Skull Pictures With Quotes & Sayings

Morphine hits the backs of the legs first, then the back of the neck, a spreading wave of relaxation slackening the muscles away from the bones so that you seem to float without outlines, like lying in warm salt water. As this relaxing wave spread through my tissues, I experienced a strong feeling of fear. I had the feeling that some horrible image was just beyond the field of vision, moving as I turned my head, so that I never quite saw it. I felt nauseous; I lay down and closed my eyes. A series of pictures passed, like watching a movie: A huge, neon-lighted cocktail bar that got larger and larger until streets, traffic, and street repairs were included in it; a waitress carrying a skull on a tray; stars in a clear sky. The physical impact of the fear of death; the shutting off of breath; the stopping of blood. — William S. Burroughs

I remembered a time when my grandmother had asked me to explain television to her - the guts, not the funny pictures. There are things which cannot be taught in ten easy lessons, nor popularized for the masses; they take years of skull sweat. This be treason in an age when ignorance has come into its own and one man's opinion is as good as another's. But there it is. As Star says, the world is what it is - and doesn't forgive ignorance. — Robert A. Heinlein

As I think of the many myths, there is one that is very harmful, and that is the myth of countries. I mean, why should I think of myself as being an Argentine, and not a Chilean, and not an Uruguayan.

I don't know really.

All of those myths that we impose on ourselves - and they make for hatred, for war, for enmity - are very harmful.

Well, I suppose in the long run, governments and countries will die out and we'll be just, well, cosmopolitans. — Jorge Luis Borges

Angel, I have no idea how you can stand this stench," he said. "Derrel's been doing this for long enough that I think he doesn't have any smell receptors left, but you ... ?" He grimaced as he snapped pictures of the skull and the injury while I held the body in position for him. "You are one tough chick." Then his eyes crinkled, and even though he had the mask on, I could tell he was grinning at me. "Or maybe you're seriously sick and twisted, in which case you are so in the right line of work."
I laughed. "Gotta be the second one," I said. "I'm not tough! — Diana Rowland

A website needs to not just exist, it needs to perform. — Trent Dyrsmid

It can't be pretty without being ugly first. — Kambri Crews

When I joined, I was one of the first artists to sign on to the Motown West label when they opened their first studio in California. At the studio, you'd run into Stevie Wonder, you'd run into Marvin Gaye ... it was very special. — Thelma Houston

She was coming over to my place and instead of us hanging with my knucklehead boys - me smoking, her bored out of her skull - we were seeing movies. Driving out to different places to eat. Even caught a play at the Crossroads and I took her picture with some bigwig black playwrights, pictures where she's smiling so much you'd think her wide-ass mouth was going to unhinge. We were a couple again. Visiting each other's family on the weekends. Eating breakfast at diners hours before anybody else was up, rummaging through the New Brunswick library together, the one Carnegie built with his guilt money. A nice rhythm we had going. — Junot Diaz

If you take out the team in teamwork, it's just work. Now who wants that? — Matthew Woodring Stover

Demon pox," said Sophie. "Mr. Lightwood's got it, has had for years, and it'll kill him in a right couple of months if he doesn't get the cure. And Mortmain said he can get it for him."
The room exploded in a hubbub. Charlotte raced over to Sophie; Henry called after her; Will leaped from his chair and was dancing in a circle. — Cassandra Clare

My goodness, I am made from planets and wood, diamonds and orange peels, now and then, here and there; the iron in my blood was once the blade of a Roman plow; peel back my scalp and you will see my cranium covered in the scrimshaw carved by an ancient sailor who never suspected he was whittling at my skull - no, my blood is a Roman plow, my bones are being etched by men with names that mean sea wrestler and ocean rider and the pictures they are making are pictures of northern stars at different seasons, and the man keeping my blood straight as it splits the soil is named Lucian and he will plant wheat, and I cannot concentrate on this apple, this apple, and the only thing common to all of this is that I feel sorrow so deep, it must be love, and they are upset because while they are carving and plowing they are troubled by visions of trying to pick apples from barrels. — P. Harding