Taken during sunrise–when morning becomes night, when Earth becomes galaxy.
Of Cobwebbed Heart and Tangled Soul
A stride about Jalan Riang transpired swiftly on Thursday, when luncheon was merely over, in the following manner: I had hotfooted to Wimbly Lu, with more than usual ecstasy, as must have rendered the four ladies, who had at first only ambled along the pavements, in a very breathless state by the time we seated ourselves in the coffeehouse.
This brutal subjection, in which many professions of ill humour and mental anguish may well be arose, soon dissipated, however, when we had the pleasure of masticating brownies and cakes and sundries, which were delightful, though by no means capital.
Weekly Photo Challenge: Future Tense
My brain could formulate no sound opinion. To have felt all the force of indignation, and wallowed in every ounce of immense resentment and aggravation and wrath and exasperation, one must know not what to think.
“I would not have heard of that idea on the general occasion,” murmured my boisterous disposition unsolicitedly, as it often would, though the deed was not to be had. With impatient activity did I—mentally—shot it a sidelong glance before its half whisper was put aside and forgotten eventually.
Weekly Photo Challenge: Lunchtime
What could put to a brusque end the caprice of her loss, it was an abject punishment to them, or anyone, for that matter, not to long to know. For the last seven-and-twenty days, they had been watching her, obsessing over her, under such rigorous scrutiny as to establish their mother’s quaint regards for bonnets and muslins alike, which revelations they should have otherwise perceived nothing about had it not been for the latter demise of Manny Grom—her late husband, their late father.
The prospects of such amelioration and fortitude, however, were exceedingly heartening, that no further quail was anticipated on the present occasion. They seated themselves at the dining table on Saturday afternoon, ergo, with some ease at last, and prepared for luncheon.
A Jocund Tune Or Two
He was a two-and-sixty-year-old oddity.
In point of mien his irises were nut-brown, an immaculate and lavish shade which stimulated mystification, and his brows were niggardly furrowed. His temper was also observed to be a farrago of pliancy, insupportable uppishness, taciturnity, and sarcastic nonchalance.
