Nostalgia aguda, infinita, terrible, de lo que tengo. - Juan Ramón Jiménez

He is as loving and tender as a child, but strong and sturdy as a rock. When on Sundays I ride him through the lanes in the outskirts of the town, slow-moving countrymen, dressed in their Sunday clean, watch him a while, speculatively: "He is like steel," they say. Steel, yes. Steel and moon silver at the same time.

I have a feeling that my boat has struck, down there in the depths, against a great thing. And nothing happens! Nothing … Silence … Waves. — Nothing happens? Or Has everything happened, and we are standing now, quietly, in the new life?

If they give you ruled paper, write the other way.