A tenuous discord prevailed outside the Kingdom. Rose petals in the wake of an afternoon thunderstorm. What sentence am I supposed to write next? This one.
At night the moon skims banks of cloud and the stars are so white they're blue. The one who wrote spiritual architecture was without a home. A preference for certain words or phrases - maps, say, or cartography - is a sickness. God is not a part of anything.
We weakened the braces but could not bring ourselves to topple them altogether. A temple is never the prayer that is uttered inside it. Your metaphor is my beleaguered doctor's note. Spindly roadside maples, a handful of mustard seeds, the sale of well-trained doves.
What now? The argument for boundaries in one's living quarters can be a sign of either progress or regression. In other words, grace. The waitress said you want that with everything?
The old canard reframed. We followed the trail until it came to a hill and then it was time to make a decision. In choice lies the idea of God. Darwin blinked.