Forehead And Top Quotes & Sayings

I am not looking for perfection. I look for the best in me. — Martina Navratilova

The bicycle saves my life every day. If you've ever experienced a moment of awe or freedom on a bicycle; if you've ever taken flight from sadness to the rhythm of two spinning wheels, or felt the resurgence of hope pedalling to the top of a hill with the dew of effort on your forehead; if you've ever wondered, swooping down bird-like down a long hill, if the world was standing still; if you have ever, just once, sat on a bicycle with a singing heart and felt like an ordinary human touching the gods, then we share something fundamental. We know it's all about the bike. — Robert Penn

City people make most of the fuss about the charms of country life. — Mason Cooley

Day snorted at him and rolled out of bed, groaning like an old man and God had to hold in his laugh at Day's wide-legged walk to the bathroom. He heard Day cleaning himself up and he thought to himself while he waited. He has a right to know. Day got back into bed and fully climbed on top of him, laying his head down on his chest. God laughed. "Uhh, sweetheart. You going to sleep like this?" "Yep. I've imagined sleeping like this for years," Day said settling in comfortably. God kissed Day's forehead and wrapped his arms around him, trying to calm his mind. Please don't have a nightmare. Not tonight. Just let this night be perfect. — A.E. Via

Begin. Keep on beginning. Nibble on everything.
Take a hike. Teach yourself to whistle. Lie.
The older you get the more they'll want your stories.
Make them up. Talk to stones. Short-out electric
fences. Swim with the sea turtle into the moon. Learn
how to die. Eat moonshine pie. Drink wild geranium
tea. Run naked in the rain. Everything that happens
will happen and none of us will be safe from it.
Pull up anchors. Sit close to the god of night.
Lie still in a stream and breathe water. Climb to the
top of the highest tree until you come to the branch
where the blue heron sleeps. Eat poems for breakfast.
Wear them on your forehead. Lick the mountain's
bare shoulder. Measure the color of days
around your mother's death. Put your hands over
your face and listen to what they tell you. — Ellen Kort

Yes. Just now, I was actually trying to rank 'I love you, I like you, I worship you, I have to have my cock inside you,' in terms of relative sincerity.
Did I day that? he said sounding slightly startled.
Yes. Weren't you listening?
No, he admitted. I meant every word of it though. His hand cupped one buttock, weighing it appreciatively. Still do come to that.
What, even that last one? I laughed and rubbed my forehead gently against his chest, feeling his jaw rest snugly on top of my head.
Oh, aye, he said gathering me firmly against him with a sigh. I will say the flesh requires a bit of supper and a wee rest before I think of doin' it again, but the spirit is always willing. God, ye have the sweetest fat wee bum. Only seeing it makes me want to give it yea again directly. It's lucky ye're wed to a decrepit auld man, Sessenach, or ye'd be on your knees with your arse in the air this minute. — Diana Gabaldon

I noticed several things about the drummer all at once. He was focused on the task at hand, keeping perfect rhythm. Instead of a swirl of transparent colors around his torso, there was a small, concentrated starburst of bright red at his sternum. But otherwise his aura was blank. Huh. That was strange. But before I could contemplate it too much, my eyes landed on his face.
Wowza.
He was smokin' hot. As in H-O-T-T hot. I'd never understood until that moment why girls insisted on adding an extra T. This guy was extra-T worthy.
I examined the drummer, determined to find a flaw.
Brown hair. An interesting haircut: short around the sides and back, but longer on top, hanging loose and angling across his forehead. His eyes were narrow and his eyebrows were a bit thick and ... Oh, who was I kidding? I could pick him apart, but even the shifty slant of his eyes made him more alluring to me. — Wendy Higgins

I give in, and I step into him, letting my forehead press deep into the center of his chest as I bring my limp arms around him, my fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt on the back. His chin slowly falls to the top of my head and his own arms circle me tentatively at first, until finally they lock around me, his palms sliding in slow tender circles along my skin. I'm overcome with his strength and the feel of his embrace, and I do something that I regret the moment it starts.
I cry. — Ginger Scott

I went back into my bedroom and knelt at my bed the way I did when I was a kid. I folded my hands and pressed the top knuckle joints of my thumbs hard into my forehead. Dear God. I don't know what I want or who I am. Apparently you do. Um ... that's great. Never mind. You have a terrible reputation here. You should know that. Oh, but I guess you do know that. Save me now. Or when it's convenient. We could run away together. This is stupid. What am I doing? I guess this is a prayer. I feel like an idiot, but I guess you knew that already, too. My sister said that god is music. Goodbye, Amen. I lay in my bed and waited for that thick, sweet feeling to wash over me, for that unreal semi-conscious state where the story begins and takes on a life of its own and all you have to do is close your eyes and give in and let go and give in and let go and go and go and go. — Miriam Toews

He willingly offered her every part of himself for her pleasure. Sam took full advantage. Pushing up on his shoulders, he rolled over onto his back, swinging her on top of him. Sam laughed joyously and accepted the invitation. Using her fingers, her lips and her tongue, she traced, teased, and tormented Brandt until he could stand it no more.
Without warning, Sam found herself flipped over, tucked under him, her legs hooked over his hips. Brandt waited until Sam gazed into his eyes. Then dropping his forehead to hers, he plunged deep. — Dale Mayer

Live today facing forward - with your back on yesterday, your eyes on tomorrow, and your head and heart in the moment. — Richelle E. Goodrich

Eva and I walked downstairs, and I was definitely not prepared for what I saw. Jason was on top of the kitchen table in nothing but his boxers, swinging his shirt around his head. He was singing something, but I couldn't make out the words. I laughed, my hand shooting to my mouth as I watched Tyler try to coax him down while Eva picked up the clothes that were strewn all over the floor.
"Evaaaa, why don't you come up here and strip with me, just like you did the other night! Come on, baby!" he said, swinging his hips as if he were dancing to music that we could all hear.
Eva slapped her palm to her forehead, and Charlotte laughed hard.
When Jason touched the waistband of his boxers, I closed my eyes as I and everyone around me screamed, "No! — Alexandria Rhodes

So let's hear another one of your irrational fears.
Mia grasped me by the arms and pulled herself in to my chest, like she was burrowing her body into mine. "I'm scared of losing you," she said in the faintest of voices."
I pushed her away so I could see her face and kissed the top of her forehead. "I said 'irrational' fears. Because that's not gonna happen. — Gayle Forman

It doesn't matter how many copies of my book I sell. The important thing is that the person reading it likes it. — Jennifer Raygoza

I judge when I need a top-up of Botox by looking in the mirror to see if I can move more than half my forehead. — Trinny Woodall

His chin grazed the top of my head and then his lips brushed across my forehead.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "I'll be right here when you wake up, sweetheart. I promise. — J. Lynn

The newcomer stood well over six feet, as tall as any Warden. His hair was dark, the color of obsidian, and it reflected blue in the dim light. Lazy locks slipped over his forehead and curled just below his ears. Brows arched over golden eyes and his cheekbones were broad and high. He was attractive. Very attractive. Mind-bendingly beautiful, actually, but the sardonic twist to his full lips chilled his beauty. The black T-shirt stretched across his chest and flat stomach. A huge tattoo of a snake curled around his forearm, the tail disappearing under his sleeve and the diamond-shaped head rested on the top of his hand. He looked my age. Total crush material - if it wasn't for the fact that he had no soul. — Jennifer L. Armentrout

They walked slowly, taking the shortest way, deliberately cutting through Campo delle Fava to avoid the crowds in Calle della Bissa. When they arrived at the foot of the Rialto bridge, they looked up at it, horrified. Anthill, termites, wasps. Ignoring these thoughts, they locked arms and started up, eyes on their feet and the area immediately in front of them. Up, up, up as feet descended towards them, but they ignored them and didn't stop. Up, up, up and across the top, shoving their way through the motionless people, deaf to their admiration. Then down, down, down, the momentum of their descent making them more formidable, They saw the feet of the people coming up towards them dance to the side at their approach, hardened their hearts to their protests, and plunged ahead. Then left and into the underpass, where they stopped, Brunetti's pulse raced and Paola leaned helpless on his arm.

"I can't stand it any more," Paola said and pressed her forehead against his shoulder. — Donna Leon

Something of a load to carry, sir," gasped the little man when they reached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead. "I am afraid it is rather heavy," murmured Dorian as he unlocked the door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men. — Oscar Wilde

His fingernails and toenails were long and pointed,like little claws. His ears were pointed,too-and pierced with small stone hoops.He had two little hornlike nubs protruding from the top of a forehead that was fleshy and wrinkled. His large lips were pursed in a grimace that made him look like a very old baby. — Lauren Kate

You can't go around like that," she said. "You look like you escaped from a romance novel." Isabelle laid a hand dramatically against her forehead. "Oh, Lord Montgomery, what do you mean to do with me in this bedroom when you have me all alone?" She unzipped her jacket and tossed it to the floor, revealing a white tank top. She gave him a sultry look. "Is my virtue safe?"
"I, ah
what?" Simon said, temporarily deprived of vocabulary. — Cassandra Clare

The tiny body was slippery, and he held her tightly, afraid she'd slither out of his grip. He rotated the infant face-up, holding her about ten inches away from his face. The top of her head had a slight cone shape. Her blue-tinged hands pinked. The baby's eyes were open, alert and seemingly amazed.
They connected with his.
A jolt of intense feeling, of recognition, flowed between them. As he gazed on the scrunched features of the infant, love surged through him. He'd never felt such a feeling before, and his chest ached with the joyful pressure. Caleb wanted to curl her to his chest and keep her safe. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, inhaling a scent that surprised him with its sweetness.
"My baby?" Maggie asked.
The infant broke eye contact with Caleb and turned her face toward the sound of her mother's voice. He blinked back moisture from his eyes and grinned. "You have a beautiful daughter. — Debra Holland

When I was at Babbo, I was covered in scars and scabs and burned bits - melted hair, ribbed burns I got reaching across the top of a hot skillet ... I sliced off the tip of my finger. I cleaved my forehead - a deep, ugly wound. Luckily, it regenerated. — Bill Buford

To write a novel is fundamentally an act of impudence. To comb one's hair is also an act of impudence, especially when it's done to try to cover a scar running across the top of one's forehead. But combing one's hair is an act of minor impudence, whereas writing is a more serious affair. We mask reality, we hide our fears, we reinvent things that have been said, and above all, the people who said them. Writing a novel implies a certain perversity. It's not something one can do with a tortoiseshell comb. It is perhaps for that reason that they take away my pen at night. Not, as they pretend, to prevent me from accidentally stabbing myself in the throat with it- but to prevent me from killing anyone else. — Paco Ignacio Taibo II

I read them all, read them one by one with a kind of constant hunger as if they were apples that fed and made you hungry at the same time. — Niall Williams

In my own family, my mother had my sister when I was 15 and for various reasons, I was extremely involved in raising her. — Rosalind Wiseman

When a young person, even a gifted one, grows up without proximate living examples of what she may aspire to become
whether lawyer, scientist, artist, or leader in any realm
her goal remains abstract. Such models as appear in books or on the news, however inspiring or revered, are ultimately too remote to be real, let alone influential. But a role model in the flesh provides more than inspiration; his or her very existence is confirmation of possibilities one may have every reason to doubt, saying, 'Yes, someone like me can do this. — Sonia Sotomayor