Colored lights blink on and off, racing across the green boughs. Their reflections dance across exquisite glass globes and splinter into shards against tinsel thread and garlands of metallic filaments...

When afternoon came to Vidyasagar Road, wet clothes ... hung from a clothesline which stretched from one side to another on the veranda of the first floor. The line, which had not been tightly drawn...

Bronze - limbed and well - knit, like a statue wrought by a Grecian, he stood on the sand with his back to the moon, and out of the foam came white arms that beckoned to him, and out of the waves rose...

We have regiments as innumerable as the sands... And arsenals as uncountable as the stars.

First, the wind would rumble in the distance like an approaching river, then he would see grass bend, pressed by a great invisible hand. The dull rumble would rise in pitch to a swishing, lashing...

In the dark of the trees he could smell splintered wood and see white upturned faces like wide white dirty flowers.

newer here? There were no dense brambles

Her head throbbed as though gremlins were ripping holes in her brain

There is no sun, but a hundred blazing blue stars, each shimmering in a long river of nebulous cloud. The air is warm, pleasant, fragrant with the perfume of a thousand invisible flowers.

The sky drops silver threads of sleet.

Now the western tempest was scrawled all over with lines of intolerable light, while the inky head of the cloud - giant to the east was continually suffused with a white and deadly glow that came and...

she was looking at him as if he'd just dropped fully formed from the sky.

The crimson dragon grew day by day and devoured everything it found in its path. Torn bodies rained from the sky and the flames of its breath flowed through the streets like a torrent of blood.

At about 10 o'clock in the morning the sun threw a bright dust-laden bar through one of the side windows and in and out of the beam flies shot like rushing stars.

I can hear the library humming in the night, a choir of authors murmuring inside their books along the unlit, alphabetical shelves, Giovanni Pontano next to Pope, Dumas next to his son, each one...

The air was so damp that fish could have come in through doors and swum out the windows, floating through the atmosphere in the rooms. One morning Ursula woke up feeling that she was reaching her end...

He paused and manufactured a chuckle.

But it is just two lovers, holding hands and in a hurry to reach their car, their locked hands a starfish leaping through the dark.

He was always acting, always enveloping himself in artificiality, perhaps to conceal the volcano within.

August has passed, and yet summer continues by force to grow days. They sprout secretly between the chapters of the year, covertly included between its pages.