echo, the death of a sound that had nowhere to go but to come back.
Poppies bleed petals of sheer excess. You and I, this sweet battle ground.
A cliche is like a coin that has been handled too much. Once language has been overly handled, it no longer leaves a clear imprint.
It was only natural to want to destroy something you could never have.
If sinners where so unhappy, why would they prefer their suffering? But now I knew why. Without my wounds, who was I?
Her hatred glittered irresistibly. I could see it, the jewel, it was sapphire, it was the cold lakes of Norway.