A Quote by Maggie Stiefvater

The inside of the old Camaro smelled like asphalt and desire, gasoline and dreams. — © Maggie Stiefvater
The inside of the old Camaro smelled like asphalt and desire, gasoline and dreams.
The place smelled like Sam -- or, I guess, he smelled like the store. Like ink and old building and something more leafy than coffee but less interesting than weed. It was all very ... erudite. I felt surrounded by conversations I had no interest in participating in.
For a moment he could have sworn he smelled violets, which was very peculiar, since he had no idea what violets smelled like, except somehow he knew they smelled just like Lady Emma.
I drive an old Camaro that I got when I was 16. And I've been known to do stupid things with my time, like Friendster.
The old studios that mass-produced dreams are gone with the wind, just like the old downtown theaters that were the temples of the dreams.
There's a little exhaust pipe leaking gasoline, and that gasoline is how good your music is, the gasoline is how you have relationships with people.
I tore the dreams from my head and tossed them in the flames. And the smoke smelled like my past, and it stung my eyes but I was too stubborn to blink.
It smelled like aging wood and creosote, plastic book covers, and old paper. Old paper, which my mom used to say was the smell of time itself.
The place smelled of fairgrounds, of lazy crowds, of nights when you stayed out because you couldn't go to bed, and it smelled like New York, of its calm and brutal indifference.
The power of branding, particularly when it comes to automobiles, is overwhelming. You go back to the seventies and eighties with the General Motor situation I was describing? Literally, folks, the Camaro and Firebird were identical cars but you'd so have the Firebird buyers, the Pontiacs, "No way I'm I buying that Camaro!" " It's the same car." "Nooooo, it is not. That is a Chevy and mine is a Pontiac."
The smell of apple pies didn't quite fill the house, but it was there, a thread under everything else. It was kind of hard to take Christophe seriously when he smelled like baked goods. I wondered if other djampjir smelled like Hostess Twinkies and sniggered to myself.
When you were a wandering desire in the mist, I too was there, a wandering desire. Then we sought one another, and out of our eagerness dreams were born. And dreams were time limitless, and dreams were space without measure.
The wind smelled clean, like clean magazines. It smelled like invisible ink.
There are dreams inside of me and those are mine and my guess is that they're there for a reason. But for all the days like now where the dreams are asked to be only dreams, I'm gonna keep getting out of bed. I'm gonna keep living my story. I'm gonna believe that there is reason and purpose, and power in my life. I'm gonna believe that I'm alive inside a story bigger than my pain, bigger than everything missing.
At the Tour, you always have some fantastic days and some days where you hit the asphalt. Today was an asphalt day for me.
When you chopped logs with the ax and they split open they smelled beautiful, like Christmas. But when you split someone's head open it smelled like abattoir and quite overpowered the scent of the wild lilacs you'd cut and brought into the house only this morning, which was already another life.
I am gay on the outside, especially among my own folk (I count Poles my own); but inside something gnaws at me; some presentiment, anxiety, dreams - or sleeplessness - melancholy, indifference - desire for life, and the next instant, desire for death; some kind of sweet peace, some kind of numbness, absent-mindedness.
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