Only the margin left to write on now. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Perhaps if I make myself write I shall find out what is wrong with me.
Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?
Certain unique books seem to be without forerunners or successors as far as their authors are concerned. Even though they may profoundly influence the work of other writers, for their creator they're complete, not leading anywhere.
Even a broken heart doesn't warrant a waste of good paper.
I'm convinced England's overflowing with eccentric people, places, happenings. Indeed, you might say eccentricity's normal in England.