There was a sky somewhere above the tops of the buildings, with stars and a moon and all the things there are in a sky, but they were content to think of the distant street lights as planets and stars. If the lights prevented you from seeing the heavens, then preform a little magic and change reality to fit the need. The street lights were now planets and stars and moon. Hubert Selby Jr., Requiem for a Dream
It was a wonderful night, such a night as is only possible when we are young, dear reader. Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights
The wind is made of haunting souls that moan and groan in whistles and whispers. This ghostly choir chills the breeze and orchestrates a rise of goose bumps on my skin. Richelle E. Goodrich, Slaying Dragons
There are very few friends that will lie down with you on empty streets in the middle of the night, without a word. No questions, no asking why, just quietly lay there with you, observing the stars, until you’re ready to get back up on your feet again and walk the last bit home, softly holding your hand as a quiet way of saying “I’m here”.It was a beautiful night. Charlotte Eriksson, Empty Roads & Broken Bottles: in search for The Great Perhaps
It was a quietness that left the dammed singing.The dead can’t sing, it’s just a deception.Through a breeze, they murmur their tune.Is the breeze in the cemetery truly dead individuals singing?Chilly, blusterous shouts of shallow woes, it’s indeed them singing. Dead Can Sing Poem by D.L. Lewis
It was spring, the barren time in March when you cannot be sure if it is really warner, but you are so desperate for change that you tell yourself the mud at the edge of the sidewalk is different than winter mud and you are sure that the smell of we soil has suddenly a bit of the scent of summer rains, of grass and drowned earthworms. And it has, because it is spring and inside the ground something is stirring. Maureen F. McHugh
I thought my fireplace dead and stirred the ashes. I burned my fingers. Antonio Machado, Border of a Dream: Selected Poems
Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
Your hair is winter fire…
Thin ice isn’t a problem for the sea; it’s a problem for the blind idiot who steps out on it. The fool who breaks it gets sucked under; the ice, it mends. Jennifer Giesbrecht, The Monster of Elendhaven
Everyday Strange 