Tennis is seen all around the world; if I am home or anywhere in the country, United States, people will stare.
It's impossible being me, I radiate a glow that makes others turn and grimace in horror as if staring into the sun.
Bad stuff happens. Sometimes it makes no sense at all. Sometimes its unfair. Sometimes, it just plain sucks. Bad stuff happens sometimes. Always remember that, but remember that you have to move on somehow. You just pick your head up and stare at something beautiful like the sky, or the ocean, and you move the hell on.
I'm often wary of using the word 'inspiration' to introduce my work -- it sounds too much like a sun shower from the heavens, absorbed by a passive individual enjoying an especially receptive moment. While that may be the case on rare occasions, the reality is usually far more prosaic. Staring at a blank piece of paper, I can't think of anything original. I feel utterly uninspired and unreceptive. It's the familiar malaise of 'artist's block' and in such circumstances there is only one thing to do: just start drawing.
This is what I like, sitting at a table and watching people go by. It does something to your outlook on life. The Anglo-Saxons make a great mistake not staring at people from a sidewalk table.
Utopias are presented for our inspection as a critique of the human state. If they are to be treated as anything but trivial exercises of the imagination. I suggest there is a simple test we can apply. We must forget the whole paraphernalia of social description, demonstration, expostulation, approbation, condemnation. We have to say to ourselves, How would I myself live in this proposed society? How long would it be before I went stark staring mad?
70 percent of what we do involves staring into space trying to figure out what the hell happens next.
I once made the mistake of writing a story with David Corbett. The man smoked me. He can delineate the character and personality of an accordion in three strokes. I didn't even know accordions had character. This act of generosity and wisdom from a very good writer will help anyone who is staring at a blank page, any day, any time. Highly recommended.
I stare at the pile of discarded remnants and think of my mother. Did she touch that pillar there? Does her scent still linger in a fragment of glass or a splinter of wood? A terrible emptiness settles into my chest. No matter how much I go about living, there are always small reminders that make the loss fresh again.
My family went on a cruise, and I got a terrible haircut. FYI: Never get your hair cut on a cruise. And I had, like, this blonde curly 'fro, and I walked into the gym the first day back in seventh grade and everyone was staring at me, and for some reason I thought, I know what I need to do! And I just started sprinting from one end of the gym to the other, and I thought it was hilarious. But nobody else at that age really did. It was genuinely weird
A pilot's business is with the wind, and with the stars, with night, with sand, with the sea. He strives to outwit the forces of nature. He stares with expectancy for the coming of the dawn the way a gardener awaits the coming of spring. He looks forward to port as a promised land, and truth for him is what lives in the stars.
When I'm online, I'm alone in a room, tapping on a keyboard, staring at a cathode-ray tube.
When I see an old movie, like from the ’40s or ’50s or ’60s, the people look so calm. They don’t have smartphones, they’re not looking at computer screens, they’re taking their time. They’ll sit in a chair and just stare off into space. I think some day we’ll find our way back to that garden of Eden.
I can't believe so much media attention is being paid to Fernando Torres and his loss of form, when the answer is staring us all in the face. It's his hair. His moping and ineffectual performances began just in time for the World Cup, which took place just after he substituted his dodgy blonde locks for a more serious brunette do
The next time you and somebody are in an elevator alone, give them the creepiest stare followed by the creepiest smile ever. While they're leaving, give them a crazy laugh and say, 'It was a meet to pleasure you'.
Before taking the stage, Paul Ryan spent 6 hours staring into a mirror working on 'concerned eyebrow.'
I am lucky. I did not choose this life. It chose me. It's strange like that; not picking my path, but rather easing into the water and letting it carry me where it will. Yes, there will be nights where I feel like my destiny is at my fingertips and there will be nights I wish the lights were off and I could just make these sounds in the dark. Still, I will always be there, wherever there might be, staring into blackness hoping the blackness stares back at me.
I think you get better at staring into space. Especially living in the South of France.
I can just sense some eyes, some people kinda stare a little bit like they recognize me but don't quite know for sure kinda thing.
I keep looking for ultimate answers, but maybe there aren't any or maybe I'm not looking in the right places, because in the section marked ANSWERS in the back of my geometry book, there's only a bunch of numbers, and all I can find to stare at in the refrigerator is five carrots and a jar of no-fat mayonnaise.
We tend to block off many of our senses when we're staring at a screen. Nature time can literally bring us to our senses.
As I sit down and start to work, I often panic. I stare at the empty piece of music paper. How can I say that my piece will be ready for performance next January when I do not have a recipe for making it happen?
I stand stark naked in front of the mirror and gaze directly into my own eyes. I utter 'Good morning, handsome' and my lips quiver as I stare at myown body. I don't break eye contact until I blow my load. Not once do I actually touch myself.
They don't know I'm staring, what does it matter if I keep on doing it?
That's the real excellent scary part, that feeling, and that feeling won't come if the lady from next door is there and your mom won't ride the ride, because what brings on that feeling most is when your mom rides wedged in tight with you and your brother on nights like this, when your mom will scream the excellent scream, the scream that people you see in snatches on the boardwalk stop and stare for, the scream that stops the ride next door, the scream that tells us to our hearts the bolts have finally broken.
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