A Quote by Ann Aguirre

She carries chaos like an overcoat. — © Ann Aguirre
She carries chaos like an overcoat.
The claws of Truth were painful. The lies tore away like scabs, and John bled there for hours, stifling his cries of pain in the sleeve of his overcoat - the overcoat he'd received from his father.
I have been here before as a spirit - this is just my physical body, it is just an overcoat. And at death, you will take the overcoat off.
From 2002 to the end of his presidency, George W. Bush routinely was accused by the Left of 'creating chaos:' chaos in Iraq, chaos in Afghanistan, chaos in the Muslim world, chaos among our allies.
Chaos is not disorder. Chaos is the totality of existence. You could call it God. You could use the term, the Tao. I like chaos. It means more to us in English. Chaos is all things, wild and wonderful, connected perfectly by the life force.
There is no love like a mother’s - she who carries the child that God knits in the womb, she who nourishes and guides, she who teaches and inspires, she who gives of her heart and soul and self for the good and the happiness of her children and her family.
Even though she's dealing with a scar, Emily just carries on with life. It's not a big deal. While we were shooting the scene, I tried it different ways. I tried it where I was hiding my face, and Chris [Weitz] was like, "Let's try it where she doesn't care," and that's who she is. She doesn't care what anybody else thinks.
Even if things look very precise and very organized, chaos is always there. But I like the moment of chaos to be at the beginning. I cannot deal with the chaos at the end.
She had lost herself somewhere along the frontier between her inventions, her stories, her fantasies and her true self. The boundaries had become effaced, the tracks lost, she had walked into pure chaos, and not a chaos which carried her like the galloping of romantic riders in operas and legends, but which suddenly revealed the stage props: a papier-mâché horse.
The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries or the way she combs her hair.
Working on 'The Paradise' is like putting on a comfy overcoat.
Lily, the caretaker's daughter, was literally run off her feet. Hardly had she brought one gentleman into the little pantry behind the office on the ground floor and helped him off with his overcoat, than the wheezy hall-door bell clanged again and she had to scamper along the bare hallway to let in another guest. It was well for her she had not to attend to the ladies also.
Nature is reckless of the individual. When she has points to carry, she carries them.
Like in combat when you're in chaos, a Navy SEAL in chaos, you cannot be afraid of dying for a cause.
Put off your imagination, as you put off your overcoat, when you enter the laboratory. Put it on again, as you put on your overcoat, when you leave.
History knows no scruples and no hesitation. Inert and unerring, she flows towards her goal. At every bend in her course she leaves the mud which she carries and the corpses of the drowned.
And yet, within her anxiety, secured there like a gemstone, she carries the cool and curious power of occasionally being able to see the world vividly. Clarity bursts upon her a spray of little stars. She understands this, and thinks of it as one of the tricks of consciousness; there is something almost luxurious about it.. The narrative maze opens and permits her to pass through. She may be crowded out of her own life - she knows this for a fact and has always know it - but she possesses, as a compensatory gift, the startling ability to draft alternative versions.
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