Couldn't a fire outrun a galloping horse?
the conch exploded into a thousand white fragments and ceased to exist.
Maybe there is a beast… maybe it's only us.
Maybe half a dozen think they are a community, but, in general terms, I think English writers tend to face outwards, away from each other, and write in their own patch, as it were.
They looked at each other, baffled, in love and hate.
What could be safer than the bus center with its lamps and wheels?