Hundreds of butterflies flitted in and out of sight like short-lived punctuation marks in a stream of consciousness without beginning or end.

Her smile steps offstage for a moment, then does an encore, all while I'm dealing with my blushing face.

She was truly a beautiful girl. I could feel a small polished stone sinking through the darkest waters of my heart. All those deep convoluted channels and passageways, and yet she managed to toss her pebble right down to the bottom of it all.

They put up with such strenuous training, and where did their thoughts, their hopes and dreams, disappear to? When people pass away, do their thoughts just vanish?

For some reason all the middle-aged women he knew were very efficient.

Not that we were incompatible: we just had nothing to talk about.

What if I’ve forgotten the most important thing?