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“She gave his fake boob a poke. "What the hell is in here?"
He laughed and pulled the top down part of the way to reveal a grapefruit. She groaned onto her hands.
"Hey, I know it's been a while since I've seen a real tit up close, but I think I remember the basic shape. What would you have used?"
"Oh, hell, Michael,I have no idea what a man uses to stuff a maid's uniform. Where did you get it anyways?"
Another of his shit-eating grins lit his face. "From the plus sized section of the lingerie store in Sweedesboro. I'm a woman's extra large." He was so proud of the fact that she laughed until her side ached.”
― R.E. Butler, Jason & Cadence

“Yes, silence is painful, but if you endure it, you will hear the cadence of the entire universe.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“Rhythm. Life is full of it; words should have it, too. But you have to train your ear. Listen to the waves on a quiet night; you’ll pick up the cadence. Look at the patterns the wind makes in dry sand and you’ll see how syllables in a sentence should fall. Arthur Gordon”
― Arthur Gordon, A Touch of Wonder

“A poetess is not as selfish
as you assume.
After months of agonising
over her marriage of words—the bride�
and spaces—the groom,
she knows that as soon
as she has penned the poem,
it’s yours to consume.
So, without giving it a think,
she blows on the ink
and the letters fly away
like dandelions on a windy day,
landing on hands and lips,
on hearts and hips.
But more often than not,
you can easily spot
them trodden and forgotten,
becoming sodden and rotten.
Yet, she will continue to make
what’s others to take
because selfishness
is not the mark of a poetess.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“A book is a living thing. It is a bird; it has a voice. The pages of a book are wings. Books have heartbeats. When readers read they feel them; they listen.”
― Suzy Davies

“cadence, n.
I have never lived anywhere but New York or New England, but there are times when I'm talking to you and I hit a Southern vowel, or a word gets caught in a Suthern truncation, and I know it's because I'm swimming in your cadences, that you penetrate my very language.”
― David Levithan, The Lover's Dictionary

“First, I like how the ice cream won out. Second, we’re not having sex.”
― S. Walden, Good

“These are the three things—volume of sound, modulation of pitch, and rhythm—that a speaker bears in mind. It is those who do bear them in mind who usually win prizes in the dramatic contests; and just as in drama the actors now count for more than the poets, so it is in the contests of public life, owing to the defects of our political institutions.”
― Aristotle, The Rhetoric & The Poetics of Aristotle

“The drum to which we march reveals the conductor to whom we’re listening.”
― Craig D. Lounsbrough

“It is impossible to stop cadence. A bell rings long after the clapper hits the cup.”
― Steven James Taylor, the dog

“Every rhythm prepares a future. The prayers sung, the drums that beat around the stone circle of the fire pit so long ago, still rang. In the icy air, Shadow felt the tremendous rhythm of Thunderbird’s wings beating at his own ribs.”
― Steven James Taylor, the dog

“With the gentle force of their words, the dogged warmth of their embrace, and the assuring touch of souls softly bared, mothers are silently shaping whole societies and authoring entire cultures that sit poised on the horizon of the future. And although we ignorantly relegate such roles to some lower caste status, we would be wise to understand that the role of a mother sets the cadence of the future.”
― Craig D. Lounsbrough, Flecks of Gold on a Path of Stone: Simple Truths for Profound Living

“There is nothing that interests me more than travel, I declare; and if I had had my health, I should have been a great traveller, a second–a secondâ€�"

"St Paul?"

"No, no. A second Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.”
― Patrick O'Brian, Post Captain

“We walked in silence towards Swinica, beyond which the road, worn by long-distance lorries, twisted and turned; we walked slowly, like one walks after midnight Mass, like my father coming home on Sunday from a fishing trip or from a little game of poker, like the curate after administering extreme unction, like my grandmother returning from the fields dragging a pram, in which instead of her first-born, prematurely dead daughter, there lay a bunch of ripe poppy heads covered with a kerchief.”
― Wioletta Greg, Swallowing Mercury