Her voice was like a line from an old black-and-white Jean-Luc Godard movie, filtering in just beyond the frame of my consciousness.

Time flows in strange ways on Sundays, and sights become mysteriously distorted.

The world is an inherently unfair place.

That's what the world is , after all: an endless battle of contrasting memories.

Don't pointless things have a place, too, in this far-from-perfect world? Remove everything pointless from an imperfect life, and it'd lose even its imperfection.

The grounds of the place were dominated by several large, old willow trees that towered over the surrounding stone wall and swayed soundlessly in the wind like lost souls.

Some things in life are too complicated to explain in any language.