Inspirational quotes with drizzle.
The rain fluctuates between drizzle and torrential. It messes with your mind. It makes you think things will always be like this, never getting better, always letting you down right when you though the worst was over.
No, I thought, growing more rebellious, life has its own laws and it is for me to defend myself against whatever comes along, without going snivelling to God about sin, my own or other people's. How would it profit a man if he got into a tight place, to call he people who put him there miserable sinners? Or himself a miserable sinner? I disliked the levelling aspect of this sinnerdom, it was like a cricket match played in a drizzle, where everybody had an excuse - and what a dull excuse! - for playing badly. Life was meant to test a man, bring out his courage, initiative, resource; and I longed, I thought, to be tested: I didn't want to fall on my knees and call myself a miserable sinner. But the idea of goodness did attract me, for I did not regard it as the opposite of sin. I saw it as something bright and positive and sustaining, like the sunshine, something to be adored, but from afar.
If people were rain, I'd be a drizzle and she'd be a hurricane.
Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice the ring that’s landed on your finger, a massiveinsect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the endof a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurtin your voice under a blanket and said there’s two kindsof women—those you write poems aboutand those you don’t. It’s true. I never brought youa bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed.My idea of courtship was tapping Jane’s Addictionlyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M., whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I workedwithin the confines of my character, castas the bad boy in your life, the Magellanof your dark side. We don’t have a past so muchas a bunch of electricity and liquor, powernever put to good use. What we had togethermakes it sound like a virus, as if we caughtone another like colds, and desire was merelya symptom that could be treated with soupand lots of sex. Gliding beside you now, I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy, as if I invented it, but I’m still not immuneto your waterfall scent, still haven’t developedantibodies for your smile. I don’t know how longregret existed before humans stuck a word on it.I don’t know how many paper towels it would taketo wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the lightof a candle being blown out travels fasterthan the luminescence of one that’s just been lit, but I do know that all our huffing and puffinginto each other’s ears—as if the brain was a trickbirthday candle—didn’t make the silenceany easier to navigate. I’m sorry all the kissesI scrawled on your neck were writtenin disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of youso hard one of your legs would pop outof my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you’d pressyour face against the porthole of my submarine.I’m sorry this poem has taken thirteen yearsto reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skiddingoff the shoulder blade’s precipice and joyridingover flesh, we’d put our hands away like chocolateto be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphyof each other’s eyelashes, translated a paragraphfrom the volumes of what couldn’t be said.
Just like that. From a hundred miles an hour to asleep in a nanosecond. I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not f*ck, like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together, in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane.
She awaits the rain like a writer embraces metaphors,A drizzle isn't for the child who dances in the storm.Of rain that washes away the petrichor it brings,A downpour of a hail of bullets, and she calls it spring.
Whenever Elliot Norther’s wife was nervous she baked. With the murder of Harriet Mason, her husband’s close colleague at the Faculty, she had been unable to resist a couple of Victoria sponges. During the frenzied press speculation about the identity of the murderer, a Dundee cake had appeared, followed swiftly by a Battenberg and a Lemon Drizzle. Since news of the Wildencrust murder broke, the kitchen, dining room and study had come to resemble the storerooms of an industrial bakery, every surface heaving with the weight of sponge and cream. Yesterday, having at last been overwhelmed by the fear and rumour that swept the town, she had taken herself off to her mother’s house in Hampstead, leaving her husband to soldier on alone. When he had last seen his wife, Elliot Norther noticed that she had been putting the finishing touches to an impressive, triple-tiered wedding cake, beating a batch of royal icing into a sickly paste.
The sky's gray and there's mizzle. It's so soft on my skin--it's nothing like rain. It's even softer than the lightest drizzle! Lift my face up, so it can kiss my skin." The Panopticon
Drizzle happiness wherever you go.
The moon was barely visible behind the pillows of clouds. Overhead, the lights caught the drizzle in a slow-motion light show.
It had started to drizzle. The lamp poles cast a kaleidoscope of light dancing across the puddles in the road. The rain made Sam feel even more lost now, as if these shadowy events were invisible to the world. As if the night was cloaked in anonymity. This wasn’t a peaceful rain - it was a sad one. A drizzle, which wept for the inevitable. Sam knew even if she got Alison out of this alive, the cuts on their lives had already been made, pooling the blood of consequence beneath their feet as the night dragged on. Whichever way this went, they’d have scars from this night. Scars and scabs and things which could not be spoken. And that made her feel utterly hopeless.
..if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was ahurricane.
An orchestra of temple bells and chanting erupted suddenly like a pleasing drizzle.
For the rest of my life, Zanzibar will be the Swahili word for rain. The rain would drizzle, spit, mist, downpour, shower, torrent, gust, deluge and blast. At one point it hit the ground so hard it created a haze as it bounced back up two feet and fell a second time.
You Have Happened To MeLike the first blossom of the spring and the first drizzle of the rain, You have happened to me.With that sudden smile, very close to mine, You have happened to me.When I was at lowest aura, with tears on edge of my eyes, You have happened to me.When I have least expected, in that depth of our talks, out of my knowledge,You have happened to me.Somewhere in those loud laughs and gathering some smoky puffs, You have happened to me.Without the fear of world, got tied up with just one knurled,You have happened to me.In the most beautiful way I could ever imagine, while getting my self lagin, You have happened to me.I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a miracle then,How you have happened to me?I am still surprised with those shiny sparks in my eyes,You have happened to me.Talking about having the happy time, you became the reason of my smile,You have happened to me.In those long waits and running behind your fast steps,You have happened to me.Around your long advices, rolling my eyes while trying to believe in them,You have happened to me.The warmth of tea I have sipped next to you, melted my heart for you and You have happened to me.Over those answers of my every question, and the way my heart felt so freshen,You have happened to me,Somehow surrounded by our rational deliberation, and continuous feel of desperation,You have happened to me.Looking at you a many times a day and look! How it is changing the way in slow motion, You have happened to me.
If people were rain i was drizzle and she was a hurrican.
I beg your pardon, but don’t cry for me, Argentina. A little rain’s bound to fall on those roses of yours—a dribble, a drizzle, a deluge. Think you’re the only one with wet flowers? A tear rolls down my cheek and some of the heaviness I’ve been carrying trickles out with it. Why me? Why pain? Why suffering? Why heartache? Because we’re a forgetful bunch, always busy with the daily grind. We overlook the good things until we’re confronted with the bad. There but for the grace of God...and all that jazz. Life is how we measure it. And people have different currencies. Some are tangible. Others are carried in your heart. Like the woman beside me, I’ve been dwelling on what I’ve lost, not what I have. Her riches vanished in a moment. Mine, thankfully, remain — wonderful childhood memories, a caring husband, a baby on the way. Wet roses? They’ll dry. Meanwhile, I’ll enjoy the rest of my garden.
In the evenings the family gathered at Kirkwood Hall. Sometimes Andrew cooked, sometimes Delphine. There was a bounty of vegetables from the kitchen garden: tiny patty-pan squash, radishes both peppery and sweet, beets striped deep magenta and white, golden and green, butter lettuce and spinach and peas, zucchini blossoms stuffed with Graham's mozzarella and salty anchovies. Delphine whipped eggs from the chickens into souffles. Chicken- from the chickens, sadly- were roasted in a Dutch oven or grilled under a brick. Plump strawberries from the fields and minuscule wild ones from the forest were served with a drizzle of balsamic syrup or a billow of whipped cream. Delphine's baking provided custardy tarts, flaky biscuits, and deep, dark chocolate cake.
This was what Ditlev loved: ceaseless gunfire, ceaseless killing, flapping specks in the sky terminated in an orgy of color. The slow drizzle of birds' bodies falling from above. The eagerness of the men to reload their weapons.
If people were rain I was a drizzle and she was a hurricane.
I hugged Wes and inhaled the scent of his neck- a reassuringly familiar combination of coffee and leather and something sweet I always had trouble putting my finger on. What was it? Butter from his morning toast? A package of chocolates left over some hotel stay? Maybe a hint of the honey he liked to drizzle on apples. I smiled, allowing myself a moment to believe in the possibility of a shared life full of sweet things.
Scully nodded. Of course. It made sense. Complete sense. No question about it. Mulder was perfectly sane in telling her all this. And she was perfectly sane in listening to it and nodding and urging him to tell her more. It was the rest of the world that was-She doubled over as a wave of laughter hit her.Mulder looked at her and started laughing too. They stood there in the cemetery in the darkness and the drizzle, laughing their heads off.'You know we're crazy,' Scully finally said.'Of course we are,' Mulder gasped out.
There are a hundred things she has tried to chase away the things she won't remember and that she can't even let herself think about because that's when the birds scream and the worms crawl and somewhere in her mind it's always raining a slow and endless drizzle.You will hear that she has left the country, that there was a gift she wanted you to have, but it is lost before it reaches you. Late one night the telephone will sign, and a voice that might be hers will say something that you cannot interpret before the connection crackles and is broken.Several years later, from a taxi, you will see someone in a doorway who looks like her, but she will be gone by the time you persuade the driver to stop. You will never see her again. Whenever it rains you will think of her.
The sky is grey, with a thin TV-static drizzle that hangs in the air like it's been freeze-framed.
If people were rain, I was a drizzle and she was a hurricaine
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