Love is a chain of love as nature is a chain of life.

The wind is us-- it gathers and remembers all our voices, then sends them talking and telling through the leaves and the fields.

...of all things this was the saddest, that life goes on: if one leaves one's lover, life should stop for him, and if one disappears from the world, then the world should stop, too: and it never did. And that was the real reason for most people getting up in the morning: not because it would matter but because it wouldn't.

There were hints of sunrise on the rim of the sky, yet it was still dark, and the traces of morning color were like goldfish swimming in ink.

It may be normal, darling; but I'd rather be natural.

The way his plump hand clutched at her hip seemed somehow improper; not morally, aesthetically.

Still, when all is said, somewhere one must belong: even the soaring falcon returns to its master's wrist.