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Her words and gestures revealed a quiet strength, which made you believe that all our acts had purpose; that even when it led to failure, every attempt we made was meaningful.
It feels strange to be watching the snow with you, she said, turning to look at me. I had been thinking the same thing. Snow had an unreality to it. Was this because of its pace or its beauty?
As we rounded another corner, a white untrodden road would open ahead of us like pages in a giant picture book.
How this is possible, I can’t say. My every pain and joy, all my deep-rooted sorrows and loves, shine, not as an amalgam but as a whole comprised of distinct singularities, glowing together as one giant nebula.
