He drinks in picture books.
I doubt the teacher will care what she writes. The requirements are a neatly typed page. The contents, which amount to some painful regurgitations about the leather-making process, will pass muster.
The lake water exists in different states. The ice is puckered; at the edges it's darkened, as if crisped. The remains of a tree rear up from the ashy ice and slush.
Childhood has become remote to him. It's a phase portrayed in books. He was always an adult.
A landscape of rocks, ice and petrified trees.
I'd like to stretch my legs and stride.
Beneath a sheet of ice, the water sings.
He won't examine the things he fears. He pretends he has no fears and is contemptuous when other people are afraid.
Does she feel like a Mr. Goodbar among the Godiva truffles?
When using henna, I feel like there's a greenhouse on my head. An earthy odor, moisture, bits of herbs clinging to my scalp.
When they were younger, they liked what they liked without looking to other people to see what they should like.
In Act I, the stage is draped in a decadent red. Act II is full of gold and champagne. That lasts until the third act with its blue and gray bars of shadow.
It's a brilliant cold night, and the lights are bouncing off the black reflection pool.
I watch her enjoying the music and think that this is what she could be, more often: contented, engaged, and full of delight.