a loss of sensibility follows a loss of innocence, at once a penalty and a compensation.
The family - that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor, in our inmost hearts, ever quite wish to.
The tea was a comfort - and by that time I more than needed comfort.
I was wandering around as usual, in my unpleasantly populated sub-conscious.
Even a broken heart doesn't warrant a waste of good paper.
Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?