Estagnado Significado Quotes & Sayings

I've been competitive since day one. Even in little things as a child, like having a twin and a direct competitor for who makes better cookies. — Gracie Gold

I thought of going the rest of my life pretending I sprang to life from nothing at sixteen years old and felt my cheeks flush with shame and anger. I was so tired of cowering. I was so tired of hiding. I wanted to tell the truth, to say it out loud. — Meredith Russo

Ever since, two summers ago, Joe Marino had begun to come into her bed, a preposterous fecundity had overtaken the staked plans, out in the side garden where the southwestern sun slanted in through the line of willows each long afternoon. The crooked little tomato branches, pulpy and pale as if made of cheap green paper, broke under the weight of so much fruit; there was something frantic in such fertility, a crying-out like that of children frantic to please. Of plants, tomatoes seemed the most human, eager and fragile and prone to rot. Picking the watery orange-red orbs, Alexandra felt she was cupping a giant lover's testicles in her hand. — John Updike

Don't ask me who my favourite monster was because I'm sick of saying Tom Baker. — Lalla Ward

We manage the fear, I manage the fear, but it certainly takes its toll, the strain does. — Christiane Amanpour

Hope is a little candle that continues to flicker in the heart in the darkest moments of impossibility. — Debasish Mridha

A life without poetry is a life without heart, without laughter, without crying - it's a life without feelings. — Kristian Goldmund Aumann

Some pretend to be rich, yet have nothing; others pretend to be poor, yet have great wealth. — Malcolm Gladwell

A book is a suicide postponed. — Emil M. Cioran

Autumn comes
like a buyer of cloth,
her long fingers
touching,
turning orange,
yellow, brown.

taking what she wants,
stretching
the bone taut air.

Her skin crackles beneath
our feet.

I didn't think anyone wanted me,

bruises pulled
like a sweater around
my neck.

We talk
in the pore tightening air,
branches bare,
about the girl buried in the chill
of prewinter.

We show each other
our mutilated children
in the guise of women
as autumn plucks
at our lips.

Each color,
blue, black, ochre
popping like kisses
on the rib lined flesh,
the puberty soft things.

And we muse
how women
keep bruises
hidden
beneath dead
leaves. — Janice Mirikitani