The residue of the universe is within all matter of being. it is within me. It is within you. There is nothing that can exist that isn’t the residue of the Big Bang, the event that created the entire universe. We are all one. We are all from the same source. We are all residue.
she took the glass pipe in her hands. ‘are you sure it won’t hurt?’ ‘oh it’ll hurt. but you’ll love every second of it.’ she hesitantly put it to her lips, set it aflame and deeply inhaled. she blew out the smoke and coughed it out. ‘nice job babe, later on we can smoke the resin.’
The stain in the garage was disgusting. Sal would look at it and immediately feel frustration toward her father. How many times had this happened before? How many times had she had to clean up after his mess? She grabbed the mop and bucket and set to work. “Last time,” she told herself. Sal fooled herself into thinking that this was the last time she would ever help him.
Your smell lingers in the air, I smell it on my clothes. Your face burns in my mind, I sede it everytime I close my eyes. Your kiss makes me smile, my lips tingle. Always left with your residue, everytime you leave.
the residue of music is gross. it leaves you with feeling, with thought about life, with thought about changing your cicrumstances. But i cant get over it.
residue of anything else is cool. except soap when you touch it with dry hands. waxy and nasty.
Amy looked at the sticky oozing orange stuff that was on her desk. How could such and tiny thing leave this much goo? She had tried scrubbing the residue off to no avail.
i love love i love being in love your just too good to be true can’t take my eyes of you you would be like heaven to touch i want to hold you so much at last love has arrived.
I had to make money fast. I didn’t have any and that was the problem. Nothing that would make residual income. I knew only how to spend it and was never taught how it found its way into my Louis Vuitton wallet all those years.
the things left behind, woh, the things left behind! what kind of children could have been made? What kind of love could have been taken hold of? There is only these things left behind, and my car is moving the faster down this interstate far from them all. Far far from them all.
After touching something of a strange consistency, a residue is left on your fingers. ew. I’m not a germophobe…but it makes me wanna go wash my hands right away.
The residue of my experience lingers on. It’s odd how a job, a girlfriend, a trip can stay with you in a way more urgent and more present than what’s right in front of you this moment. This must be brought to heel lest it consume you.
It is something that resembles left over. Or wait is that true? I dont think so. It might be related to fertilizers. Residue also has something to do with chemistry or biology. I dont know. Though i have come across this word far too many times to not remember it.
Residue. Left over. Something was once there and is now gone and all that remains is tiny pieces of it; subtle evidence of that which once was. Like tiny shattered pieces of the whole left behind. Like me.
residue is a unknown word to cows jumping out of trees eating ceral and then throwing popcorn at each other. People like residue for movies and stuff I know a black guy called residue.
Residue.. Left over stuff. Like feelings after a break up. What do you do with them? It’s not like other residue, you cant just throw them out or wipe them away. You’re stuck with them and you have to work through them as much you can. Or as much you choose too.. By drinking, or over eating!
The thing she loved most about gardening, was almost becoming one with the flowers. The dandelions gave off such a magnificent yellow residue that made her feel like she could lay down in between the plants and mysteriously blend in. What an easy life they have; Growing from seedlings in to amazing colours that nature uses to paint the otherwise dull soil.
I think there is still some small residue of hate left lingering in his heart. It won’t shrink any further. I sense it every time I look at him and he looks past me or through me or around me. Anywhere but at me. He can’t bring himself to do that. That’s how I know. And that’s how I know I have won.
I remember the time when I popped into the bathroom and couldn’t help but notice some strange splotch on the side of the wall. It was green and massive and smelled quite strange. Delving further into the bathroom, I noticed that there was not one area, but multiple areas covered in this green residue.
Her fingers locked around grey, tattered ivory, hanging from the wooden frame we once called The Grand. Residue picked upon her sun-streaked lips that hovered over the skeleton that resounded such notes that played the nerves in our backs like harps. Pieces on the floor and chords tangled in her hair from the silent room that left her everywhere.
The slimy residue slipped down from the ceiling the floor was completely drenched in something thick and grotesque and sinister. I turned on the bathroom like and there she was..
There was no sign of wear or tear where there was once vomit color slipping out of my scalp. I now had a hue unmatched by anyone in my vicinity. The more likely they were to spot me, but also to revere me. I say, come at me, I’m ready, and you better be too.
the stuff you find in the shower. the stuff you find in your marijuana pipe. It’s good in some situations but worst in others… I think of soap commercials and stuff you find on the bottom of the oven. Residue depending on the context to me have many visualizations… from working in the kitchen of the kitchen to mopping the floors of the dining room. Residue is everywhere unless you live in a bubble. that’s all I got…..
I feel the love you had for me
Trickling
Flowing
Shriveling
It is no longer there
It is no longer alive
It is no longer existing.
It is nothing but a residue of the love
you used to feel for me
of the love
I used to feel for you
Nothing remains
Nothing
not even a residue.
The sticky leavings of a by-gone race, the leftovers of a dead nation. I am what is left, I am who was left. No part to match my workings, I endure alone.
Sherlock burst out of his room, fully clad in scarf and coat, and had even included a set of earmuffs stuffed down over his ears (called for, as the temperatures had taken a steep drop the past two days). “Get dressed at once, John,” he thrummed happily, “I’m ravenous and we’re going out.”
John looked up from his computer in surprise, and did his best to hurry and bundle up. Any opportunity to see to it that Sherlock was fed was an opportunity the well-meaning doctor leaped at. He rushed down from his room, properly ensconced in two jumpers, a down coat, and a chullo, and grinned at Sherlock, following him eagerly down to street level. The taller man hailed them a taxi, and they were on their way, backs bared against the stinging wind.
“So where are we going?” John withdrew his cold hands from his pockets and rubbed them together, wishing he’d brought gloves. The taxi’s heater didn’t seem too functional.
“China town,” Sherlock replied after giving the cabbie an address. “I’ve been meaning to pay a visit for ages.”
John considered this, already salivating at the thought of that greasy sweet-and-sour chicken he always got. “That reminds me,” he said after a bit, “You never did tell me; how DO you tell a good Chinese restaurant by the bottom third of its door handle?”
“Easy,” Sherlock smirked over at him, “Check the handle for a greasy residue. If it has one, it is a mediocre establishment. The guests eat there quite a lot, and always take home leftovers in their paper bags, leaving behind evidence as they depart.” John nodded, following along. “If there is no residue, however,” Sherlock drawled with a sly grin, “It is either a very poor choice, or a very good one.”
John squinted, wrapping his head around the possibilities. “Poor because nobody eats there, so it doesn’t build up that film, right. I get that. But very good?”
Sherlock licked his lips in anticipation as they exited the taxi. “Because the food is so good that there are no leftovers for them to take home.”
John nodded as they approached a very authentic-looking restaurant, and he paused to inspect the handle, and found that it was clean. “I’m guessing this is one of those, then?” Sherlock rolled his eyes and ushered the doctor in before him. It was fortunate he had been able to distract his friend on the way, or else John might have put two and two together and realized that Sherlock had just taken him out to dinner on Valentine’s Day.
On your skin, under your nails, in your hair….everywhere.
The shock subsides, with tears in your eyes,
But no emotion on your face.
Your body is a mute.
It is the feeling on my skin that I can’t quite get rid of – it isn’t there, more like a stain. It is what is left behind, and possibly always will be, like a disgusting side effect or something I never wanted in the first place – a residue.
Residue. You might be far away, but there is some residue left that I can’t shake off. It clouds the back of my mind most days, but I just got an industrial strength cleaner and am about to start making it disappear.
He picked his glasses up of the floor, pulling his sweatshirt sleeve down to wipe of the filmy residue from the lenses. Slipping them onto the bridge of his nose, he blinked and looked around.
what is left? everything, hardly nothing. I still feel where you’ve left your imprint, it’s fresh. sometimes, I wonder what might happen if we never. left. don’t leave anything behind, because I’m still here and I’m beating, beating beats and beat-beat-beating for you.
There’s a sticky residue upon my fingers that I can’t seem to wash off. It must have been from that time I grazed your arm. You’ve always been able to stick to me like glue, but it has never been this potent. No matter the formula, I can’t seem to burn off all inhibitions created from your presence. There was once a time where we caressed one another like soft cotton; when I would gladly come back to you for more, but now its forced. We’re stuck.
The coagulation screen had revealed nothing. As he removed the miniscule test tube there was a light, citrus, salty taste on his tongue; the heat from the machine had agitated the volatile molecules. Under a powerful electron microscope, pentagonal crystalline structures betrayed a trace of phlabotinum bicarbonate in the sample. Just as he suspected. He carefully stowed the sample, that thin residue taken from the lipstick stain on a wine-glass, into his duffel coat. The entire case depended on something so small and fragile. It was time for Spoxy to take this back to the station. He was onto something.
The residue of the universe is within all matter of being. it is within me. It is within you. There is nothing that can exist that isn’t the residue of the Big Bang, the event that created the entire universe. We are all one. We are all from the same source. We are all residue.
she took the glass pipe in her hands. ‘are you sure it won’t hurt?’ ‘oh it’ll hurt. but you’ll love every second of it.’ she hesitantly put it to her lips, set it aflame and deeply inhaled. she blew out the smoke and coughed it out. ‘nice job babe, later on we can smoke the resin.’
The stain in the garage was disgusting. Sal would look at it and immediately feel frustration toward her father. How many times had this happened before? How many times had she had to clean up after his mess? She grabbed the mop and bucket and set to work. “Last time,” she told herself. Sal fooled herself into thinking that this was the last time she would ever help him.
Your smell lingers in the air, I smell it on my clothes. Your face burns in my mind, I sede it everytime I close my eyes. Your kiss makes me smile, my lips tingle. Always left with your residue, everytime you leave.
the residue of music is gross. it leaves you with feeling, with thought about life, with thought about changing your cicrumstances. But i cant get over it.
residue of anything else is cool. except soap when you touch it with dry hands. waxy and nasty.
EW, i dont like this word.
Amy looked at the sticky oozing orange stuff that was on her desk. How could such and tiny thing leave this much goo? She had tried scrubbing the residue off to no avail.
i love love i love being in love your just too good to be true can’t take my eyes of you you would be like heaven to touch i want to hold you so much at last love has arrived.
I had to make money fast. I didn’t have any and that was the problem. Nothing that would make residual income. I knew only how to spend it and was never taught how it found its way into my Louis Vuitton wallet all those years.
residue is annoying.
it stays stands to close.
it smothers.
i can’t see.
residue is dumb.
it stays aloof.
it is unwanted.
obviously by me.
its on my shower its on my floor it also appears to be on that door residue residue please just go away you leave me no privacy you leave me no say
the things left behind, woh, the things left behind! what kind of children could have been made? What kind of love could have been taken hold of? There is only these things left behind, and my car is moving the faster down this interstate far from them all. Far far from them all.
After touching something of a strange consistency, a residue is left on your fingers. ew. I’m not a germophobe…but it makes me wanna go wash my hands right away.
The residue of my experience lingers on. It’s odd how a job, a girlfriend, a trip can stay with you in a way more urgent and more present than what’s right in front of you this moment. This must be brought to heel lest it consume you.
It is something that resembles left over. Or wait is that true? I dont think so. It might be related to fertilizers. Residue also has something to do with chemistry or biology. I dont know. Though i have come across this word far too many times to not remember it.
Hi dear do you want to resign from so many burdens. For that you just need to meditate dear. Meditation and prayer help us lot to lead a happy life.
Residue. Left over. Something was once there and is now gone and all that remains is tiny pieces of it; subtle evidence of that which once was. Like tiny shattered pieces of the whole left behind. Like me.
residue is a unknown word to cows jumping out of trees eating ceral and then throwing popcorn at each other. People like residue for movies and stuff I know a black guy called residue.
Residue.. Left over stuff. Like feelings after a break up. What do you do with them? It’s not like other residue, you cant just throw them out or wipe them away. You’re stuck with them and you have to work through them as much you can. Or as much you choose too.. By drinking, or over eating!
The thing she loved most about gardening, was almost becoming one with the flowers. The dandelions gave off such a magnificent yellow residue that made her feel like she could lay down in between the plants and mysteriously blend in. What an easy life they have; Growing from seedlings in to amazing colours that nature uses to paint the otherwise dull soil.
I think there is still some small residue of hate left lingering in his heart. It won’t shrink any further. I sense it every time I look at him and he looks past me or through me or around me. Anywhere but at me. He can’t bring himself to do that. That’s how I know. And that’s how I know I have won.
I remember the time when I popped into the bathroom and couldn’t help but notice some strange splotch on the side of the wall. It was green and massive and smelled quite strange. Delving further into the bathroom, I noticed that there was not one area, but multiple areas covered in this green residue.
Her fingers locked around grey, tattered ivory, hanging from the wooden frame we once called The Grand. Residue picked upon her sun-streaked lips that hovered over the skeleton that resounded such notes that played the nerves in our backs like harps. Pieces on the floor and chords tangled in her hair from the silent room that left her everywhere.
i left mine on the table. Residue of my brain,because thats all it is left of it. I had this word before it is not funny ,oh so time is up
The slimy residue slipped down from the ceiling the floor was completely drenched in something thick and grotesque and sinister. I turned on the bathroom like and there she was..
residue? hmm . . . isn’t that . . . hmm. i forgot what that is. I know it but its in the tip of my tongue!
That’s left, that’s right.
Responsive side of you
Resignation due.
There was no sign of wear or tear where there was once vomit color slipping out of my scalp. I now had a hue unmatched by anyone in my vicinity. The more likely they were to spot me, but also to revere me. I say, come at me, I’m ready, and you better be too.
the stuff you find in the shower. the stuff you find in your marijuana pipe. It’s good in some situations but worst in others… I think of soap commercials and stuff you find on the bottom of the oven. Residue depending on the context to me have many visualizations… from working in the kitchen of the kitchen to mopping the floors of the dining room. Residue is everywhere unless you live in a bubble. that’s all I got…..
I feel the love you had for me
Trickling
Flowing
Shriveling
It is no longer there
It is no longer alive
It is no longer existing.
It is nothing but a residue of the love
you used to feel for me
of the love
I used to feel for you
Nothing remains
Nothing
not even a residue.
The sticky leavings of a by-gone race, the leftovers of a dead nation. I am what is left, I am who was left. No part to match my workings, I endure alone.
Sherlock burst out of his room, fully clad in scarf and coat, and had even included a set of earmuffs stuffed down over his ears (called for, as the temperatures had taken a steep drop the past two days). “Get dressed at once, John,” he thrummed happily, “I’m ravenous and we’re going out.”
John looked up from his computer in surprise, and did his best to hurry and bundle up. Any opportunity to see to it that Sherlock was fed was an opportunity the well-meaning doctor leaped at. He rushed down from his room, properly ensconced in two jumpers, a down coat, and a chullo, and grinned at Sherlock, following him eagerly down to street level. The taller man hailed them a taxi, and they were on their way, backs bared against the stinging wind.
“So where are we going?” John withdrew his cold hands from his pockets and rubbed them together, wishing he’d brought gloves. The taxi’s heater didn’t seem too functional.
“China town,” Sherlock replied after giving the cabbie an address. “I’ve been meaning to pay a visit for ages.”
John considered this, already salivating at the thought of that greasy sweet-and-sour chicken he always got. “That reminds me,” he said after a bit, “You never did tell me; how DO you tell a good Chinese restaurant by the bottom third of its door handle?”
“Easy,” Sherlock smirked over at him, “Check the handle for a greasy residue. If it has one, it is a mediocre establishment. The guests eat there quite a lot, and always take home leftovers in their paper bags, leaving behind evidence as they depart.” John nodded, following along. “If there is no residue, however,” Sherlock drawled with a sly grin, “It is either a very poor choice, or a very good one.”
John squinted, wrapping his head around the possibilities. “Poor because nobody eats there, so it doesn’t build up that film, right. I get that. But very good?”
Sherlock licked his lips in anticipation as they exited the taxi. “Because the food is so good that there are no leftovers for them to take home.”
John nodded as they approached a very authentic-looking restaurant, and he paused to inspect the handle, and found that it was clean. “I’m guessing this is one of those, then?” Sherlock rolled his eyes and ushered the doctor in before him. It was fortunate he had been able to distract his friend on the way, or else John might have put two and two together and realized that Sherlock had just taken him out to dinner on Valentine’s Day.
On your skin, under your nails, in your hair….everywhere.
The shock subsides, with tears in your eyes,
But no emotion on your face.
Your body is a mute.
Residue is so sweet, even thought it has poop. poopopopopopoop . poop isn’t too bad if you think about it. that is all. goodbye i love you
It is the feeling on my skin that I can’t quite get rid of – it isn’t there, more like a stain. It is what is left behind, and possibly always will be, like a disgusting side effect or something I never wanted in the first place – a residue.
Residue. You might be far away, but there is some residue left that I can’t shake off. It clouds the back of my mind most days, but I just got an industrial strength cleaner and am about to start making it disappear.
I leave residue. A residual. I leave it on the earth. With each breath, and each step. Is it good or bad? That is my choice. As it is yours.
He picked his glasses up of the floor, pulling his sweatshirt sleeve down to wipe of the filmy residue from the lenses. Slipping them onto the bridge of his nose, he blinked and looked around.
what is left? everything, hardly nothing. I still feel where you’ve left your imprint, it’s fresh. sometimes, I wonder what might happen if we never. left. don’t leave anything behind, because I’m still here and I’m beating, beating beats and beat-beat-beating for you.
There’s a sticky residue upon my fingers that I can’t seem to wash off. It must have been from that time I grazed your arm. You’ve always been able to stick to me like glue, but it has never been this potent. No matter the formula, I can’t seem to burn off all inhibitions created from your presence. There was once a time where we caressed one another like soft cotton; when I would gladly come back to you for more, but now its forced. We’re stuck.
The coagulation screen had revealed nothing. As he removed the miniscule test tube there was a light, citrus, salty taste on his tongue; the heat from the machine had agitated the volatile molecules. Under a powerful electron microscope, pentagonal crystalline structures betrayed a trace of phlabotinum bicarbonate in the sample. Just as he suspected. He carefully stowed the sample, that thin residue taken from the lipstick stain on a wine-glass, into his duffel coat. The entire case depended on something so small and fragile. It was time for Spoxy to take this back to the station. He was onto something.