So if I asked you about art you could give me the skinny on every art book ever written...Michelangelo? You know a lot about him I bet. Life's work, criticisms, political aspirations. But you couldn't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling. And if I asked you about women I'm sure you could give me a syllabus of your personal favorites, and maybe you've been laid a few times too. But you couldn't tell me how it feels to wake up next to a woman and be truly happy. If I asked you about war you could refer me to a bevy of fictional and non-fictional material, but you've never been in one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap and watched him draw his last breath, looking to you for help. And if I asked you about love I'd get a sonnet, but you've never looked at a woman and been truly vulnerable. Known that someone could kill you with a look. That someone could rescue you from grief. That God had put an angel on Earth just for you. And you wouldn't know how it felt to be her angel. To have the love be there for her forever. Through anything, through cancer. You wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in a hospital room for two months holding her hand and not leaving because the doctors could see in your eyes that the term 'visiting hours' didn't apply to you. And you wouldn't know about real loss, because that only occurs when you lose something you love more than yourself, and you've never dared to love anything that much. I look at you and I don't see an intelligent confident man, I don't see a peer, and I don't see my equal. I see a boy. Nobody could possibly understand you, right Will? Yet you presume to know so much about me because of a painting you saw. You must know everything about me. You're an orphan, right? Do you think I would presume to know the first thing about who you are because I read 'Oliver Twist?' And I don't buy the argument that you don't want to be here, because I think you like all the attention you're getting. Personally, I don't care. There's nothing you can tell me that I can't read somewhere else. Unless we talk about your life. But you won't do that. Maybe you're afraid of what you might say.
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I'm hurt, hurt and humiliated beyond endurance, seeing the wheat ripening, the fountains never ceasing to give water, the sheep bearing hundreds of lambs, the she-dogs, until it seems the whole country rises to show me its tender sleeping young while I feel two hammer-blows here instead of the mouth of my child.
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I have never taken any exercise except sleeping and resting.
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We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
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Scared, Cold, in pain, the dust hasn't settled yet. Pinned in, crying, my clothes are ripped, red, and wet. Lights, noise, and confusion, all part of the night. I'm going to die alone, give up the fight. Red lights are flashing, mixing with blue. A face appears at my window, the face is you. You're gonna be all right is the first thing you say. A reassuring voice, someone wants me to stay. You could have been home with family, they need you too. You worked all day at the job, your sleeping hours numbered two. But you went down the hall, hoping your family is OK. Now you're here with me and Death, with comforting words to say. No time for yourself, no thought for your safety. Later you may think, your decision was hasty. Get the Jaws. Watch that gas; Keep the people away. Get his vitals, hose this down. Some things I hear them say. You stand in gas, look in my window, show no fear. I look back at you knowing, your voice is the last I'll ever hear. I fade away as you hold me, while holding back your tears. Thank you for being there, You Brave Volunteers.
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The sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures; 'tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil.
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What does your sorrow do while you're sleeping? It is awaken and waiting. And, when it loses patience, it wakes me up.
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But not the first Illusion, the new earth,The march upon the solitary fire,The casting of the dice of death and birthAgainst a giant, for a blind desire,The stream uncrossed, the promise still untried,The metal sleeping in the mountainside.
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I shall always remember you-slyly, touchingly, but with great shouting and confusion-pumping hot water into our sleeping car in the frosty darkness of a December morning in order that we might not know, in order that we might never realize, to how primitive a land we had come.
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The Cold War isn't thawing; it is burning with a deadly heat. Communism isn't sleeping; it is, as always, plotting, scheming, working, fighting.
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A winter's day in a deep and dark December- I am alone, gazing from my window to the streets below on a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow, I am a rock, I am an island.
I've built walls, a fortress deep and mighty that none may penetrate. I have no need of friendship, friendship causes pain. It's laughter and it's loving I disdain, I am a rock, I am an island.
Don't talk of love- well, I've heard the word before, it's sleeping in my memory. I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died, if I never loved I never would have cried, I am a rock, I am an island.
I have my books and my poetry to protect me. I am shielded in my armor. Hiding in my room, safe within my womb, I touch no one and no one touches me. I am a rock, I am an island.
And a rock feels no pain and an island never cries.
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... if you're a woman, all they can think about your relationship with a politician is that you're either sleeping with him or advising him ab...
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Further, we can now explain the widespread custom of covering up mirrors or turning them to the wall after a death has taken place in the house. It is feared that the soul, projected out of the person in the shape of his reflection in the mirror, may be carried off by the ghost of the departed, which is commonly supposed to linger about the house till the burial. The custom is thus exactly parallel to the Aru custom of not sleeping in a house after a death for fear that the soul, projected out of the body in a dream, may meet the ghost and be carried off by it. The reason why sick people should not see themselves in a mirror, and why the mirror in a sick-room is therefore covered up, is also plain; in time of sickness, when the soul might take flight so easily, it is particularly dangerous to project it out of the body by means of the reflection in a mirror. The rule is therefore precisely parallel to the rule observed by some peoples of not allowing sick people to sleep; for in sleep the soul is projected out of the body, and there is always a risk that it may not return.
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An accountant is having a hard time sleeping and goes to see his doctor. 'Doctor, I just can't get to sleep at night.' 'Have you tried counting sheep?' 'That's the problem - I make a mistake and then spend three hours trying to find it.'
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How noble the law, in its majestic equality, that both the rich and poor are equally prohibited from peeing in the streets, sleeping under bridges, and stealing bread!
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Living next to you is in some ways like sleeping with an elephant. No matter how friendly and even-tempered is the beast, if I can call it that, one is affected by every twitch and grunt. (On relations with the US)
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For this is what America is all about. It is the uncrossed desert and the unclimbed ridge. It is the star that is not reached and the harvest that is sleeping in the unplowed ground.
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A military man can scarcely pride himself on having smitten a sleeping enemy; it is more a matter of shame, simply, for the one smitten.
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How's life treating you, Norm?
Like it caught me sleeping with its wife.
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People who have realized that this is a dream imagine that it is easy to wake up, and are angry with those who continue sleeping, not considering that the whole world that environs them does not permit them to wake. Life proceeds as a series of optical illusions, artificial needs and imaginary sensations.
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Ask for no guarantees, ask for no security, there never was such an animal. And if there were, it would be related to the great sloth which hangs upside down in a tree all day every day, sleeping its life away.
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The only thing that comes from a sleeping man are dreams.
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Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take And stab my spirit broad awake;...
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These flowers, which were splendid and sprightly, waking in the dawn of the morning, in the evening will be a pitiful frivolity, sleeping in the cold night's arms.
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But since all is well, keep it so, wake not a sleeping wolf.
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History teaches us that when a barbarian race confronts a sleeping culture, the barbarian always wins.
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The only thing that comes to a sleeping man are dreams.
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I spent many a summer early morning with the radio very low, half sleeping and half listening.
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Those who eat too much or eat too little, who sleep too much or sleep too little, will not succeed in meditation. But those who are temperate in eating and sleeping, work and recreation, will come to the end of sorrow through meditation.
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Sleeping in a bed -- it is, apparently, of immense importance. Against those who sleep, from choice or necessity, elsewhere society feels righteously hostile. It is not done. It is disorderly, anarchical.
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