As hipster chicks age, and their skin starts to sag, tramp stamps sink below waistbands, like the sun … - Dana Gould

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A love story - your own, or anyone else's - is interior, hidden. It can never be accurately reported, only imagined. It is all dreams and invention. It's guesswork.

Dana Gould

As hipster chicks age, and their skin starts to sag, tramp stamps sink below waistbands, like the sun slipping into the sea.

Age, Hipster, Like, Sea, Skin, Slipping

Same Author Quotes

Does anyone remember how we used to get cash before ATM's? Did we have to go inside the bank? Then what? We lived like apes!

Apes, Atm, Cash, Doe, Lived, Used

There's something vaguely erotic about watching a woman eat a banana while cupping two plums.

Eat, Erotic, Plums, Two, Woman

Always remember, you don't stop shitting your pants because you grow old. You grow old because you stop shitting your pants.

Pants, Remember, Remember You, Remembers You, Stop

When you break life down, it's about 100% time management.

Break, Life, Management, Time, Time Management

Usually the people that peak in high school are tragic, tragic adults. Most of them end up working for the water department in their hometown and driving around said high school as the decades slip past.

Adults, Past, People, School, Tragic, Usually

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Allison Mackie

So worried was I that people would see through the painting into my soul - and guess at secret Alison stuff - that I scraped the paint off the canvas. It was too risky to expose what everyone hides. . . And yet isn't that the job of the artist? Next step is to take the risk - to work more deeply. To expose that which cannot be expressed any other way. That is art. Scary and exciting.

Art, Canvas, Expressed, Expression, Jobs, Step

Carlos Fuentes

I am a literary animal. For me, everything ends in literature.

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Jonathon Porritt

Any regeneration project that fails to put environmental and social benefits at its very heart is unlikely to achieve anything more than a very short-lived spasm of spurious prosperity

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Joan Wickersham

A love story - your own, or anyone else's - is interior, hidden. It can never be accurately reported, only imagined. It is all dreams and invention. It's guesswork.

Dream, Interior, Love, Love Story, Stories, Story

William Butler Yeats

Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

Age, Days, Fire, Men, Mind, Simple