Best 4943 quotes in «sleep quotes» category

Granny Weatherwax had a primal snore. It had never been tamed. No one had ever had to sleep next to it, to curb its wilder excesses by means of a kick, a prod in the small of the back, or a pillow used as a bludgeon. It had had years in a lonely bedroom to perfect the knark, the graaah, and the gnoc, gnoc, gnoc unimpeded by the nudges, jabs, and occasional attempts at murder that usually moderate the snore impulse over time

Groping blindly in the darkness, he sank between the white mounds of cool feathers and slept as he fell, across the bed or with his head downward, pushing deep into the softness of the pillows, as if in sleep he wanted to drill through, to explore completely, that powerful massif of feather bedding rising out of the night.

Hail, happiness, then, and after happiness, hail not those dreams which bloat the sharp image as spotted mirrors do the face in a country-inn parlour; dreams which splinter the whole and tear us asunder and wound us and split us apart in the night when we would sleep; but sleep, sleep, so deep that all shapes are ground to dust of infinite softness, water of dimness inscrutable, and there, folded, shrouded, like a mummy, like a moth, prone let us lie on the sand at the bottom of sleep.

Hail O mighty, fathomless sleep, come on and hug me tight and sweet; when I whisper those deepest pains, onto your ears mute and keen, sing for me the sweetest song that would sound the profoundest of life! Leave me upon your rocking arms, watched by spirits of placid nights! Goodnight, world, sweet dreams folks, blessed are those who would sleep at peace!

Hard to say I'm sleeping.

Have you ever wonder about the misery of sleep?

He accepted new ideas as readily as new trends. Knowing those worth it would last and the lessers will pass.

Healthy people sleep eight hours, Wealthy people sleep four hours.

He calmed himself, shut his eyes, and fell asleep. The rear light of consciousness, like the last express train of the night, began to fade into the distance, gradually speeding up, growing smaller until it was, finally, sucked into the depths of night, where it disappeared. All that remained was the sound of the wind slipping through a stand of white birch trees.

He cubbed her in his arms to sleep, even her demons snored that night ~

He could sleep in the ruins of cities lost for centuries.

He gave up. No hint of ember behind his eyes nor life in his breath. He snipped the last, overstretched strand of hope, and nicked the strand of life by mistake. He did it with his hands.

He had to take sleep by surprise. Preparing for bed simply alerted insomnia, brought all the busy thoughts, the renegade remorses and guilts and recriminations.

He kissed her forehead and drifted into an uneasy sleep, listening to the soft snoring of the creature on his chest, one he loved slightly more than he had come to fear.

Here, she curled up in a tight ball and waited, purred to her unborn babies. And the trees, the tall and kindly trees, watched over her while she slept, slept the whole night through.

Here's lumbos. Where misties swaddlum, where misches lodge none, where mystries pour kind on, O sleepy! So be yet!

He sang softly, less with words and more with thought. She cradled his head, stitching together his fragmented heart.

He tried to think of death as he had done now and then, but that tired him and he dozed off. When he awoke an hour later, he felt fresh and calm as though he had slept for days.

He slept like an animal, well and lightly, faced in the opposite direction from that of a man; for a man going to sleep is about to escape into it while animals are prepared to escape out of it.

He spoke in polished honesty free of liar's filth. He said the hardest words with an unshakable voice, a wide smile, with fear and doubt freezing over his core. The truth was the best route, but the truth could always be costly... another truth. A sad truth.

He took deep breaths. He wanted to sleep. At least in sleeping, he could find a kind of peace. At least in sleeping, he could dream about his dead friends and maybe, until the sun came up, feel like he wasn't all alone.

He was a musician of the best nature, with guitar string fingertips and soft flute lips that could tighten in a trumpet's purse. Every movement was perfect, every breath filled with purpose. Whether close or open, his eyes seeped ambition and his body burned with chaotic passion. I was his instrument and he played me so well. His fingers fashioned a tune of ecstasy while his lips felt the reed shudders of my skin. He stole my breath and made it his own, using my lips to create his climactic song. A symphony of electricity and orgasmic bliss, he played me so well his fingers never did miss. Half-circles and hooks with my parted lips as his speaker, I never knew another musician so ruthlessly eager. To finish his song, to hit every note, elongating the melody of every sound from the depths of my throat. He was ambitious, pushing my limits, tearing my reservations and destroying my thresholds, all I could do was phase in and out, my ears ringing from the ballad I was made to produce.

Her words were slickly lacquered, dripping with venom that singed the air as they fell. She traced her tongue up my neck and whispered in a way that would shatter glass. "It's the words inbetween," she said, "those are the ones I truly mean." Then, her toes curled with the release of the truth she kept hidden.

He woke up and fought another battle and won. Then he went to bed and slept again and dreamed again and then he woke up and won again and slept again and he hardly noticed when waking became sleeping. Nor did he care.

His impatience for sleep often frightened that very sleep away.

High altitude workers should be screened annually for Sleep Apnea.

His eyes are covered by impermeable marble, a solidity that can never be breached. You think there is gold and warmth behind the facade of cold, but if only you could see your reflection in the marble. You would see how you burn, how brightly you glow, enough to incinerate anyone else whole.

His hair had clearly been up all night having adventures without him.

High altitude astronomy is a strange world of oxygen starvation, sleep deprivation and radiation sickness.

His mind lingered for a time in the hinterlands of sleep, words drifting over the border as though on a warm wind, unfastened from their meanings.

His life was focused on each single day. For him each night meant a void, a grave, extinction. The capacity to lay oneself down to die at the end of every day, without thinking anything of it, was something he had not yet acquired.

[Hot flashes] are the prime cause of sleep disruption in women over age fifty, Suzanne Woodward of Wayne State University School of Medicine reports. Her studies show that hot flashes in sleep occur about once an hour. Most prompt an arousal of three minutes or longer. Independently of their hot flashes, women who have them still awaken briefly every eight minutes on average. The sleep process dramatically blunts memory for awakenings, Woodward said, and in the morning women seldom realize how poorly they slept. Instead, they often focus on the daytime consequences of poor sleep, which include fatigue, lethargy, mood swings, depression, and irritability. Many women and their doctors, Woodward said, dismiss such symptoms as "just menopause." This is a mistake, she suggested, because treatment can reduce or eliminate hot flashes, aid sleep, relieve other symptoms, and improve a woman's quality of life. Treatment also helps keep frequent awakenings from becoming a bad habit that continues after hot flashes subside.

Hoping fast that my arrow's flight is steady and true, I need this, I need my arrow to find you, To pierce your skin and enter your undecided heart, Please, oh please, this can be our brand new start, Maybe it's not meant to be, Maybe my arrow will miss and strike a tree, But my love for you is strong, it guides my arrow, I cannot miss, the window to your heart is very narrow, It slams shut igniting embers and sparking fury spatter, To my heart and your window, we are known as 'shatter.

How lucky I am to lose sleep over such a work of art.

How much more than necessary do we spend in sleep, forgetting that the sleeping fox catches no poultry, and that there will be sleeping enough in the grave, as Poor Richard says.

How often one goes to sleep troubled and full of pain, not knowing what causes the travail, and in the morning a whole new direction and clearness is there, maybe the result of the black reasoning. And again there are mornings when ecstasy bubbles in the blood, and the stomach and chest are tight and electric with joy, and nothing in the thoughts to justify it or cause it.

However, in part for reasons of organizational convenience, modern societies are structured as if all humans had the same sleep requirements; and in many parts of the world there is a satisfying sense of moral rectitude in rising early. The amount of sleep required for buffer dumping would then depend on how much we have both thought and experienced since the last sleep period.

However interesting and lovely my days were, I could get from one day to the next only by passing through a night. I have, it is true, known lovely nights here; nights of sound sleep and good dreams and nights made wakeful by happy thoughts. but I have not always been a good sleeper, and my thoughts at night have sometimes been far from happy.

...How terrible, those dreams before sleep were—the worse kind, mixing hope with despair...

Humans are not sleeping the way nature intended. The number of sleep bouts, the duration of sleep, and when sleep occurs has all been comprehensively distorted by modernity.

I always thought time was the most valuable currency, but I realized the people we spent our time on and loved us back, that love held even more meaning to me.

I always deemed myself a one chance person, if you hurt me or betray me, then I'm done with you. As I grew older and the scars of wisdom imprinted on my soul and chest, I realized a second chance took a monumental amount of strength and some people deserve a chance to right their wrongs. Now, I would gladly allow another the opportunity to cauterize their wounds at the risk of ripping open my tight-knit scars. I would bleed for you and feel alive rather than watch with cold eyes as you decay.

I accidentally punched myself in the face while trying to pull my comforter up last night. If that doesn't accurately sum up my day, I don't know what does." - Apple to Ridley

I am a fading phantasmagoria. Time has left me in partial glory.

I am amazed that there are still nights when I sleep well.

I am myself when I get up, I am myself throughout the day and I am myself when I go back to sleep, you probably might have met someone else when I was asleep and claimed it to be changed me.

I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?

I assure you that I sleep anywhere, and always like a dormouse.

I am so tired; all I want to do is sleep. I want to sleep all the day, from dawn until twilight that every evening comes a little earlier and a little more drearily. In the daytime, all I can think about is sleeping. But in the night I do is try to stay awake.

I am not sure I sleep, but I do dream.