The sky still burns red iron lid like, the sunshine all over the sky of boiling hot is aspersed come down, the people everythings on earth on none commiserative ground is roast earth.
True thusness is the substance of thought and thought is t he function of true thusness. To think of thusness, to define it in thought is to defile it.
The granite vein which width is about 0.5m filled in banded amphibole-gneiss along the tension crack. The milk-white vein strides over ghyll like a white dragon crossing river.
Shining and attractive! Feeling it, just like softness wind, nature and kindness! Just like a flower which dispark with shadiness, reveal its redolence!
Other men saw to the welfare of their dogs from a sense of duty and business expediency; he saw to the welfare of his as if they were his own children, because he could not help it.
The mountain is a giant, putrid layer-cake, with dozens of strata of rubbish separated by soil and plastic liners designed to contain the brew of noxious chemicals that would otherwise leach into groundwater.
What I'm looking for is nothing but a touch of verisimilitude, like the handful of spices you chuck into a good spaghetti sauce to really finish her off.
I have heard of writers who read nothing but their own books; like adolescents they stand before the mirror, and still cannot fathom the exact outline of the vision before them.
We might at the same time realise that we abhor what news and social media do to our minds and — like a cowardly sheep finally kicking the farmer — delete everything, until our phones can barely tell the time any more.