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1 " Witch Baby wanted to ask Ping how to find her Jah-Love angel. She knew Raphael was not him, even though Raphael had the right eyes and smile and name. She knew how he looked--the angel in her dream--but she didn't know how to find him. Should she roller-skate through the streets in the evenings when the streetlights flicker on? Should she stow away to Jamaica on a cruise ship and search for him in the rain forests and along the beaches? Would he come to her? Was he waiting, dreaming of her in the same way she waited and dreamed? "
― Francesca Lia Block , Witch Baby (Weetzie Bat, #2)
2 " Harry lost any sense of where they were: Streetlights above him, yells around him, he was clinging to the sidecar for dear life. Hedwig’s cage, the Firebolt, and his rucksack slipped from beneath his knees —“No — HEDWIG!”The broomstick spun to earth, but he just managed to seize the strap of his rucksack and the top of the cage as the motorbike swung the right way up again. A second’s relief, and then another burst of green light. The owl screeched and fell to the floor of the cage.“No — NO!”The motorbike zoomed forward; Harry glimpsed hooded Death Eaters scattering as Hagrid blasted through their circle. —”But the owl lay motionless and pathetic as a toy on the floor of her cage. "
3 " He looked around at the perfectly white world, felt the wet kisses of the snowflakes, pondered hidden meanings in the pale yellow streetlights that shone in a world so whitely asleep. " Beautiful," he whispered. "
4 " The young man shivered. He rolled the stock themes of fantasy over in his mind: cars and stockbrokers and commuters, housewives and police, agony columns and commercials for soap, income tax and cheap restaurants, magazines and credit cards and streetlights and computers... 'It is escapism, true,' he said, aloud. 'But is not the highest impulse in mankind the urge toward freedom, the drive to escape? "
― Neil Gaiman , Fragile Things: Short Fictions and Wonders
5 " I have noticed a trend in premature deaths in the people that I know and the presence of streetlights outside of their homes. "
― Steven Magee , Light Forensics
6 " Sooner or later, all talk among foreigners in Pyongyang turns to one imponderable subject. Do the locals really believe what they are told, and do they truly revere Fat Man and Little Boy? I have been a visiting writer in several authoritarian and totalitarian states, and usually the question answers itself. Someone in a café makes an offhand remark. A piece of ironic graffiti is scrawled in the men's room. Some group at the university issues some improvised leaflet. The glacier begins to melt; a joke makes the rounds and the apparently immovable regime suddenly looks vulnerable and absurd. But it's almost impossible to convey the extent to which North Korea just isn't like that. South Koreans who met with long-lost family members after the June rapprochement were thunderstruck at the way their shabby and thin northern relatives extolled Fat Man and Little Boy. Of course, they had been handpicked, but they stuck to their line.There's a possible reason for the existence of this level of denial, which is backed up by an indescribable degree of surveillance and indoctrination. A North Korean citizen who decided that it was all a lie and a waste would have to face the fact that his life had been a lie and a waste also. The scenes of hysterical grief when Fat Man died were not all feigned; there might be a collective nervous breakdown if it was suddenly announced that the Great Leader had been a verbose and arrogant fraud. Picture, if you will, the abrupt deprogramming of more than 20 million Moonies or Jonestowners, who are suddenly informed that it was all a cruel joke and there's no longer anybody to tell them what to do. There wouldn't be enough Kool-Aid to go round. I often wondered how my guides kept straight faces. The streetlights are turned out all over Pyongyang—which is the most favored city in the country—every night. And the most prominent building on the skyline, in a town committed to hysterical architectural excess, is the Ryugyong Hotel. It's 105 floors high, and from a distance looks like a grotesquely enlarged version of the Transamerica Pyramid in San Francisco (or like a vast and cumbersome missile on a launchpad). The crane at its summit hasn't moved in years; it's a grandiose and incomplete ruin in the making. 'Under construction,' say the guides without a trace of irony. I suppose they just keep two sets of mental books and live with the contradiction for now. "
― Christopher Hitchens , Love, Poverty, and War: Journeys and Essays
7 " She turned off all the lights in the duplex and peered out the windows, moving from one room to the next to see if she could catch sight of the a black sedan. Security lights and streetlights in her complex cast a strange orange glow on the misty snow. It looked like the perfect night for a murder. "
― Terry Spear , SEAL Wolf In Too Deep (Heart of the Wolf, #18)
8 " It’s what we’re all trying to do, right? Remember a time that was better. Re-create a moment of that memory as we let the crisp Coke bubble down our throats. Riding bikes on a summer day. Sitting on the curb and watching the streetlights come on. Playing in the sprinklers with a group of neighbor kids. We’re all trying to salvage a time when we dreamed beyond our reality and thought monsters were under our beds instead of peppering our family trees. We’re trying to harness those fleeting moments that turned our ordinary lives into something extraordinary. In the sepia haze of those memories, we are beautiful. "
― Liza Palmer , Nowhere But Home
9 " I don’t like days that end without answers. I’ll just keep my eyes open and we’ll see what happens. I look up. One of the streetlights fades, disappearing as quick as it shone, the light sucked out of it. Life can be so hilarious sometimes I don’t have time to laugh. "
10 " There were streetlights here, but they were so far apart and surrounded by trees that light dropped away to solid black between them. The skin on the back of his neck crawled as he became aware of the darkness. He didn't usually walk around after nightfall, but tonight he'd had no choice without his car. The wind lifted his hair, leaving him shivering; a voice in his mind chattered nervously.There was someone in my yard the other night... "
― , Edge of Wild
11 " Touch was absolutelyout of the question. I couldn’t stop sweating. My heart, a butterfly pinnedto a glacier. Empires fell inside my mouth. I touched myself like a pogrom& broke my sex into a history of inconsequential shames. I wept viciouslyinside of my own stomach & had it condemned. From an upside-down bellI drank silence, subsisted on the memory of someone else’s hands. Wolvessang & I did not answer. I forgot their names. Mornings were the worst, thenthere were days & evenings. Streetlights & darkened sycamore & suburbangrief so full it made me foolish. I shattered my fist on the Lord’s jaw. Sorrowsat, licking my wrists & my neck. I slept at its convenience. O, uncelebratedbody. My penis, a lighthouse on the bottom of the ocean, shining shadowsat the undersides of boats. Nobody drowned for so many years. Desperatefor the making of those candy-throated ghosts, I found the rooms betweenthe violence of comets. I threw myself into anything’s path. Even the skybent around me. How lonely to be something that nothing wants to kill. (So I Locked Myself Inside A Star for Twenty Years) "
12 " I feel ugly” I said and you looked at me as if I spoke a different language. There are things you will never understand and if there were words to describe the rapture that takes place in my head from time to time I would put my hand in front of your eyes to protect you from all the ugliness in the world. I kept my eyes on the streetlights outside the window and you kissed every inch of my body as if you could kiss the pain away. "
― Charlotte Eriksson , Empty Roads & Broken Bottles: in search for The Great Perhaps
13 " Except for the shapes of the windows, backlit by the streetlights that dotted the perimeter of the Moosetookalook town square, Liss could see very little in the darkness of the room she shared with her husband. The two front windows were raised as far as they would go, since Liss had been taught at an early age that fresh air was one of nature's best sleep aids. She had never had any reason to doubt that small bit of folk wisdom. "
― Kaitlyn Dunnett , Kilt at the Highland Games (Liss MacCrimmon Mysteries #10)
14 " As she reached the stairs, she made a quick detour and stepped outside. A crescent moon hung in the midnight blue sky along with trillions of twinkling stars. Out here there were no streetlights to wash out the view. She loved being able to see the stars. Tonight, the mountains were etched deep purple against the night sky. The white snowcapped tips gleamed silver. Nearer, silhouetted pine trees swayed in the breeze as if in a slow dance. “You are such a romantic,” Trask had once told her. “Are you sure you want to open a bar? You should be writing poetry.” She’d laughed. “How do you know I don’t? "
― B.J. Daniels , Renegade's Pride (The Montana Cahills, #1)
15 " Rained gently last night, just enough to wash the town clean, and then today a clean crisp fat spring day, the air redolent, the kind of green minty succulent air you'd bottle if you could and snort greedily on bleak, wet January evenings when the streetlights hzzzt on at four in the afternoon and all existence seems hopeless and sad. "
― Brian Doyle , Mink River