A Quote by Cinda Williams Chima

And they always slept better with blades beneath their beds. — © Cinda Williams Chima
And they always slept better with blades beneath their beds.
I have never slept in a bed with anybody. Even when I was married we slept in separate beds.
My mother told me 'man on top, woman underneath.' For years my husband & I slept in bunk beds.
Elesa slept with Mark and Mark slept with Tina. Tina slept with Javier, the first time he seen her. Javier slept with Loopy, and Loopy slept with Rob. Rob slept with Lisa who slept with Steve.
I have raised beds, perennial beds, cut flower beds. I have an island on a pond that's just covered in peonies. I have an herb garden, tons of vegetables, raspberries. I have everything. I'm a green guy.
I came to the flowers; I slept beneath them; this was my leisure.
I blame my mother for my poor sex life. All she told me was 'the man goes on top and the woman underneath.' For three years my husband and I slept in bunk beds.
Back in Oklahoma, we always spent our vacations fishing. The kids slept in the cars while the grownups slept on the riverbank.
There seemed to be some heavenly support beneath his shoulder blades that lifted his feet from the ground in ecstatic suspension, as if he secretly enjoyed the ability to fly but was walking as a compromise to convention.
A thousand recollected lives were passing through her, a thousand stories - of love and work, of parents and children, of duty and joy and grief. Beds slept in and meals eaten, and the bliss and pain of the body, and a view of summer leaves from a window on a morning it had rained; the nights of loneliness and the nights of love, the soul in it's body keeping always longing to be known.
I grew up on the south side of Chicago, most of that time on welfare. My mother and sister and I used to live with my grandparents and various cousins. We shared a two-bedroom tenement, and the three of us slept in one of those bedrooms and had a set of bunk beds.
People forget the skates are like knives. Those blades are constantly sharpened... that's why they sound the way they sound. They are blades.
From 1994 to 1997, I did nothing. I slept and slept and slept. If I was awake, I had to deal with things, I had to do things. In order to avoid that, I would just stay in bed.
The blankets had fallen off and I stared down at her white back, the shoulder blades sticking out as if they wanted to grow into wings, poke through that skin. Little blades. She was helpless.
I'm skimming across the surface of my own history, moving fast, riding the melt beneath the blades, doing loops and spins, and when I take a high leap into the dark and come down thirty years later, I realize it is as Tim trying to save Timmy's life with a story.
I wrote 'Airborn' after completing three books about bats. I loved my bats, but what a treat it was to write about humans again. They could eat food other than midges and mosquitoes, they wore clothing, they slept in beds - all this struck me as wonderfully novel.
Morning: Slept. Afternoon: Slept. Evening: Ate grass. Night: Ate grass. Decided grass is boring. Scratched. Hard to reach the itchy bits. Slept.
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