Coffee Quotes - Page 2

6 months, 2 weeks, 4 days,and I still don’t know which month it was thenor what day it is now.Blurred out linesfrom hangovers to coffeeAnother vagabond lost to love.4am alone and on my way.These are my finest moments.I scrub my skinto rid me from youand I still don’t know why I cried.It was just something in the way you took my heart and rearranged my insides and I couldn’t recognise the emptiness you left me with when you were done. Maybe you thought my insides would fit better this way, look better this way, to you and us and all the rest.But then you must have changed your mindor made a wrongbecause why did youleave?6 months, 2 weeks, 4 days,and I still don’t know which month it was thenor what day it is now.I replace cafés with crowded bars and empty roads with broken bottlesand this town is healing me slowly but still not slow or fast enough because there’s no right way to do this.There is no right way to do this.There is no right way to do this.

Your exuberance, passion, mesmerizing voice, animated actions, and eyes full of dreamscaptured my attentionso completely, that I didn't feel the bitter taste of coffee

I set the coffee aside and got a cup of water instead. I could never see why people drank that stuff. It tasted like soil boiled in mud, wit a topping of dirt.

I love that there's such a rivalry. It's like, leaf water versus bean water, ya know? - Charlie

I don't drink coffee I take tea my dearI like my toast done on one sid

I was driven to go into book writing by the very nature of journalism and blogging. Both are ephemeral. Journalists and bloggers can have humongous egos. But in the end, what they write is really a passing show. I wanted something more lasting — a record of sorts, something people can look back to and relish again like hot, home–brewed coffee.

You wake up and feel a sudden sadness that you never felt before. You try to find a reason behind it but you cannot. You think coffee might change the feeling. So you make yourself a hot cup of coffee and put on the music player. Do you feel better now?

The highway behind gives me courage to move into the future. I desire to see the first light of tomorrow.

Coffee, my delight of the morning; yoga, my delight of the noon. Then before nightfall, I run along the pleasant paths of the Jardin du Luxembourg. For when air cycles through the lungs, and the body is busy at noble tasks, creativity flows like water in a stream: the artist creates, the writer writes.

Want coffee?" I asked, as I headed that way."It's three thirty in the morning.""Okay. Want coffee?

Our culture runs on coffee and gasoline, the first often tasting like the second.

That’s what I do: I make coffee and occasionally succumb to suicidal nihilism. But you shouldn’t worry — poetry is still first. Cigarettes and alcohol follow

We're growing up and I don't like it," said Tacy, as they say at Heinz's later, drinking coffee.

...having nothing better to do, meandered off to a coffee shop and sat facing each other for a couple of hours, neither of them talking much but each coming to the general conclusion that the other was a person rather like himself...

I like my coffee black, my beer from Germany, wine from Burgundy, the darker, the better. I like my heroes complicated and brooding, James Dean in oiled leather, leaning on a motorcycle. You know the color. ("Ode to Chocolate")

An aroma more heavenly than a flight of angels trickled on the breeze. "Coffee!" He breathed the word like a prayer.

Don't ever let anyone tell you that fairy tales aren't real. I drink a potion made from magic beans every day, and it brings me back to life.

With full mugs and expectant hearts-Acknowledge His presence.Listen.Give Him your day, each day.Every day.

It's just like when you've got some coffee that's too black, which means it's too strong. What do you do? You integrate it with cream, you make it weak. But if you pour too much cream in it, you won't even know you ever had coffee. It used to be hot, it becomes cool. It used to be strong, it becomes weak. It used to wake you up, now it puts you to sleep.

The staying awake was a great self-sacrificaing gesture of friendship, and wonderfully in keeping with our current mood of intense friendship and religious fervour. We were all in a state of shock. We engaged in a long Dostojevskyan conversations and drank one black coffee after another. It was sort of night typical of youth, the sort you only can look back on with shame and embarassment once you've grown up. But God knows, I must have grown up already by then, because I don't feel the slightest embarassment when I think back to it, just a terrible nostalgia.

Life isn't sugarcoated. Why should coffee be?

Let me wake up next to you, have coffee in the morning and wander through the city with your hand in mine, and I'll be happy for the rest of my fucked up little life.

What do you want?""Just coffee. Black - like my soul.

The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.

Love is blind. Especially in the morning, because I can't see a damn thing before having coffee.

The simple act of sitting here sipping this cappuccino is its own testament to my commitment to living the writer’s life. Which is to say: doing nothing but doing it exceedingly well.

I cleaned the shit off my pink high-tops and drove home, stopping for an espresso at the coffeehouse across from the college. Men and women were hunched over copies of Jean Paul Sartre and writing in their journals. Most wore the thin-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses favored by intellectuals. Their clothes were faded to a precisely fashionable degree; you can buy them that way from catalogs now, new clothes processed to look old. The intellectuals looked at me in my overalls the way such people inevitably look at farmers. I dumped a lot of sugar in my espresso and sipped it delicately at a corner table near the door. I looked at them the way farmers look at intellectuals.

The coffee was never served. It boiled over, spattered them all, and wet a costly tablecloth and the baroness's dress. But it served the end that was desired for it gave rise to many jests and merry peals of laughter.

You can’t exist on this plane for long purely one thing or another. A totally evil creature is so destructive that it obliterates itself. A totally good one… the same. So, we mix a bit of coffee with our cream.

We have conversations most nights, Sylvia Plath and me. On these cold wintry nights with our coffee mugs in hand, we talk for hours and hours, Sylvia Plath and me!

Nick drank the coffee, the coffee according to Hopkins. The coffee was bitter. Nick laughed. It made a good ending to the story. His mind was starting to work. He knew he could choke it because he was tired enough. He spilled the coffee out of the pot and shook the grounds loose into the fire. He lit a cigarette and went inside the tent. He took off his shoes and trousers, sitting on the blankets, rolled the shoes up inside the trousers for a pillow and got in between the blankets.Out through the front of the tent he watched the glow of the fire when the night wind blew on it. It was a quiet night. The swamp was perfectly quiet. Nick stretched under the blanket comfortably. A mosquito hummed close to his ear. Nick sat up and lit a match. The mosquito was on the canvas, over his head. Nick moved the match quickly up to it. The mosquito made a satisfactory hiss in the flame. The match went out. Nick lay down again under the blankets. He turned on his side and shut his eyes. He was sleepy. He felt sleep coming. He curled up under the blanket and went to sleep.

I'm not everyone's cup of tea, because I'm a kick butt cappuccino with extra milk fluff and chocolate sprinkles!

I think much of a #writerslife is figuring out how much coffee is needed to fuel madness & creativity while avoiding having to pee.

Who shall I shoot? You choose. Now, listen very carefully: where's your coffee? You've got coffee, haven't you? C'mon, everyone's got coffee! Spill the beans!

The kiss is different than I expected. It’s slow and tender, his lips soft and warm against mine. He tastes sweet, like the powdered sugar I spilt and the coffee with chicory he’s always drinking. It’s a perfect first kiss.

Our daily habits – honorable and dishonorable, noble and ignoble, vital and vile – are revelatory. Our sense of self is fashioned partially by what we employ to crank us up in order to charge through every day, or stated otherwise, what vices we partake of and what substances we are addicted to using.

A big group of daily friends or a white painted house with bills and mirrors, are not a necessity to me—but an intelligent conversation while sharing another coffee, is.

Prayer is like coffee for my soul in the morning

I’d like to THANK whoever saw a bunch of cherries and thought....HEY!! If I dry out a bunch of those berry seeds, call them “BEANS”, smash them and add hot water, it will be AWESOME!

You smoked another cigarette and we shared another coffee and it was just another morning that made me realise that this is all it takes to be happy.

Tobacco, coffee, alcohol, hashish, prussic acid, strychnine, are weak dilutions. The surest poison is time.

I hereby arm myself for today with coffee and the willingness to be wrong.

Life’s too short to drink crappy coffee and cry over boys who don’t care.

I ordered a single espresso because I wanted a drink I could hook up with.

The pull of lingering dreams, the strong, bitter tasteof morning coffee, the ticking clock, and horn of awaiting busform a powerful combination to kick-start the day

Always choose the adventure ... unless, it's chilly outside and there's a cup of warm coffee resting near a book and comfy sofa.

One of the single most important things a writer must do, besides writing, is reading ...... and drinking coffee.

She was made mostly of coffee and empty spaces.

I wriggle slowly out of the snug little cubby of blankets. Taking a shower. Letting the cool morning breeze that blows through the open windows gently caress my naked flesh. I savor the mild sun.For a while, i luxuriate in the feel of the soft towel against my skin and then, the breeze picks up and feels like a thousand miniature tongues licking the beads of water from my body. Today, no expectations. Lots of time for stretching and waking up slowly. The smell of fresh brewed coffee tickles my nose. Mornings like these make life so delicious – Nice!

Life without books, chocolate & coffee is just useless.

Let me wake up next to you,A cup of coffee together will do.Let’s go out somewhere far,Don’t let anyone know till we’re back.Grab your bike keys & my hand,Let’s wander holding hand in hand.To our secret spot up the hill we go,And we see the sunset & more.Under a magical sky filled with stars,Kiss me good night on my eyes.And we find out you don't have to be happy at all...Cause darling, I'm beside you holding your hand

I brought you some coffee.” he held out the cup but she waved it away.“I hate that stuff. It tastes like feet.”At that he smiled. “How would you know what feet taste like?”“I just know.”-Luke and Clary, pg.209-

Ethiopia is the center of origin and diversity for the majority of coffee we drink. The commodification of coffee pushes farmers to grow as much as possible by whatever means possible. This has contributed to deforestation. The place where coffee was born - the area with the greatest biodiversity of coffee anywhere in the world - could disappear. No forest, no coffee. No coffee, no forest. What we lose isn't specific to Ethiopia; it impacts us all.

The joke was that President Bush only declared war when Starbucks was hit. You can mess with the U.N. all you want, but when you start interfering with the right to get caffeinated, someone has to pay.

The sun was already long past the spire when Garrick purchased a mug of coffee from his regular man on the tip of Oxford Street. But his palate had been educated by 21st century coffee, and he judged this mug as bilge water not fit for the Irish.

If I wanted to consume something that looks and tastes like dirt, I’d eat dirt,” I said, “at least dirt isn’t overpriced."~Beans~

Pause while reading a book only in case of two things:1. To kiss2. To sip coffeeToo bad both are a luxury.

some poems frothand foam and rise...out of my morning cup ofmist-sweetened coffee.

If coffee were like dreams, then I would be wired in constant bliss, never needing sleep to live out my dreams.

Black as night, sweet as sin.