There was a hint of spring in her sole green eyes, something summery in her complexion, and a rich autumn ripeness in her walk.
He relished never knowing what lay in his path, who might approach with what intention.
The visionary language of the doomed reaches heights of linguistic ardor with which language of the blessed and saved cannot compete.
He didn't mean it. It happened before he was through. She'd stepped away from him to pick flowers, returned, and at the sound of her footsteps behind him, he'd turned around before he was through. It was becoming a habit––this concentration on things behind him. Almost as though there were no future to be had.
How loose the silk. How fine and loose and free.
People say to write about what you know. I'm here to tell you, no one wants to read that, cos you don't know anything. So write about something you don't know. And don't be scared, ever.