Bright beads of red are rising through the ink…

Football is in my blood. For me the bubbles will never fade and die

— John Lyall

“Our bodies were printed as blank pages to be filled with the ink of our hearts”

— Michael Biondi

closed my eyes and listened. It was like music I'd heard all my life, even more than "This Lullaby." All those keystrokes, all those…

— Sarah Dessen

Loyalty to God is alone fundamental. Feelings, words, deeds, must be beads strung on the string of duty. Let the world tell you in…

— Maltbie Davenport Babcock

Reading a text is more like tracing this process of constant flickering than it is like counting the beads on a necklace.

— Terry Eagleton

SHE is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on…

— Edna St. Vincent Millay

You know, if I cleaned out my backpack, which I don't really use anymore, I'd find a bunch of beads. I have a bunch…

— Pat Connaughton

Every time some new huckster of angst-ridden metaphor is appointed by Art Forum, the congregation genuflects, stroking the catalog like a handful of Rosary…

— Abe Ajay

We must always remember that God is Love. "A fool indeed is he who, living on the banks of the Ganga, seeks to dig…

— Swami Vivekananda

Then, when people saw you strolling around at high noon holding your rosary beads, they’d think, ‘Well, that can’t be a vampire.

— Jeaniene Frost

Deciding to chant the mantra a certain number of times daily will help foster the japa habit. We should always keep a rosary with…

— Mata Amritanandamayi

I think all writers are always collecting characters as we go along. Not just characters of course, we're collecting EVERYTHING. Bits and pieces of…

— Alexandra Sokoloff

You think you know yourself, the world. You believe you've got a bead on everybody else's bullshit, but what about your own?

— Sam Lipsyte

slowly the pale dew-beads of light lapped up from flowers can thicken, darken to gold: honey of the human.

— Denise Levertov

The translucence that comes when life hardens into a bead of such cruel perfection you see it with the purest clarity. Everything suddenly there--life…

— Sue Monk Kidd