence of trees.

I heard someone walk out of the alley behind me, and my body went tense and tight, despite my weariness.  Then a young woman's voice said, in a passable British accent, The Little People are easily startled, but they'll soon be back.  And in greater numbers.     I sagged in sudden, exhausted relief.  The bad guys hardly ever quote Star Wars.

I'm pretty sure lurking in a dark alley to mug me with your apology isn't the usual way to go about saying you're sorry. But I didn't read that Mars-Venus book, so who knows.

wolf's fur was speckled with drops of blood that had beaded on it like rain. The gravel in the alley shone in the half-light from the distant street lamps. The wolf's muzzle, a little shorter and broader than I had seen on Wild Kingdom, was drawn back, black lips from fangs striped white and red like peppermints. Its eyes were blue, rather than any proper lupine shade, and gleamed with a sort of demented awareness.

Moonrise," I told him, then turned on my heel and walked quickly from the alley, although my sock feet on the gravel, combined with my limp, probably spoiled the badass image.

Agorism is the only philosophy that explains why, in an East German alley, a hooker and a bible smuggler ducking into the same doorway to avoid the police not only won't turn each other in but are also both acting right and proper.

I like alleys. They are the backdoor to everything.

The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream.

Poema de beco Que importa a paisagem, a Glória, a baía a linha do horizonte? -O que vejo é o beco.

The scrape and snap of Keds on loose alley pebbles seems to catapult their voices high into the moist March air blue above the wires.

There's a shot up the alley. Oh, it's just foul.

If someone were to come up to you in a dark alley and say, "Psst, wanna see a UML diagram?" that diagram would probably be a class diagram.