You said, Beauty is only that which is intense, has a vibrant energy. You said, This thing we call life musn't ever become something endured. You said, Dreaming of another world than this is a sin. And so to you, beauty was the thronging streets. The tram that stops brimming with simmering sunshine. The furiously racing heart, the swelling lungs, the still-warm lips, and the fervent rubbing of those lips against another's.

Once upon a time,” she said to him, to the world, to herself, “in a land long since burned to ash...

She says that the sky was the color of persimmon and sangria, shades of red only God could make.

Blue is the color of longing for the distances you never arrive in...

When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest.