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Use this space for notes and reminders to yourself.
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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
Even the wildest imagination is built upon order.
I’m really tired this evening, and thinking nightmarish thoughts, like a passing fantasy about being buried alive, and one about enduring some kind of brutal war in this neighborhood, but probably the worst one is the thought that someday I’ll be senile and not able to conjugate verbs properly any more.
Everyone always says that your eyesight is the first to go, or your memory, or your sex drive…I’m just hoping that the last thing to go is my imagination.
Funny, sometimes, that romance is just another one of those somethings that begins with imagination.
Having accidentally shot his own imagination with the shrink ray gun (which he would have sworn was unloaded), Timmy decided to watch TV.
My body may be caught in this bland, bland place, but my mind has been set free and is roaming.
Henry breathed a big sigh of relief (in his imagination).
After reconsidering, Keith decided he was the figment of the group’s collective imagination.
Although he’d never seen the Doves of Ambiguity, Peter worried that the two nesting in his head were only the scout birds, and that one day as dusk was settling in on his sleepy little imagination, the whole flock would arrive, squeezing into his head to begin building their summer nests.
I have several good stories locked away in my tight imagination but I fear that I will not find a way to translate them into deathless, pithy prose before I am eaten by a puma.
“And you’ll note on your left the remains of a giant chicken, which, interestingly, hides a costume box and a set of clown shoes,” said the guide as she continued down the halls of the Overly Fertile Imagination.
It’s far, far weirder than I ever imagined.
No matter how hard she dreamed for it, her hands never became covered in scales, nor did they ever grow filthy, long, dark claws.
A cardboard wrapping-paper tube, some glow-in-the-dark-paint, two popsicle sticks for a handle, and a little rubber cement can make you parent of the year.
One place I’m fairly sure I don’t want to holiday is the terrain of my own imagination.
I had been to Koontz Manor many times before, but the charged atmosphere of Halloween and my adolescent imagination made the house seem more sinister than on those other nights.
As I walked in the early hours of the morning, a brilliant shadow appeared frenetically before my feet, outlining the sharp fronds of a palm tree, so I turned around to admire the tree and found no light and no such tree.
Some said his imagination was like a small group of well-mannered ducks sipping beer in a pub, politely trying not to look down the waitress’ low-cut blouse as she delivered the second round, but he always scoffed at the notion, reminding them that ducks had an eye on either side of their head, and that the very idea that they could look away from something so tempting, no matter how polite they tried to be, was simply ludicrous.
I sometimes suspect that we’re all figments of my imagination, but then realise I would have made a lot more polka-dot people, so it can’t possibly be true.
Some things start off innocently enough, but then Imagination gets involved and it drags you kicking and screaming down corridors that you definitely do not wish to investigate.
His imagination was in many ways like The TARDIS, bigger on the inside, so it was impossible to tell, even for him, what would happen if he turned the knob on the door labeled The Lost Goliard.
Because his car wasn't all that reliable, and the universe being such a big place and all, he traveled mostly by imagination.
Each night he tossed and turned for hours as the years of nonsense pushed around in his head, struggling for a life of its own.
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