Quotes About Distance

Another thing is no matter how much you think you love somebody, you'll step back when the pool of their blood edges up too close.

When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep, and you're never really awake. With insomnia, nothing's real. Everything is far away. Everything is a copy of a copy of a copy.

Peo­ple used what they called a tele­phone be­cause they hat­ed be­ing close to­geth­er and they were too scared of be­ing alone.

This is how it is with insomnia. Everything is so far away, a copy of a copy of a copy. The insomnia distance of everything, you can't touch anything and nothing can touch you.

This is how it is with insomnia. Everything is so far away, a copy of a copy of a copy. The insomnia distance of everything, you can't touch anything and nothing can touch you.

Es lo que ocurre en los casos de insomnio. Todo es muy lejano: la copia de la copia de una copia. No puedes tocar nada y nada puede tocarte. El insomnio te distancia de todo.

Un'altra cosa è che non importa quanto tu possa amare una persona: ti tirerai indietro quando il suo sangue ti scorre troppo vicino.

from Tokyo to Managua

The insomnia distance of everything, a copy of a copy of a copy. You can't touch anything, and nothing can touch you.

Otra cosa es que, por mucho que creas que quieres a alguien, te echas atrás cuando el charco de su sangre se acerca demasiado.

Classically, at the beginning of a regime change, it is usually a good idea and trustworthy gesture for the new leader to renounce the evildoings of the old administration and establish as much distance from the outgoing disgrace as possible. When

I instead was reminded of watching my cousins at Thanksgiving through my own front windows, that strange sense of distance, even where you should belong.

I discovered I could hate her a bit, and because I didn't tell her so, because our friendship went along on this reduced, part-time scale that didn't allow for arguments, there was no noticeable change in our relationship.

He heard an eery, dry whispering whose source and distance he could not at once determine. Sometimes it seemed at his very ear, and then it ebbed away as if sinking into profound subterranean vaults. But the sound, though variable in this manner, never ceased entirely; and it seemed to shape itself into words that the listener almost understood: words that were fraught with the hopeless sorrow of a dead man who had sinned long ago, and had repented his sin through black sepulchral ages.

She wanted nothing that he could offer her, except perhaps his absence.

eight miles to the southwest.

Sometimes, you feel yourself weightless, thinned. You draw back the curtains (if there are any) on a rectangle of wasteland at dawn, and realise that you are cast adrift from everything that gave you identity. Thousands of miles from anyone who knows you, you have the illusion that your past is lighter, scarcely yours at all. Even your ties of love have been attenuated (the emergency satellite phone is in my rucksack and nobody calls). Dangerously, you may come to feel invulnerable.

It struck me that distant cities are designed precisely so you can know where you came from.

It struck me that distant cities are designed precisely so you can know where you came from. We bring home with us when we leave. Sometimes it becomes more acute for the fact of having left.

A brand-new thought: Transatlantic airmail. She tests the phrase, scratching it out on the paper, over and over, transatlantic, trans atlas, trans antic. The distance finally broken.

Their reflection in the glass. The water behind them stretched distant and black. I stood in the doorway a long, long time, unsure of what to do or say. I wasn't interested in their

Cómo hacer, Virginia, para pegar Europa a América y secar el océano que las separa? ¿O cómo hacer para pasar de uno de esos dos continentes que me dividen? ¡Cómo hacer para secar mi corazón de tantas nostalgias!

technique called paradoxical intention is applied. At the same time, the patient is enabled to put himself at a distance from his own neurosis. A statement consistent with this is found in Gordon

Anything outside the barbed wire became remote - out of reach and, in a way, unreal. The events and the people outside, all the normal life there, had a ghostly aspect for the prisoner. The outside life, that is, as much as he could see of it, appeared to him almost as it might have to a dead man who looked at it from another world.