There was an ocean above us, held in by a thin sac that might rupture and let down a flood at any second.
Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of spring, a charlatan in place of the warm balmy nights I dream of in April. It__ a sad season of life without growth_It has no day.
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Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of spring, a charlatan in place of the warm balmy nights I dream of in April. It__ a sad season of life without growth_It has no day.
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Spring, if it lingers more than a week beyond its span, starts to hunger for summer to end the days of perpetual promise. Summer in its turn soon begins to sweat for something to quench its heat, and the mellowest of autumns will tire of gentility at last, and ache for a quick sharp frost to kill its fruitfulness. Even winter _ the hardest season, the most implacable _ dreams, as February creeps on, of the flame that will presently melt it away. Everything tires with time, and starts to seek some opposition, to save it from itself.
His was a great sin who first invented consciousness. Let us lose it for a few hours.
Absolutely. No more pretending!
When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.
If we could only learn to look on evil as evil, whether it's clothed in filth or monotony or magnificence.