Descriptive Quotes
Descriptive Quote of the day
Hundreds of butterflies flitted in and out of sight like short-lived punctuation marks in a stream of consciousness without beginning or end.
Somewhere deep inside, his humanity had been shaken by something so unnatural, so foreign in its essence, his very being withdrew from it...
. . .the particular way he had of structuring his paragraphs, beginning and ending each with a joke that wasn't really a joke, but an insult cloaked in a silken cape.
Behind all the surface composure, there seemed to be a great darkness: an urge to test himself, to take risks, to haunt the edges of things.
...his voice was like the cracking of ice on a winter lake, and the words were mocking
Dorothy scratched her dark head, yawning wide, and white feathers floated out of her hair.
Beyond the haze, the globe was decorated with a mosaic of sapphire, emerald and amber. The planet glittered like a jewel in the moonlight.
An excellent but an eccentric man in whom the least little thing would, it seemed, often check the flow of his spirits and divert the current of his thoughts.
People said Ove saw the world in black and white. But she was color. All the color he had.
She was truly happy for the first time in her life, and it felt just like living in a small room painted all white, with windows looking out onto impenetrable forest.
There was a hazy damp film in his eyes that I recognized from emotions in old movies, projected large on darkened screens.
Her shoes were comfortable. They reflected her hope for the evening.
We all look back at some time or other and wonder why we didn't listen to our instincts. Why did we hestiate? Why did we lose our dreams?
The two events were probably unrelated, but both jolted Dave the way a sudden air pocket reminds nervous passengers that they’re soaring above the clouds in a pressurized metal tube.
...because of the foulness of her mother's emotional river, a current which ran swift, changing its path without warning...
Dave was a confirmed serotonin junkie. Any day of the year, he chose a good book, a hot cupper, and air-conditioning over jeopardy to life and limb.
I like Carson. I really like Carson. I can hand an idea to him that's still a little rough, and he can turn it over and tumble it and hand it back to me shining. And I can do the same for him.
They passed, leaving a trail of foxfire shuffled up out of the wet leaves like stars plowed in a ship's wake.
All this happened in much less time than it takes to tell, since I am trying to interpret for you into slow speech the instantaneous effect of visual impressions.
