Who knows what oversensitive is, considering all there is to be sensitive to.
His sadness was of the kind that is patient and without hope.
The reason life is so strange is that so often people have no choice.
My younger daughter told me recently that when she was a child she thought the typewriter was a toy that I went into my room and closed the door and played with.
Love, even of the most ardent and soul-destroying kind, is never caught by the lens of the camera.
In talking about the past, we lie with every breath we draw.