To think is an act. To feel is a fact.
I hear the mad song of a little bird and crush butterflies between my fingers.
Holding someone's hand was always my idea of joy.
Her curiosity instructed her more than the answers she was given.
I write as if to save somebody’s life. Probably my own. Life is a kind of madness that death makes. Long live the dead because we live in them.
For at the hour of death you became a celebrated film star, it is a moment of glory for everyone, when the choral music scales the top notes.