A Quote by Maggie Stiefvater

Grace: I picked up my sweater from the floor and crawled back into bed. Shoving my pillow aside, I balled up the sweater to use instead. I fell asleep to the scent of my wolf. Pine needles, cold rain, earthy perfume, coarse bristles on my face. It was almost like he was there.
I fell asleep to the scent of my wolf. Pine needles, cold rain, earthy perfume, coarse bristles on my face.
If you were ever dumped after knitting a guy a sweater, consider the possibility that the problem was with the sweater, not you. The recipient probably took one look at the thing, imagined a lifetime of having to pretend to like (and wear) this sweater and others of its like, and saw no choice but to flee into the night
My mother told me once that she had her talk with God whenever she started a new sweater: 'Please don't take me in the middle of the sweater.' And as soon as she finished knitting a sweater, and it was blocked and put together, she already had the wool to start the next sweater so that nothing bad would happen.
Me and a mate picked up two darling birds and they took us back to their flat. I went into the bedroom with my bird and she started getting undressed. I was that drunk I was standing there wondering how to get undressed without letting go of the award. I went to sit on the bed, missed it by four feet and ended up lying on the floor. I remember the bird looking down at me, and saying, ‘Some player of the year.’ Then I fell asleep. I woke up still clutching my award and staggered out of the flat. I hadn’t a bloody clue where I was.
When I get home I'll still have to unload the dishwasher and clean my room. Last night my mom got so fed up of my messy floor in my room she picked it all up off the floor and put it on my bed so I would have to clean it up before I went to bed!
Going down (descending), I realized, was like taking hold of the loose strand of yard on a sweater you'd just spent hours knitting and pulling it until the entire sweater unraveled into a pile of string. Hiking the PCT was the maddening effort of knitting that sweater and unraveling it over and over again. As if everything gained was inevitably lost.
I fell asleep during the draft, actually. I woke up, and I was picked No. 48. I didn't even know what number I was picked.
Some friends of mine got me a sweater for my birthday. I'd have preferred a moaner or a screamer, but the sweater was OK.
I guess I had passed out and fell on the floor. I was out cold for 16 hours. I woke up and one whole side of my face was bruised. I just knew that something like that could happen, and you may never wake up from it. Everything changed for me after that day.
The ideal job letter starts with a brilliant light. Then we realize that this brilliant light is actually sunlight, shafts of it, pouring through trees onto a thick bed of pine needles. Soft dusty resin floats in the sun shafts, invitingly. The smell of pine and sap rises from the forest floor. A twig snaps underfoot.
I invented a sweater so small, so close to the body, that Women's Wear Daily nicknamed it 'The Poor Boy Sweater' and consecrated me queen of knitwear.
I got ready for bed and crawled in. The covers were comfortable and warm, but the pillow was just too weird. It gave me neck cramps, so I put it on the floor and went to sleep without it. My first big mistake.
Hey, look — Harry’s got a Weasley sweater, too!” Fred and George were wearing blue sweaters, one with a large yellow F on it, the other a G. “Harry’s is better than ours, though,” said Fred, holding up Harry’s sweater. “She obviously makes more of an effort if you’re not family.
I'm from the old school, so I was wearing button-up polo shirts way back, with the sweater to match.
I have never worn a sweater vest a day in my life. Nor will I ever wear a sweater vest.
I found olive oil and grated cheese all over my bed. I picked up my comforter, and it was on my sheets, my pillow.
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