I'm afraid they're in love," he said, concerned. "They don't want to leave you." He lifted one hand from her waist to gently brush a pair from her neck, where their wings fanned against her jaw. Melancholy, he said, "I know just how they feel.
You know I love you right?†“I know,†he breathed, his arm tightening automatically around my waist. “You know how much I wish it was enough.
A waist is a terrible thing to mind.
There's something different about you," he says. "I've started styling my hair differently," I laugh. "Oh. I thought it was that you were three feet taller, a hell of a lot broader, look like a werewolf, and are naked expect for that bit of cloth around your waist. But you're right - it's the hair.
Middle age has been defined as what happens when a person's broad mind and narrow waist change places.
The nuclear arms race is like two sworn enemies standing waist deep in gasoline, one with three matches, the other with five.
How is it possible to find meaning in a finite world, given my waist and shirt size?