Quotes About Forehead

On his convex forehead his namam is a vertical, three-pronged fork, the center stripe red and the flanking two white. It signals he's a Vaishnavite, holding Vishnu to be the supreme god in the pantheon.

The room seemed to have grown darker, as if all the sad light of the cloudy evening had taken refuge on her forehead.

Now and then a small red glow would move abruptly, and expanding light up the fingers of a languid hand, part of a face in profound repose, or flash a crimson gleam into a pair of pensive eyes overshadowed by a fragment of an unruffled forehead: and with the very first word uttered Marlow's body, extended at rest in the seat, would become very still, as though his spirit had winged its way back into the lapse of time and were speaking through his lips from the past.

the full fury of his storming countenance with its rugged overhang of gullied forehead and huge crag of a humpbacked nose that came charging out of his face wrathfully like a Big Ten fullback.

But oh!—this so queer sensation between my eyes, in my lower forehead—is it the third eye, of enlightenment? Opening, at last?

Richard stood transfixed for a moment or two, wiped his forehead again, and gently replaced the phone as if it were an injured hamster. His brain began to buzz gently and suck its thumb. Lots of little synapses deep inside his cerebral cortex all joined hands and started dancing around and singing nursery rhymes.

És végül a pisztolylövés. Az egyetlen hibám. Halántékon is l?hettem volna. De képtelen voltam rászánni magam, hogy ilyen aszimmetrikus, hebehurgya munkát végezzek. Nem, legyen szimmetrikus a lövés, pontosan a homloka közepébe...

Hair like steel wool grew far back on his head and gave him a domed brown forehead that might at careless glance seemed a dwelling place for brains.

The loon placed both palms down on the concrete in front of her and—CRACK!—smacked her forehead hard on the ground.

Dark hair fell in a sweep over his forehead. He looked like a man who would write vers libre, as indeed he did.

You are the fountain of the sun. I'm the shadow of a willow. You fall upon my forehead. I melt. You slip into my heart. It spills open. You surround me with such sweetness. I make it my home.

Then he dipped his finger into Dole's shredded jacket, and with Dole's blood traced an "M" on his forehead. That'd let the medics know he'd had a shot—another would kill him, overdose ... if a medic ever got there ... if McBryar could spot one

Bonner leans his forehead against hers. Zig when they think you'll zag. Creation's Rule Number Two. What's Number One? Els asks, willing to be this bent soul's straight man. Zag when they think you'll zig.

San Luis Potosí. The ruby in the forehead of Old May-hee-co.

Jackson was surprised she didn't have "Up for It" tattooed on her forehead.

I cursed and rubbed my forehead. The radio sang its bigotry in perfect '80s pop harmony. Let's send 'em aaallllllll ba-ack to Aaaaafrica . . . I reached down to the knob, to find the radio was already off. Here we fucking go.

Mr. Twit was one of these very hairy-faced men. The whole of his face except for his forehead, his eyes and his nose, was covered with thick hair. The stuff even sprouted in revolting tufts out of his nostrils and ear-holes.

He pulled back his head warily; like many of the children in the neighbourhood, this one had come into the world in the avatar of a complete maniac, and it would not be unlike her to whack him on the forehead with the egg just to see what would happen.

But this is not your fault—you are sick. The name of this sickness is IMAGINATION.  It is a worm that gnaws out black lines on the forehead. It is a fever that drives you to escape ever farther, even if this "farther" begins where happiness ends.

I like a look of Agony, Because I know it's true— Men do not sham Convulsion, Nor simulate a Throe— The Eyes glaze once—and that is Death— Impossible to feign The Beads upon the Forehead By homely Anguish strung.

None of this dirt is yours, I told her. You're as clean as rain. She kissed me, but on the forehead this time.

Here we are, said Berthold, mopping his forehead with a Kleenex. A section of the paper remained trapped in the worry lines of his forehead, and fluttered there like a windsock in the air-conditioner blast.

Sweat rained from my forehead; my own salt blinded me until I wiped it all away.

Now you learn some fucking discretion? Fine. Pay me a dollar." John had seen this movie too. He fished out a dollar and handed it over, and Galen crumpled it and threw it at him. It bounced off John's forehead. Galen retrieved it and did it again.