There is a great, bellowsome balloon the size of the moon inside of me sticking just beneath my thin skin like the shrapnel shards from shattered spirits, internally combusting in crash course collisions of constant catastrophes of consonance and consequence.

The shot fizzled, generating only 200 tons rather than the 30 kilotons they were aiming for.

None for the murdered men were shown, and the feeling of their relatives must have been very much hurt by the Pharisee-like sentiments that were openly displayed.

On my revisit to the lady, I found her almost as much a sufferer of joy as she had sometimes been from grief […].