The glory of the christmas pudding was not the taste to Sylvester. It was a fat pudding in a season that made a fat pudding of as many people as possible. Then it was set on fire, glorious! They might as well have burned their money as brandy, though the ashes could have been problematic, or perhaps more dramatic...
I try so damn hard for you to love me as much as you love yourself, but finally I've realized that I don't love you. I just love the idea of you and the thought of something good in a sea of something terrible. I love you so much, no, the idea of you, that I shove everything wrong with me, all my problems and flaws, everything I carry, deep in my pockets, just to be enough, and hope that I am good, and maybe you are good too. But I have to remind myself that's just a fantasy. Then I'm finally free, because I know that nothing will never be enough for you, under everything you are sad, and you cannot see anything that isn't you. You're selfish that way and I no longer blame myself for every time I wasn't good enough for you; I wasn't perfect enough, happy enough, every time I didn't praise you, or love you like stars love the moon. Now I am not yours anymore, you have lost me and, I swear, being lost has never felt so good.
The town was a maze of narrow winding streets, as complex as the heart. The streets were the veins, paved with dark red stones, and the people were the blood. The sound of the smiths, beating swords and breastplates into shape, was the consistent and dull pounding that let you know the town was alive.
The monetary system was invented by villains, and the heroes are still counting its real cost.
He sighed and looked at her with those blue eyes touched by storm clouds. She had never seen any emotion in them other than contempt. But now they embraced the wind. A brief gust before returning to a calm sea.
The gold was the shade of bleached buttercups.
The toasted sandwiches were made in the iron frying pan, the wholegrain bread becoming a golden brown. The aroma would make its way through the house, announcing that lunch was ready. Then we'd eat. Warm bread, warm chatter and warm music playing; the cooler seasons never felt so cozy.
On the nights when he was with her; when she would stay awake waiting for the inevitable. Just waiting for his terrified eyes to meet hers, waiting for him to mutter about guns and friends departed. She would trace the faint white lines lining his back - new stories that she would never gather the courage to ask of. He always looked so confident in his uniform, but when the clothes come off she would see the damage that lay in their wake.
The roof tiles had developed a sort of patina over the years, from the lichen and the weathering, rendering them all the more beautiful.
Its fiery wings glided softly past me, bring warmth into my body. It flew once, twice around me, finally stopping to rest on my shoulders. Its body is like blazing fire, burning brightly even through impenetrable darkness. A fire is the light in the dark, while the phoenix is the light of my world.
The wooden floor was a chorus of browns; they sung together, a capella of baritone hues that rose up into vibrant soprano notes. It was a fitting place for their new studio, a place for those new sounds to soak right in and join the spirit that was already there.