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Here's the stuff we found when you searched for "She validated our dreams with her own"

does she need to touch her own face to know?
She disappeared as if he had only dreamed her
She flies with her own wings
She knows no truth except her own.
Dream of ducks, she said
she gave her heart to a falling star
She was a committed romantic and an anarcha-feminist. This was hard for her because it meant she couldn't blow up beautiful buildings.
our own personal movies
She thought about giving him her heart
She picked herself up, wiping away at her dignity
She was most amazed by the obvious, like January and the fact that I could not possibly keep her.
Daylight separates our dreams from our flaws
It is Folly to Measure the True and False by Our Own Capacity
Each month I love in her own way
I come home, she lifted up her wings. I guess that this must be the place.
She sat in virginal white, eyes closed, with only her face in rose
she had already found her party
She opened her eyes, looked at a world made entirely of white light
She bruised her knee. This is how we met.
We each deal with our own demons
geniuses in our own time
I don't like her because she won't like me
I like it when I dream of her. It's the only time we get to talk.
In a quiet grove of pines under a frosty sky, he helped her out of the sack. She wore severe white hospital pajamas and was beautiful.
He touched her once and she turned into a golden creature. He never touched her again.
serene. She sips her tea
She does not rustle but her flesh has the moonlit shade of a silver birch
i gave her my heart. she gave me a pen.
if you fear spells, look away when she decides to share her hair with the wind.
She is the queen of accidental magic. Her used kleenexes, taken by the wind, become soulful ghosts.
Because I still love her, because I know she still loves me.
A queen in her own sense
I would have attempted to draw her if she had stayed that way.
She is willing to attempt to retrieve the data. Go with her.
She gets caught in the little world beneath her sheets
It must be morning when she dreams.
Killing Our Own
She crashed her car trying to avoid a butterfly
Attempting to harness the engine of our own destruction, only humans are so foolish.
We stole the guest list and replaced it with our own
Legislation to save us from our own stupidity
I gave her my heart, she tore it apart, and who gives a fart.
you were a dream I painted and wished to own
She ties regrets around her fingers like forget-me-knots
The sun was caught playing unashamedly in her auburn hair, setting our world on fire with giddiness
She wears her failed relationships like a shield
I haven't seen her in a month. She is still beautiful.
She said I dreamed like dead men
she left her handwriting all over the calendar
All the while he was talking she was thinking what his whiskers would feel like on the back of her neck
The Dancefloor is our Mother. Her heart beats at 125 BPM.
I don't tell her these things, and she doesn't ask
She was inside the music, with her eyes closed
I don't think she even knows that I make her smile
She is so beautiful, I gave up Nihilism for her
She opened her eyes and spoke in a very normal voice, just as if she were sane
She Will Have Her Way: The Songs Of Tim & Neil Finn
The emotion on her face was always the one that she was feeling in her heart
When she sleeps, is she not moving her legs aside for an unknown garrison?
Susan Goldman, who has cervical cancer, is partly thankful as she braces herself but changes her mind as she's sprayed with burning jet fuel.
she doesn't write, doesn't tell you stories, but somehow it's her words that spring to mind at those crucial, terrifying moments, and for that you are eternally grateful
A dose of mystery slipped into her cocktail while she was in the ladies' room
A Leela of Her Own
She is the sea. Above her, he is thunder.
She keeps her lies everywhere
She smokes. It wraps around her wrists and clings to her neck.
She asked me to read her a poem
it was just as if she held her breath for 82 years
Sleep to Dream Her
She always confused her greys with white.
A Riot of Our Own
The land of our fathers, stolen before we knew it was our own
We are the servants of our muse, and we toil where she commands
Can we ever truly act against our own interests?
Our love is eternal. The night will end. The dragon is forever. Good will prevail. Mother sits on her throne.
Monsters of our own longings
we can push our own buttons like adolescent gods
Farewell to one of our own, one of our best (document)
moment after moment, we have to find our own way
we are starving because we are afraid of our own hearts, and there must be another way
Let us be our own pornographers
we will replace the stars with machines of our own creation
Our love is eternal. The night will end. The dragon is forever. Good wil prevail. Mother sits on her throne.
Another bed she does not own
You shine in the eyes of lovers we complicate, accidentally, lending our own critiques and eyebrows to time
if we are to be lies, we will be lies of our own making
She is a night of dark trees, but he who is not afraid of her darkness will find banks full of roses under her cypresses
Her dreams involve a backstroke and a full moon
Since she whom I lov'd hath paid her last debt
and our dreams will break the boundaries of our fears
She was a Surrealist Woman, She was like a Figure in a Dream
She found her bliss between the headphones, and pursed her lips.
She asked me to copy my poem into her notebook
She said, while hugging a bowl of turnips close to her bosom
I ran over an old woman with her own car
The Soul selects her own Society
Her perception of how gorgeous she is will be evident in her lack of movement during sex
Robert Lionel Fanthorpe fills up the word count in a science fiction novel: she brushed her teeth
I dream that I walk with her
She calls him Sugarcane. He calls her Hurricane.
Her grief is still too young to behave itself, so she never lets it out
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?
Sometimes the apathy she saw made her want to curl up and cry
When she woke up, her hands were still dreaming
Would you like to penetrate her shell, insinuating yourself among the pages of the books she is reading?
They walk around her like she is in danger of breaking
She grew a little older, while he was telling her
Her innocence fell. She kicked at it some, frowned, and left it there because it was beautiful.
You can play with my ex-girlfriend, but treat her like the lady that she is.
She plugs her tears in the way you'd keep a dam from breaking
At night, her eyes closed, she would
The portion of her face she allows me to see
She was never mine. I always shared her.
Young Virgin Auto-Sodomized by Her Own Chastity
It happened to everyone else; she swore it wouldn't to her
I dreamed of her pulse long before I took it from her
She who leaves men as flaming wrecks in the ditch on the side of the road in her wake, yea, even submarines
Some nights, alone, he thinks of her, and some nights, alone, she thinks of him
She Will Have Her Way
And she, with her beautiful words and such a fire burning inside
the way she wears her weary
Veronica loves manipulating her vagina until she explodes
She didn't wave goodbye so much as slightly raise her hand
why she makes her wishes at 7:07
She was the prettiest, loveliest cat at the ball and she had upon her fine gilded whiskers.
She was so quiet that nobody heard her
little pieces of her tragically poetic attempts at being loved that she was startlingly aware of, today
while she sleeps, i write myself into her life
I told her I could read her mind, but she didn't believe me. I could tell.
Her self image was not the force field she imagined it to be
She does not take her trip. She does not shout out loud.
she lit her thumb on fire
She practices her speech
A girl I know had her jaw wired shut, and she vomited.
You put a hand on her hip, she permits it.
She, the Last Leviathan. She, the Station Agent. Chin on her Palm, she Watches Every Departure.
She Called in Her Soul to Come and See
She said her father died of cancer in the sixties
She nicknamed her vagina "Crusty"
She asked me if I loved her and I showed her the tattoo
On her own
Every time that I tell her that I love her, I can taste my own hypocrisy
She always was devious in her beauty
Dreams Of Our Fathers
you never once told her how beautiful she was nor how much you truly loved her
Who owns our writeups?
our own little patch of dixie
a shade of her own features
Laid down on the bed that wasn't her own
in cities not our own
Why don't we become completely independent and make our own everything
Her heart's too real to not have its own beat
Our Rubbish Dreams
The Dream
dream guy
Electric Dreams
What Dreams May Come
The stuff dreams are made of
American Dream
dream date Ken
Dream Log: December 28, 1999
How to validate HTML quickly from Mozilla
Weird Dream
Dream Log: December 29, 1999
Dream Log: January 21, 2000
Dream Log: January 22, 2000
Dream Log: January 23, 2000

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