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She knew this was her power, slowing the pace of our living to a soothing dance, regulating my heartbeat through her touch, her voice, her curves.
Crusoe’s solitude. Thus we never see the true State of our Condition, till it is illustrated to us by its Contraries; nor know how to value what we enjoy, but by the want of it.
Her long, dark hair reaches to her knees and her shoulders sink from the disappointment of dead love.
He tells the widow that no earthly group can provide true salvation. His faith will not be prescribed or dictated. The books he loves and hates will not be burned.
Love could turn us all into war criminals.
Your mind is riddled with nonanswers. River dams that trap the wild joy of water for the sake of practicality.
