Isaac was still clinging to the bench. He started to cry. He pressed his forehead down to the backrest and I watched his shoulders shake.
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@isthisthetfiosbench
Isaac was still clinging to the bench. He started to cry. He pressed his forehead down to the backrest and I watched his shoulders shake.
I imagined the Augustus Waters analysis of that comment: If I am sitting on benches in heaven, does that imply a physical location of a heaven containing physical benches? Who makes the benches in question? Are there less fortunate souls in heaven who work in a celestial bench factory so that I can sit? Or did an omnipotent God create the benches out of the vacuum of space? Is this heaven in some kind of unobservable universe where the laws of physics don't apply, and if so, why in the hell would I be sitting on benches when I could be flying or reading or looking at beautiful people or something else I actually enjoy? It's almost as if the way you imagine my dead self says more about you than either the person I was or whatever I am now.
If you don't sit on a bench in service of a greater good, you've gotta at least lay on one in service of a greater good, you know? And I fear that I won't sit or lay in a way that means anything.
She walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly upon the bench.
"Are you currently sitting on your bench?" he asked. "Um, no," I said. "That was a trick question. I knew the answer, because I am currently sitting on your bench."
I got my wish, I suppose. I sat on this bench.
One bench, well-worn but structurally sound, seeks new home. Make memories with your kid or kids so that someday he or she or they will look into the backyard and feel the ache of sentimentality as desperately as I did this afternoon. It's all fragile and fleeting, dear reader, but with this bench, your child(ren) will be introduced to the splintering fragility of human life gently and comfortably, and may also learn the most important lesson of all: No matter how hard you sit, no matter how softly you lay, you'll always get a wet butt after it's rained.
You sat on lots of benches within the numbered days, and I'm grateful.
No benches were broken.
I want more benches than I'm likely to get, and God, I want more benches for Jeeves Williams than he got.
The world is not a bench-granting factory.
That's why I like you. Do you realize how rare it is to come across a hot girl who creates a adjectival version of the word 'bench'? You are so busy being you that you have no idea how utterly unprecedented you are.
Your bench is unpleasant, but it isn't technically unsafe.
Maybe benches will be our always.
I fear your bench has been misplaced—but then, benches usually are.
The weird thing about benches is that they almost always look like nothing happens on them, even though they contain most of our lives. I wondered if that was sort of the point of bench design.
Without benches, how could we know joy?