there is a strand of thought that lets us suspend what we know to be true and instead allows our minds to flow freely and unabated. This is the strand called imagination. This is the strand called freedom. It is this strand of thought above all others we must protect. Above rationalisation, above love, above even compassion. For imagination allows us all the abve with more.
I think that there is a piece of string. A strand of string. Blue string in fact. I’m not sure why its blue string but it is. I think it is at jo ann fabrics though. I want to go there right now. I like crafty things. I wish I was more crafty.
ed on an island there was nothing left of his boat. nothing but a sail. still he would find his way home. a log here a vine there he would pull through, they needed him. his children his wife, his life. but they were not his.
Two or three strands of hair are always hanging in my daughter’s eyes. Like a vine across a bough, or a ribbon, it separates from the rest of her hair to segment her forehead. My hand is
the strand of hair i used to know cascaded down my bad. bubt now after a change, and a good deed i’m left with a strand that bearly touches my ear. Is this strand any less beautiful then what i once knew? is it less because ican’t braid it or curl it? how long will it take to have my strand back?
My hair is getting too long. I would love to have a trendy style but it’s just too thick. A strand, no more like knots of my hair just sitting atop my head. Really should get it cut. Want that style though, like some hip tokyo teenager
The simple strand of string was hanging down from her bright red tunic. Tantalizingly. I wanted to pull it off, but I couldn’t. All I could do was sit there while it rocked back and forth with the motion of the bus. It even looked like it had a little gold in it, from the accents around the hem of her shirt. Slowly it swung, back and forth, until, finally, the bus stopped and I had to get off.
A strand. A strand is all that connects humanity to their society, all that keeps us civilized. Without that strand, we would go back to our core genus. We would go back to surviving by being the craziest mofos out there. We would become that which we fight against. Every time we leave out “society”, our “civilization”, we walk that abyss, and from time to time, someone falls in.
One strand of her hair hung alone. She had cut it. That evil woman had stolen who she was. Her hair represented it. Certainly not the way the man in the bible lost his strength with his hair, but this was personality. Part of what made her who she was. Without her hair, she wasn’t Melanie Fitzgerald, the girl in High School with a 3.9 GPA, lots of friends, and greatly dressed. She was just a girl.
But, who is it that took her hair? Her stepmother. The woman who was out to ruin her life. She had already took her own mother away from her, but now she left her alone with just a single strand of hair.
you stranded me at the gas station. this petroleum love affair shimmers like rainbows in the light but we’re evaporating, slowly, as your silence floats up into my nose and makes me think of summer on the lake, filling the boat with gas to go waterskiing and beat my body against the waves.
A strand of hair falls and is left.
A man stranded sees the shore.
What is left is a strand of time,
in that sea beyond the shore.
Don’t worry, he wont be stranded forever.
he was stranded and he didn’t know what to do. There was only a few options; so few. He wiggled the doorknob again. Then he jostled it. He progressively tried his way with the doorknob until it reached the point that he was kicking it. It still didn’t work. What else could he do? He thought, racking his brain for every solution. He felt incapitated. Like he had nothing.
The strand. The strand that ran up to heaven; or the girder holding up the walkway. The walkway I was now looking over the precipice of into the cold dark. Cold, wet dark. Over, into the East River. I have thought of of doing this for years. Decades. Now, here I am, my Brooklyn bound car stopped next to me int he right lane as I contemplate the end of this. How many people ever did this? Not too many. I think people do this in San Francisco more.
her hair carried strands of ruby and diamond, her face ageless and wise, clearly she had little left to hold her back; besides her a man, as young and terrible as her sat, his eyes sparkling and smiling where many simply passed by, grey shapes walking endlessly nowhere and anywhere. They two sat apart, smiling and speaking, until they had turned their eyes to me with all-knowing eyes.
It slowly unraveled from the middle of the bun, she pulled the clip smoothly from the centre and strand by strand each hair came tumbling down, as if endowed with its own mysterious grace.
There once was a kid called ‘strand’. The block he lived on was big but the street, a long sweet stretch of hill that all the kids dared each other about, was called the ‘strand’. And this kid was the
That one linear strand, draped so casually and unavoidable over the edge of the sink, doomed my marriage to a series of ever-widing battles, clashes that would resound from the den ultimately into chancery court.
On a beach last summer I came upon an incredible strand of nature’s beauty. The waves were galvanizing toward the boundary where water meets the earth and all was perfect.
A strand of hair fell across her face as Samantha stared through the pillars of little green soldiers rising out of the Earth. She spread her fingers out, tickled and teased them.
“Now tell me,” she whispered, “what do you stand for?”
i’m stranded. i’m surrounded by people, buildings, steel, but i’m stranded, alone. I hate this damn city. All around me, people walking by, up and down my hallway. I say hello, but I don’t hear it back. It’s like being on a desert island.
A strand is a piece of something, or rather a former piece of something. One can select a strand of hair, but it’s really more like a piece of what should be a proper hairdo. Nobody considers a strand individually until there’s something wrong with it; it’s broken, or as with a stray hair – a strand of hair – in the way.
a strand of hair is sometimes thick and soemtimes thin. you get seperate strands. together they make a bunch possibly? stranded on an island. sometimes you are stranded no where. in a desperate lonely place. stranded. stranded. no where. no escape. ahhhhhhhh stranded on a desert island!
here hair, flowed down her naked back. golden like dehydrated urine. her porcelain skin shimmered in the midday sun. i knew not who she was. nor did i care.
i thought she was hideous, and never wanted to see her again.
the strand of hair that fell in front of her eye made me realize that she was a girl just like any other girl. Her green eye that was shrouded by the strand spoke little and reminded me of her shallowness and all girl’s shallowness, and men’s as well. We are beasts of burden put on this earth to suffer for our needs. What could be worse than that? Spend a lifetime wanting, but its not worth it.
stranded, stranded, what a wicked scary place to be. when he had trusted her with so much… Living like he did, the past would catch up with him, if not now. soon.
one piece of my hair. long and brown. youth. hanging by it. never knowing when it will break. can’t let go of it and wanting it to last forever. to get longer and longer. to always keep my youth. one after another.
a strand of dna can be anything you ever wanted it to be a single strand an ordinary strand of whatever is simply the starting point of WHATEVER you want you could make the world a better place you could doom a nation you could make life and end it a simple strand makes everything and ends everything
i have this strand of hair that is split at the ends. i spilt some wood with my axe. i split the banana peel with ease, i split my finger open with a knife. the case of dominoes split, this is over i split. now. red line.
a strand of milk and nasty strand of curled hair …. the strand of hair that killed the bird that flew from its mothers arms to be in a world where only a strand can help you survive, help you maintain, but the strand is two fold and can save but also kill the one who holds the strand… i harbor less
This is where Shakespeare did his great works. The Strand. Or maybe I’m thinking of something else. Something like spaghetti. Or the tentacles on a squid. They’re poisonous, yaknow. Strand of hair? How about a word that sounds less… i don’t know… guttural?
A strand of hair, a strand of /time/- held up by a thin strand. Still thinking a strand of blonde hair more than thread. Strand strand strand – strands of strawberry blonde hair. Stranded on a beach somewhere, that’s the other one. Stranded, alone. The noun works better though. Strands of effervescent time–
strands of time entwined with one another, dancing, lightening sounds in their wake, smiling, crying, melancholy thoughts of little consequence, down, up around and ethereal feeling of thoughtless indulgence in the future that may come, may not. the strands of time await not the thoughts of one or the wishes of many they are divided, shed their pretenses and shine upon the mistakes of all
A strand of hair on my head is one in a million. There are so many that make up my whole being. I can’t believe that God knows about every one on my head. It is amazing how God can create this being from nothing but make it beautiful.
could it be that we will eventually see the truth in thee. what it is or what is was will be revealed to those who care to look, but to those who waste time and get wasted by time will eat their wages of death.
Strand describes a piece of hair quite nicely.
I have strands of hair.
Oh man, my boyfriend Grant has amazing strands of hair.
When I brushed it the other day it was really pretty.
It looked like girl hair.
Grant is Asian.
there is a strand of thought that lets us suspend what we know to be true and instead allows our minds to flow freely and unabated. This is the strand called imagination. This is the strand called freedom. It is this strand of thought above all others we must protect. Above rationalisation, above love, above even compassion. For imagination allows us all the abve with more.
I think that there is a piece of string. A strand of string. Blue string in fact. I’m not sure why its blue string but it is. I think it is at jo ann fabrics though. I want to go there right now. I like crafty things. I wish I was more crafty.
ed on an island there was nothing left of his boat. nothing but a sail. still he would find his way home. a log here a vine there he would pull through, they needed him. his children his wife, his life. but they were not his.
Two or three strands of hair are always hanging in my daughter’s eyes. Like a vine across a bough, or a ribbon, it separates from the rest of her hair to segment her forehead. My hand is
the strand of hair i used to know cascaded down my bad. bubt now after a change, and a good deed i’m left with a strand that bearly touches my ear. Is this strand any less beautiful then what i once knew? is it less because ican’t braid it or curl it? how long will it take to have my strand back?
My hair is getting too long. I would love to have a trendy style but it’s just too thick. A strand, no more like knots of my hair just sitting atop my head. Really should get it cut. Want that style though, like some hip tokyo teenager
The simple strand of string was hanging down from her bright red tunic. Tantalizingly. I wanted to pull it off, but I couldn’t. All I could do was sit there while it rocked back and forth with the motion of the bus. It even looked like it had a little gold in it, from the accents around the hem of her shirt. Slowly it swung, back and forth, until, finally, the bus stopped and I had to get off.
A strand. A strand is all that connects humanity to their society, all that keeps us civilized. Without that strand, we would go back to our core genus. We would go back to surviving by being the craziest mofos out there. We would become that which we fight against. Every time we leave out “society”, our “civilization”, we walk that abyss, and from time to time, someone falls in.
One strand of her hair hung alone. She had cut it. That evil woman had stolen who she was. Her hair represented it. Certainly not the way the man in the bible lost his strength with his hair, but this was personality. Part of what made her who she was. Without her hair, she wasn’t Melanie Fitzgerald, the girl in High School with a 3.9 GPA, lots of friends, and greatly dressed. She was just a girl.
But, who is it that took her hair? Her stepmother. The woman who was out to ruin her life. She had already took her own mother away from her, but now she left her alone with just a single strand of hair.
you stranded me at the gas station. this petroleum love affair shimmers like rainbows in the light but we’re evaporating, slowly, as your silence floats up into my nose and makes me think of summer on the lake, filling the boat with gas to go waterskiing and beat my body against the waves.
A strand of hair falls and is left.
A man stranded sees the shore.
What is left is a strand of time,
in that sea beyond the shore.
Don’t worry, he wont be stranded forever.
he was stranded and he didn’t know what to do. There was only a few options; so few. He wiggled the doorknob again. Then he jostled it. He progressively tried his way with the doorknob until it reached the point that he was kicking it. It still didn’t work. What else could he do? He thought, racking his brain for every solution. He felt incapitated. Like he had nothing.
The strand. The strand that ran up to heaven; or the girder holding up the walkway. The walkway I was now looking over the precipice of into the cold dark. Cold, wet dark. Over, into the East River. I have thought of of doing this for years. Decades. Now, here I am, my Brooklyn bound car stopped next to me int he right lane as I contemplate the end of this. How many people ever did this? Not too many. I think people do this in San Francisco more.
her hair carried strands of ruby and diamond, her face ageless and wise, clearly she had little left to hold her back; besides her a man, as young and terrible as her sat, his eyes sparkling and smiling where many simply passed by, grey shapes walking endlessly nowhere and anywhere. They two sat apart, smiling and speaking, until they had turned their eyes to me with all-knowing eyes.
It slowly unraveled from the middle of the bun, she pulled the clip smoothly from the centre and strand by strand each hair came tumbling down, as if endowed with its own mysterious grace.
There once was a kid called ‘strand’. The block he lived on was big but the street, a long sweet stretch of hill that all the kids dared each other about, was called the ‘strand’. And this kid was the
That one linear strand, draped so casually and unavoidable over the edge of the sink, doomed my marriage to a series of ever-widing battles, clashes that would resound from the den ultimately into chancery court.
On a beach last summer I came upon an incredible strand of nature’s beauty. The waves were galvanizing toward the boundary where water meets the earth and all was perfect.
100 miles of books that ended my life. rahr.
A strand of hair fell across her face as Samantha stared through the pillars of little green soldiers rising out of the Earth. She spread her fingers out, tickled and teased them.
“Now tell me,” she whispered, “what do you stand for?”
i’m stranded. i’m surrounded by people, buildings, steel, but i’m stranded, alone. I hate this damn city. All around me, people walking by, up and down my hallway. I say hello, but I don’t hear it back. It’s like being on a desert island.
A strand is a piece of something, or rather a former piece of something. One can select a strand of hair, but it’s really more like a piece of what should be a proper hairdo. Nobody considers a strand individually until there’s something wrong with it; it’s broken, or as with a stray hair – a strand of hair – in the way.
a strand of hair is sometimes thick and soemtimes thin. you get seperate strands. together they make a bunch possibly? stranded on an island. sometimes you are stranded no where. in a desperate lonely place. stranded. stranded. no where. no escape. ahhhhhhhh stranded on a desert island!
here hair, flowed down her naked back. golden like dehydrated urine. her porcelain skin shimmered in the midday sun. i knew not who she was. nor did i care.
i thought she was hideous, and never wanted to see her again.
now strand up down now how in ouch out of control.
the strand of hair that fell in front of her eye made me realize that she was a girl just like any other girl. Her green eye that was shrouded by the strand spoke little and reminded me of her shallowness and all girl’s shallowness, and men’s as well. We are beasts of burden put on this earth to suffer for our needs. What could be worse than that? Spend a lifetime wanting, but its not worth it.
stranded, stranded, what a wicked scary place to be. when he had trusted her with so much… Living like he did, the past would catch up with him, if not now. soon.
one piece of my hair. long and brown. youth. hanging by it. never knowing when it will break. can’t let go of it and wanting it to last forever. to get longer and longer. to always keep my youth. one after another.
a strand of dna can be anything you ever wanted it to be a single strand an ordinary strand of whatever is simply the starting point of WHATEVER you want you could make the world a better place you could doom a nation you could make life and end it a simple strand makes everything and ends everything
i have this strand of hair that is split at the ends. i spilt some wood with my axe. i split the banana peel with ease, i split my finger open with a knife. the case of dominoes split, this is over i split. now. red line.
a strand of milk and nasty strand of curled hair …. the strand of hair that killed the bird that flew from its mothers arms to be in a world where only a strand can help you survive, help you maintain, but the strand is two fold and can save but also kill the one who holds the strand… i harbor less
This is where Shakespeare did his great works. The Strand. Or maybe I’m thinking of something else. Something like spaghetti. Or the tentacles on a squid. They’re poisonous, yaknow. Strand of hair? How about a word that sounds less… i don’t know… guttural?
A strand of hair, a strand of /time/- held up by a thin strand. Still thinking a strand of blonde hair more than thread. Strand strand strand – strands of strawberry blonde hair. Stranded on a beach somewhere, that’s the other one. Stranded, alone. The noun works better though. Strands of effervescent time–
strands of time entwined with one another, dancing, lightening sounds in their wake, smiling, crying, melancholy thoughts of little consequence, down, up around and ethereal feeling of thoughtless indulgence in the future that may come, may not. the strands of time await not the thoughts of one or the wishes of many they are divided, shed their pretenses and shine upon the mistakes of all
A beach, or strand, is a geological formation consisting of loose rock particles along the shoreline of a body of water.
one word is all it takes for me to block out the sun with the swift blow of my hand across the surface of the moon.
Life is a strand,
its fragile and forever,
its not limited, so don’t limit it
embrace it and be who your meant to be
your the strand.
A strand of hair on my head is one in a million. There are so many that make up my whole being. I can’t believe that God knows about every one on my head. It is amazing how God can create this being from nothing but make it beautiful.
could it be that we will eventually see the truth in thee. what it is or what is was will be revealed to those who care to look, but to those who waste time and get wasted by time will eat their wages of death.
Strand describes a piece of hair quite nicely.
I have strands of hair.
Oh man, my boyfriend Grant has amazing strands of hair.
When I brushed it the other day it was really pretty.
It looked like girl hair.
Grant is Asian.