Pillow Thoughts Book Quotes Novels & Stories

Instead of thinking deeply, I simply change my thoughts. Maybe nothing really includes this place on the map. I didn't think deeply because it might affect myself again. My mind is so full right now of what I discover. That's enough first. I lay down on my bed and my eyes caught sight of the book next to me. I got up immediately and picked it up. This is the book the woman that gave me at the library. The girl who is the magician. I didn't notice that I get this book up until here. I looked at its cover and it was written here, The History of Chicago. Pretty interesting because I already know something about the place I'm stepping on, but I'm so tired right now to read more.

Nothing went wrong, I promise. As I click the send button, I toss the phone to the side and fall back on the bed— that image flashing through my mind again. I know it was all in my head, but it was fucking horrifying to watch. Shaking my mind off the thoughts, I stand from the bed to strip out of my clothes, leaving me with my undergarments. I get on the bed and grab the book by the side, flipping through the pages to distract myself— I'm only able to read the first line before a yawn slips through my parted lips and I drop the book to its spot to give in to the sleepiness.

I smirked, shaking my head as I randomly picked a book from the shelf and gave it to her. She chuckled softly as she read the title. “Think, Fast and Slow. Really, Sky?” She studied the cover and flickered her eyes on me. “You haven’t read this yet.” “I did, once,” I answered. “It’s a good book.” She scanned the pages, reading them as if she was some kind of computer. After a few pages, she looked up and took a deep breath. “I’m keeping this,” She placed the book on the table. “I’m done thinking. Now, let’s do it fast.”

"See this is why I can't sleep , because I'm excessively bombarded with thoughts about you," "Perish those thoughts," " It's not that easy. My mind has a mind of it's own," " Your mind has a mind of its own? What does that even mean, Maxwell?" "It's poetry," "No it's not, and even if it was , it would be the lamest poetry line in the history of poetry lines," " I'm serious,"

​The silence of the train car was absolute. The countdown to the end of the Architect had officially begun. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and for the first time in months, I didn't think about the past. I thought about the kill.

At least, that’s what I thought. “You know…” Rox called, gaining my attention. “Have you ever heard of the quote ‘like an open book?’” I instantly pursed my lips. Did he found out what I was thinking? “Yeah, you bet I did.” Aw shoot. “I-I didn’t mean anything by what I thought. I-It’s just, you know… like random thoughts of the day?” I stuttered. “It’s night though.” Rox retorted. This jerk. At least let me win this fight. I already lost in terms of everything against you.

He looked through the titles and pulled a book out—Qualcuno volò sul nido del cuculo. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey, in Italian. I set the other down, just in case he finished that one or wanted to switch. “Thank you. This room is like a tomb, and I’ve been bored out of my mind when you’re gone.” He linked his fingers with mine and pulled my hand to his lips. His teeth grazed against my knuckle before his lips soothed. “Resting is good. It will help you heal.”

Maybe it could again. With shaky fingers, I reached for my phone, the glow of the screen harsh in the dim room. I searched for the scholar’s name, scrolling until I found another of his lectures. This one’s title stared back at me: "The Prison of Overthinking—and How to Break Free." I pressed play. His voice was calm, steady, like a hand reaching into the storm inside me. "Overthinking is a thief," he said. "It steals your peace, your joy, your present moment—all for a past you cannot change or a future you cannot control."

Almost. In the dark he lay on his back and looked at the ceiling and listened to Camila breathing beside him and told himself that a smell was just a smell. That a memory was just a memory. That the brain connects things without permission and without meaning and that it meant nothing at all that his first thought on tasting rosemary chicken made by one woman was the name of another. It meant nothing. He closed his eyes. He went to sleep.

He didn't build me. All the way through. To tonight. To the train. To the letter. To build something. Be happy. I turned to a new page. And I wrote: He said the last thing he thought about was me. Not the documents. Me. I have been thinking, since the train, about what it means to be someone's last thought. Not the last thought before sleep — the last thought before everything. The thought that arrives when there is no more time for other thoughts. He thought about wet grass under small feet.