Underneath all reason lies delirium and drift.
When ideas float in our mind, without any reflection or regard of the understanding, it is that which the French call reverie.
While I'm writing, I'm far away; and when I come back, I've gone.
I sit at my window gazing The world passes by, nods to me And is gone.
And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be?
She’s never where she is,' I said. 'She’s only inside her head.
But, enough of that for now. Let’s get lost again in the starry night.
He went like one that hath been stunn'd, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn.
There were moments when she wasn't talking so much as fading into time, dropping back into some funnelled stretch of recent past.
Give me a window and I'll stare out it.
Think of the long trip home. Should we have stayed home and thought of here? Where should we be today?
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this lost, even in Wales.
Reverie is when ideas float in our mind without reflection or regard of the understanding.
My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am nor what I do.
Bewildered, bewildered, you have no complaint. You are what you are, and you ain't what you ain't.
All I ever wanted was a world without maps.
You're thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk.
Hey, Ocean Eyes,” my father said. “Where’d you go on us?
You spend your life dreaming, running 'round in a trance, You hang out forever and still miss the dance, And if you get lucky, you might find someone, To help you get over the pain that will come.
He had the same empty confusion in his eyes that I saw in my mirror every morning, that odd sort of denial that only seems to come when the world decides to jump the rails without warning you first.
I was a real daydreamer at school, gazing out of the window and losing myself in imaginary worlds.
To possess a high degree of consciousness, to be always aware of yourself in relation to the world, to live in the permanent tension of knowledge, means to be lost for life.
This experience of getting so lost in my writing that I lose track of time, or of anything outside the imagined world, is a release for me.
I have never been able to pay attention to anything for more than a few minutes - the stories in my head have always been so much more entertaining. Only books could pull me out of my own imagination, and then it was only to plunge me into someone else's.
I guess I haven't gotten over being lost, a wandering gypsy.
