Keep compassion close to your chest at all times.
I'm just more content with myself. Like, if I've got something to say, I want to get it off of my chest.
Instead of physical objects, (in order to have faith in myself) I have my personal mottos/charms to keep myself motivated and then I smack my chest.
Too often, parents force their kids into becoming something they want them to become rather than trying unpack the treasure chest God wants them to become.
The recurrent laryngeal nerve - which runs from the head to the voice box - goes all the way down into the chest, loops around a major artery, then goes all the way back up again. It goes right past the larynx on the way down. All a decent designer would have to do is loop it off at that point. What we're looking at is the legacy of history.
The Devil is a liar. He cannot win. And that's all we're seeing is a bunch of devils [Donald Trump]. So we have to pray and just look out for one another. Keep your chest out, stick your head up and walk tall.
Donald Trump disproved the notion that there is a direct dollar-for-dollar correlation between how much money you had in your traditional war chest and what your election outcome was going to be.
[John McCain] stopped connecting and just looked at my chest and decided, "I'm just gonna continue to talk about honor and duty and the families should be proud," all the things that are cudgels emotionally to keep us from the conversation. But, things that weren't relevant to what we were talking about.
It's the rule of the wilds. You must be bigger, and stronger, and tougher. A coldness radiates through me, a solid wall that is growing, piece by piece, in my chest. He doesn't love me. He never loved me. It was all a lie. "The old Lena is dead." I say, and then push past him. Each step is more difficult than the last; the heaviness fills me and turns my limbs to stone. You must hurt or be hurt.
A strange, warm feeling swirled in my chest, and for a brief moment, when I looked at him, I saw...safety
Walking with your chest out and your head held high says you have earned the right to stomp and pummel this particular piece of real estate.
My "heart". Does that pitiful organ still represent anything? It lies motionless in my chest, pumping no blood, serving no purpose, and yet my feelings still seem to originate inside its cold walls. My muted sadness, my vague longing, my rare flickers of joy. They pool in the center of my chest and seep out of there, diluted and faint, but real.
Just asleep," Eddis reassured her. At the sound of her voice Eugenides's head turned slightly, but he didn't wake. Attolia, seeing the movement, breathed again and pressed her hand to her chest where it hurt.
See?" she says. "tricked you. You're always staring at your opponents eyes-but that gives you a bad peripheral view.If you want to track my arms and legs, you have to focus on my chest." I raise my eyebrow at that. "say no more.
Something clenched in my chest, and for a moment, the whole world narrowed down to the green of his eyes.
Papa, do you like my new friend?" Frances Catherine asked when they were halfway across the field. "I surely do." "Can I keep her?" "For the love of...No, you can't keep her. She isn't a puppy. You can be her friend, though," he hastily added before his daughter could argue with him. "Forever, papa?" She 'd asked her father that question, but Judith answered her. "Forever," she shyly whispered. Frances Catherine reached across her father's chest to take hold of Judith's hand. "Forever," she pledged.
I put my forehead on his collarbone, place one hand on his chest. Its rhythm reassures me: He is real, and he is now.
Let's start with where you are,' he said. 'You're here.' Taking her hand, he pressed it to his chest above his heart.
I think of Grace and feel a sharp pain in my chest.
Kincaid, evidently exhausted himself, drew a gun, took the safety off, placed it on his chest, and went to sleep too. "It's cute," I whispered to Murphy. "He has a teddy Glock.
We have to stop meeting like this." And that was the truest thing ever spoke. I needed to stop staring at his bicep... and chest... and tattoo. Never thought the sun could be so... sexy. Wow. This was awkward. "You running over me, me almost running over you?" Cam elaborated. "It's like we're a catastrophe waiting to happen.
Leaning back against Cam's chest, I tipped my head back and I reached up, cupping his cheek. I drew his mouth to mine and kissed him softly. "Thank you." His lips curved up on one side. "For what?" "For waiting for me.
I drop the other Chest to the ground in shock. "What number are you? I'm Four." He squints at me and then offers his hand. "I'm Nine. Good job staying alive, Number Four.
Did last night really happen?" One side of his lips tipped up, and my chest swelled. I'd missed that smile. "Depends on what you think happend." "I took my shirt off for you?" His eyes deepened. "Yes. Lovely moment.
He gave a hard smile and the oxygen in my lungs evaporated. “We both know I’m not a gentleman.” “Yeah. Okay, let me out. I’m tired.” “There’s something else,” he said, and I groaned. “What now?” “This.” He stepped closer to me, so close that the containers were sandwiched between us. His eyes looked down into mine, intent and golden, like a lion. “Oh, no, you don’t!” I hissed, dropping everything. I pushed hard against his chest; it was like shoving a tree. “Yes,” he said very softly, leaning down. “Yes, I do.
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