It's lovely. I hate it.
He sat by her, watching every gesture she made, as if he would paint her portrait afterward.
We all have our dreams. May we find them, and God have mercy on us when we do.
I've been criticised for writing in too complex a manner for younger people.
How massively the mountains stand, while low to the ground the sand blows. The sand blows on and on. And then there are no mountains, none at all, the sand has kissed and whispered them away. And still, the sand blows on.
Hope is a punishable offense. The verdict is always death; one more death of the heart.