The body is the outermost layer of the mind.
Music’s a wood you walk through.
Autumn is leaving its mellowness behind for its spiky, rotted stage. Don't remember summer even saying goodbye.
For me, novels coalesce into being, rather than arrive fully formed.
Your turn has come to sift through the dreck of humanity for rare specks of originality
Gosh. The subjunctive is always the first to go.