How many times already had I encountered the painful lesson that although we may wish for the barb to be pulled from our flesh, it leaves a welt that doesn't heal?

A wounded tiger is a dangerous beast.

Was life nothing more than a storm that constantly washed away what had been there only a moment before, and left behind something barren and unrecognizable?

The corridor couldn't have smelled more strongly of fish guts if we had actually been inside a fish.

Never give up; for even rivers someday wash dams away.

At the temple there is a poem called "Loss" carved into the stone. It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out. You cannot read loss, only feel it.

All at once I felt so vain, like a girl posturing for the crowds as she walks along, only to discover the street is empty.