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“I hope you all find yourself sleeping with someone you love, maybe not all of the time, but a lot of the time. The touch of a foot in the night is sincere. I hope you like your work, I hope there's mystery and poetry in your life, not even poems, but patterns. I hope you can see them. Often these patterns will wake you up, and you will know that you are alive, again and again.”
― Eileen Myles

“The only gain of civilisation for mankind is the greater capacity for variety of sensations - and absolutely nothing more.”
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground, White Nights, The Dream of a Ridiculous Man, and Selections from The House of the Dead

“I never react to events in the outside world; I always react to the sensations in my own body. (...) Even when we think we react to what another person has done, to President Trump's latest tweet, or to a distant childhood memory, the truth is we always react to our immediate bodily sensations. If we are outraged that somebody insulted our nation or our god, what makes the insult unbearable is the burning sensations in the pit of our stomach and the band of pain that grips our heart. Our nation feels nothing, but our body really hurts.”
― Yuval Noah Harari, 21 Lessons for the 21st Century

“The nose can’t help catchinâ€� what the ears get sick with. Yessir, rock bands just sweat evil. Evil’s been around for a long time, ever since rocks started getting real hot and making a lot of noise as they exploded out oâ€� the ground and evil spirits wisped out of hell. If a band ever uses a fog machine, hold your breath so you don’t become possessed by one.”
― M.C. Humphreys

“Once as a child, Phoebe had been caught outside in a summer storm, and had seen a butterfly knocked from the air by raindrops. It had fluttered and fallen to the ground, bombarded from every direction. The only choice had been to fold its wings, take shelter and wait.
This man was the storm and the shelter, pulling her into a deep, encompassing darkness where there was too much to feel- hot soft firm sweet hungry rough silken tugging. She strained helplessly in his arms, although she didn't know whether she was trying to escape or press closer.
She had craved this, the hardness and heat of his body against hers, the sensation familiar and yet not at all familiar.
She had feared this, a man with a will and power that matched her own, a man who would desire and possess every last part of her without mercy.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Devil's Daughter

“all touch starting to sicken, as if the cells of my skin were individually nauseated”
― Maggie Nelson, The Argonauts

“I make landscapes out of what I feel. I make holidays of my sensations. I can easily understand women who embroider out of sorrow or who crochet because life exists. My elderly aunt would play solitaire throughout the endless evening. These confessions of what I feel are my solitaire. I don't interpret them like those who read cards to tell the future. I don't probe them, because in solitaire the cards don't have any special significance. I unwind myself like a multicoloured skein, or I make string figures of myself, like those woven on spread fingers and passed from child to child. I only take care that my thumb not miss its loop. Then I turn over my hand and the figure changes. And I start over.”
― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

“Patience looked at Vane and saw him dismount- by bringing his leg over the saddlebow and sliding to the ground, landing on his feet. She blinked, and he was by her side.
His hands closed about her waist.
She almost gasped when he lifted her from the saddle as if she weighed no more than a child. He didn't swing her down, but slowly lowered her to earth, setting her on her feet beside the mare. Less than a foot from him. He held her between his hands; she felt the long fingers flex about her, fingertips on either side of her spine, thumbs against her sensitive midriff. She felt... captured. Vulnerable. His face was a hard mask, his expression intent. Her eyes locked on his, Patience felt the cobbles beneath her feet, but her world continued to spin.
It was he- the source of those peculiar sensations. She'd thought it must be, but she'd never felt such sensations before- and those streaking through her now were far stronger than those she'd felt earlier. It was his touch that did it- the touch of his eyes, the touch of his hands. He didn't even need to contact bare skin to make every square inch she possessed react.”
― Stephanie Laurens, A Rake's Vow

“Hauling in a quick breath, she held it, stretched upward, shut her eyes, and fleetingly touched her lips to his. They were as hard as she'd imagined, very like sculpted marble. Sensation flared at the brief contact; her lips tingled, then throbbed.
Patience blinked her eyes wide as she lowered her heels to earth. And refocused on his lips. She saw the ends curve upward, heard his low, wickedly teasing laugh.
"Still not right. Here- let me show you."
His hands came up to frame her face, her jaw, tilting her lips up as his descended. Of their own volition, her lids fell, then his lips touched hers. Patience couldn't have quelled the shudder that passed through her had her life depended on it.
Stunned, poised to resist, she mentally paused. Strong, sure, his lips covered hers, moving slowly, languorously, as if savoring her taste, her texture. There was nothing threatening in the unhurried caress. Indeed, it was beguiling, luring her senses, focusing them on the practiced slide and glide of cool lips which seemed to instinctively know how to soothe the heat rising in hers. Hers throbbed; his pressed, caressed, as if drinking in her heat, stealing it from her.
Patience felt her lips soften; his firmed in response.
'No, no, noo....' Some small part of her mind tried to warn her, but she was long past listening. This was new, novel- she'd never felt such sensations before. Never known such simple delight existed.
Her head was whirling, but not unpleasantly. His lips still seemed hard, cool- Patience couldn't resist the temptation to return the pressure, to see if his lips would soften to hers.
They didn't, they only became harder. The next instant, she felt a searing heat sweep over her lips. She stilled; the questing heat returned- with the tip of his tongue, he traced her lower lip. The contact lingered, an unspoken question.
Patience wanted more. She parted her lips.
His tongue slid between, slowly, with his customary assured arrogance, quite certain of his welcome, confident in his expertise.”
― Stephanie Laurens, A Rake's Vow

“Vane watched her reaction from under heavy lids, watched flaring passion light her eyes. Sparks of pure gold flashed in the hazel depths as he gently kneaded, then sent his fingers gliding over her silken skin. He knew he should kiss her, distract her, from what came next- but the compulsion to witness, to know her reaction as she learned what he would do, as he filled his senses with her, waxed strong.”
― Stephanie Laurens, A Rake's Vow

“Gasping desperately, she clenched her hands on his shoulders, fingers sinking deep. His lips firmed, he suckled gently- Patience felt the earth quake. The heat of his mouth shocked her- the wet sweep of his tongue scalded her. She gave a strangled cry.
That sound, keenly feminine, acutely evocative, caught and focused Vane's attention. Focused every hunter's instinct. Desire heightened, need escalated. His demons turned frenzied- her siren's song lured them on. Urged him on. Compulsion swelled- tense, turbulent, powerful. Desire seethed hotly. He drew a ragged breath-
And remembered- all he'd nearly forgotten, all her wild responses had driven from his mind. This was one seduction he had to, need to, manage perfectly- this time, there was meaning beyond the act. Seducing Patience Debbington was too important to rush- conquering her senses, her body, was only the first step. He didn't want her just once- he wanted her for a lifetime.
Dragging in a shuddering breath, Vane caught hold of his reins and hauled his impulses up short. Something in him wailed with frustration. He shut his mind to the relentless pounding of his arousal.
And set himself to soothe hers.
He knew how. There were planes of warm desire on which women could float, neither driven, nor quiescent, but simply buoyed on a sea of pleasure. With hands and lips, mouth and tongue, he soothed her fever flesh, took the sting from her aches, the edge from her passion, and eased her into that pleasured sea.
Patience was beyond understanding- all she knew was the peace, the calm, the profound pleasure that welled and washed through her. Content, she flowed with the tide, letting her senses stretch. The whirling that had disoriented her slowed; her mind steadied.
Full consciousness, when it came, was no shock; the continuing touch of Vane's hands, the artful caress of his lips, his tongue, were familiar- no threat.”
― Stephanie Laurens, A Rake's Vow

“She should, of course, feel scandalized, or at the very least, shocked. Yet whenever she allowed herself to recall all that had happened, sweet pleasure washed through her, leaving her skin tingling and her breasts deliciously warm. Her "shock" was exciting, thrilling, an enticing reaction, not one of revulsion. She should feel guilty, yet whatever guilt she possessed was swamped beneath a compulsion to know, to experience, and an intense recollection of how much she'd enjoyed that particular experience.
Lips firming, she set a stitch. Curiosity- it was her curse, her bane, the cross she had to bear. She knew it. Unfortunately, knowing didn't quell the impulse. This time, curiosity was prompting her to waltz with a wolf- a dangerous enterprise. For the last two days, she'd watched him, waiting for the pounce she'd convinced herself would come, but he'd behaved like a lamb- a ridiculously strong, impossibly arrogant, not to say masterful lamb, but with a guileless newborn innocence, as if a halo had settled over his burnished locks.”
― Stephanie Laurens, A Rake's Vow

“O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts. -John Keats”
― Louisa Thomsen Brits, The Book of Hygge: The Danish Art of Living Well

“I do not know what love is

I do not know if this is love
or what love is
or if love's a thing, if it can be
worn like an old coat, or felt
like harsh fabric on naked flesh, or
if it is a sensation, like that first time
the brakes of my bike failed while riding downhill or
the climax of masturbation, or
if love is an invention, and we all
manufacture our own versions -
some bright, some dull, some marbled,
but all with labels and stickers
that say: this is love.

I do not know what love is
or if I can say what I think love is,
could be or should be. If we were
to ever sit on the marble floor,
on one of those dry, electricity free, 45 degree
Delhi nights, sharing a drink of Old Monk's
and I were to tell you that this is love,
slap me for I would either be drunk or a liar.
and if i were drunk, I won't be drunk on love or your loving
for I don't know what love is or if it can be known.

Maybe, one night, after thirty years of searching
for what love means, we will sit outside -
you and I -
amidst the debris of our meanderings,
our bent backs resting
on the rusted iron railing,
our skin pimpled, throats scratched
from prayers uttered to absent gods and
we would be in love and believe that love is this:

love is all the spaces, non-events,
the unspoken words and everything
in between the first second of these
thirty years to this. Love is this.”
― Don Mihsill

“I do not know if this is love
or what love is
or if love's a thing, if it can be
worn like an old coat, or felt
like harsh fabric on naked flesh, or
if it is a sensation, like that first time
the brakes of my bike failed while riding downhill or
the climax of masturbation, or
if love is an invention, and we all
manufacture our own versions -
some bright, some dull, some marbled,
but all with labels and stickers
that say: this is love.

I do not know what love is
or if I can say what I think love is,
could be or should be. If we were
to ever sit on the marble floor,
on one of those dry, electricity free, 45 degree
Delhi nights, sharing a drink of Old Monk's
and I were to tell you that this is love,
slap me for I would either be drunk or a liar.
and if i were drunk, I won't be drunk on love or your loving
for I don't know what love is or if it can be known.

Maybe, one night, after thirty years of searching
for what love means, we will sit outside -
you and I -
amidst the debris of our meanderings,
our bent backs resting
on the rusted iron railing,
our skin pimpled, throats scratched
from prayers uttered to absent gods and
we would be in love and believe that love is this:

love is all the spaces, non-events,
the unspoken words and everything
in between the first second of these
thirty years to this. Love is this.”
― Don Mihsill

“Raven moaned at the sensations ripping through her, like the first splash of color on a monochrome canvas.”
― Katherine McIntyre, Forged Contracts

“The restaurant owner brought them wine, pale and golden and cool. There were just four oysters each, and when they were all gone they turned their attention to the cecinella. After the soft shapeless texture of the oysters these were almost the opposite: hard, crunchy skeletons whose flavor was all on the outside, a crisp bite of garlic and peperone that dissolved to nothing in your mouth. The ricci, or sea urchins, were another taste again, salty and exotic and rich. It was hard to believe that he had once thought they could be an austerity measure. After that they were brought without being asked a dish of baby octopus, cooked with tomatoes and wine mixed with the rich, gamey ink of a squid.
For dessert the owner brought them two peaches. Their skins were wrinkled and almost bruised, but the flesh, when James cut into it with his knife, was unspoiled and perfectly ripe, so dark it was almost black. He was about to put a slice into his mouth when Livia stopped him.
"Not like that. This is how we eat peaches here."
She cut a chunk from the peach into her wine, then held the glass to his lips. He took it, tipping the wine and fruit together into his mouth. It was a delicious, sensual cascade of sensations, the sweet wine and the sweet peach rolling around his mouth before finally, he had to bite it, releasing the fruit's sugary juices. It was like the oyster all over again, a completely undreamt-of experience, and one that he found stirringly sexual, in some strange way that he couldn't have defined.”
― Anthony Capella, The Wedding Officer

“From the moment Lord Harte had entered the bedroom, she had begun to experience everything differently. Her thoughts, feelings, and reactions originated from a deeper source. Her fear and confusion had made way for other, more urgent sensations. The longer she sat under the earl's harsh and heady regard, the further she slipped into a state of expectancy.
She felt on the verge of something, but she had no idea what.
As the weakness in her mind and limbs continued to dissipate, she acknowledged that she could not blame her odd reactions on the aftereffects of the drug.
He was the cause of her heightened responses.
It was more than the wealth of secrets and mystery contained behind his midnight eyes. It was how he made her feel. Intrinsically. Viscerally. When he looked at her with his hooded gaze, she experienced something in the marrow of her bones, in the blood flowing through her veins, in the ether of her mind.”
― Amy Sandas, The Untouchable Earl

“He couldn't resist her. He didn't want to.
In torturously slow degrees, he lowered his head toward hers. Every sense, every nerve in his body was focused on the next few moments. He knew he would want to savor the memory of this, the first time he had kissed Lily.
He pressed his lips to hers gently at first, not knowing what to expect. But even such a light touch sent a swift rush of sensation through him. It was unlike anything he had ever known. Delicate and passionate at once. The silken texture of her lips, her pliant softness, the little moan that caught in her throat.
It stunned him. Stopped his breath and jolted his heart.
Intent upon exploring this new experience, he shifted the pressure of his mouth, brushing his lips across hers before he flicked his tongue out to touch just the center of her bottom lip. Her lips parted on a sudden exhale. Her warm breath mingled with his. Something more than desire coursed through his blood.
He lifted his hands to grasp her shoulders, and with a groan, he crushed her mouth with his.
A voice in his head demanded he slow down, relish the sensations. But he was too desperate to know more. He tilted his head, craving the taste of her as though it could save his soul. He swept his tongue past her teeth, sliding it into the recesses of her mouth. She tasted of innocence and shadows, and he was ravenous for her.
It shocked him- that desperate, obsessive need to consume her, to take all that she was into himself. To make what was hers, his. Her breath, her taste, her softness, and her need.”
― Amy Sandas, The Untouchable Earl

“There was so much heat. So much tenderness in the way her body accepted his. Encompassing, consuming, drawing on his final reserves. It was a sensation unlike anything he could have imagined.
Finally, he could take no more. Tensing his buttocks, he gave one long thrust and drove deeply into her core. His jaw clenched, and a guttural moan caught in his throat. He nearly closed his eyes in an instinctive urge to contain the fierce rush of pleasure, but he could not look away from Lily's face.
The tip of her tongue pressed delicately against the top row of her parted teeth as she gasped for breath.
It was the only reaction she gave to the rending of her maidenhead.
While he felt as though he had trespassed into nirvana. Being inside her, fully encased in her warmth, was more powerful a feeling than he had ever expected. It was possession and surrender at once.
Each ragged breath he drew as he remained still and focused on managing the overwhelming stimulation only made his body crave more. As stunning and intimate as it was to feel so connected with Lily, there was an undeniable force within him, demanding he take them both to the limit of what they could endure.
He knew he should wait, allow her body to adjust to his intrusion, but he couldn't. He had been reduced to nothing but a primitive urge to finally, finally explore the bone-deep pleasure of being joined with this woman.
And it was pleasure, he realized in awe. Full, encompassing, undeniable pleasure.
The flashes of pain across his affected nerves were not nearly enough to distract from the beauty of everything else he felt.”
― Amy Sandas, The Untouchable Earl

“Wine making is an artistic creation in which you deal with a variety of styles, colors, and inspiration therefore good wine, like good art, can evoke emotions, sensations and create an experience which leaves a lasting impression.”
― Giovanni Morassutti

“It had been a long time since a woman had held him. It felt so good that he couldn't make himself release her just yet. Her body cradled his with supple feminine strength. Those slim, gentle fingers continued to stroke the back of his neck. He had never seen such blue eyes, clear and dark like Bristol blue glass.
Christopher tried to remember the reasons why he shouldn't want her. He even tried to summon thoughts of Prudence, but it was impossible. He closed his eyes and felt her breath striking his chin. He felt her everywhere, with his entire body, her scent in his nose and throat, her warmth sinking into him.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Love in the Afternoon

“Let me hear your roar through these tempest of sensations.”
― Saim .A. Cheeda

“Everything in the pursuit of raw experiences and fleeting moments, where the boundaries of convention blurs and the extraordinary flourishes. A symphony of sensations and emotions intertwined, echoing the spirit of those who seek solace in this nocturnal playground.”
― Ryan Gelpke, Peruvian Days

“At times, we know when people are cheating us, but sadly we've become desensitised to our instincts.”
― Mitta Xinindlu

“I play with my sensations like a bored princess with her large, viciously agile cats.”
― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

“I have no other real pleasure besides the analysis of my pain, nor any other sensual delight besides the morbid dribbling of sensations when they crumble and rot....”
― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

“Among the sensations that inwardly torture us to the point of becoming pleasurable, the disquiet provoked by the world's mystery is one of the most common and complex.”
― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

“I'm an ultrasensitive photographic plate. All details are engraved in me out of all proportion to any possible whole. The plate fills up with nothing but me. The outer world that I see is pure sensation. I never forget that I feel.”
― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

“You will feel pain. You need to accept this truth.
...
When it comes, accept it; embrace it. Realize it's a sensation like any other...the same as being hot or cold. Put it to one side and do what must be done. Don't let it overwhelm or control you. Ever.”
― Orlando A Sanchez