It gets cold in the desert at night, particularly up in the mountains; the stars hammer on the rock and strike frost.
Writers tell stories better, because they've had more practice, but everyone has a book in them. Yes, that old cliche.
Are not all loves secretly the same? A hundred flowers sprung from a single root.
Whatever the hell I am, I am Me.
Condemned and executioner with aren't coupled in a primitive rite.
No one is ever ordinary.