Softness brushes the glass pane, steadily patting at the window with delicate plush soles, the kind that make intricate embroidery patterns on freshly fallen snow, but no sounds, no sounds at all, ever.

I call for my soul inside the soaring chambers of my soul, and their tall walls and vaults reverberate and multiply my voice into thousands of new me’s, also lost, also searching.

In the soft warmth of the evening, Jane and Tessa were enjoying a refreshing drink

Mrs. Thornby looked at the sky to assess the state of the weather

The soft breeze that touched me has opened the sky, and sun dappled brightness like honey, but who has the time for the birds in the trees and genially watching the bunnies?