A Quote by Steven Wright

If Dracula can't see his reflection in a mirror, how come his hair is always so neatly combed? — © Steven Wright
If Dracula can't see his reflection in a mirror, how come his hair is always so neatly combed?
If Dracula can’t see his reflection, how come his parting’s always neat?
If we come to sleep we are His drowsy ones And if we come to wake we are in His hands If we come to weeping we are His cloud full of raindrops And if we come to laughing we are His lightning in that moment If we come to anger and battle it is the reflection of His wrath And if we come to peace and pardon it is the reflection of His love Who are we in this complicated world?
There was Kir, red hair combed back and That Expression on his sharp face. Even his freckles looked serious. I'd given up wondering how a freckle-faced teenager could look so much like a disapproving granny.
He's worse than Dracula because at least Dracula comes out of his coffin now and then. He seems to stay on his line and that's it.
I've likened Mignolet to worse than Dracula because at least Dracula comes out of his coffin now and then. He seems to stay on his line and that's it.
You can see yourself in the mirror. You can see how you want your body to move. Everybody wants to look sexy when they're dancing, so that mirror will be, you know, that reflection of yourself of how you will look in the club, so definitely use the mirror at home.
Basically, an artist should be a mirror, or a reflection of society or his or her environment. What you see is what you can articulate.
I'm too tough and sensitive to have to have some pubescent twerp with his mom's earring in his tongue, who combs his hair with Redi-Whip and has an Ani DiFranco tattoo on his shin, come show me how a computer works.
I am a mirror to my neighbor, and in that mirror, he must see a reflection of Jesus. If that mirror is cloudy or distorted, Jesus' reflection will be so vague it will hardly be seen.
Silver gray hair Neatly combed in place There were four generations Of love on her face She was so wise No surprise passed her eyes She's seen it all
Come on, baby.” Paris combed his fingers through her hair. “Look past my terrible personality and hideous looks and throw me a bone. Teach me how to woo you properly.” She snorted. “I’d argue the hideous looks part.” “But not the terrible personality? Ouch. That hurts, baby.
Almost anyone who has ever attained any kind of public stature in his or her profession can expect sometimes to see a reflection in a cracked mirror.
He was pushing fifty, with a face life had chewed on, and long wisps of graying hair parted low on one side and combed over his balding pate.
Can't close my eyes cause all I see is terror I hate the man in the mirror Cause his reflection makes the pain turn realer
For an hour, blended with all she could offer, something noble had been created which had nothing to do with the physical world. And from the turn of his throat, the warmth of his hair, the strong, slender sinews of his hands, something further; which had. Though she combed the earth and searched through the smoke of the galaxies there was no being she wanted but this, who was not and should not be for Philippa Somerville.
How doth the little crocodile Improve his shining tail, And pour the waters of the Nile On every golden scale! How cheerfully he seems to grin, How neatly he spreads his claws, And welcomes little fishes in, With gently smiling jaws!
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