All stones are close to us. The last is behind us. (Toutes les pierres sont près de nous. - La dernière est derrière nous.)(The Bird and its Sun / L’Oiseau et son Soleil)

The stars were so simple when she was a kid, a smattering of glowing dust circling the Earth. She did not then know that each was a sun, most considerably more massive than the daylight one she knew.

SECOND SUNSo much bloodHas been spent in this world,But we have not yet built a sun of blood.Listen, my friend,To these trembling words:A second sun will be bornof our bloodin the form of a heart.

My tears of joyhear the raindrops crying,as the rain never wants to pourdown on my cloudy dayswhen I makeour love-dreamsfor the sun to dreamonly for you....(From the poem "Only For You" By Munia Khan)

The sun had burned through and the day had gone from dull to dazzling, yet in the west blask-satin thunderheads continued to stack up. It was as if night has burst a blood-vessel in the sky over there.

I stood under the umbrella for hours before I folded it up and started walking. Umbrellas can block the sun, shield the rain, and if you flip an open one over, it can also be used as a large coffee cup.

Well the sun’s the light of everything, ya know?” She said. “Without it, everything would be dark. We wouldn’t have anything. Everything needs a little light to exist. Even darkness.

I’ve got to stop looking at you, like you light my world. You’re the dark cloud which brings the rain. You’re the hurricane which destroys my peace. You are not the sun. I am my own light.

I eat overcast skies for breakfast, because sunlight isn’t filling enough. As a lover, I’m a bring-my-own-umbrella kind of guy, because a soup bowl doesn’t offer enough space or protection.

The Consul looked at the sun. But he had lost the sun: it was not his sun. Like the truth, it was well-nigh impossible to face; he did not want to go anywhere near it, least of all, sit in its light, facing it.

It is like the man who closes his eyes to the sun and then finds himself walking over the edge of a cliff. If the man is too foolish to use the gift of light given to him, how can the sun be blamed for his death?

She draws back, yet refuses to lose skin contact. Golden light flickers across his face. He is the night, the stars. His soul shines so brightly, she could pour it into a jar, and it’d be as bright as the sun.

One of the the things she most liked about the city -apart from all its obvious attractions, the theatre, the galleries, the exhilarating walks by the river- was that so few people ever asked you personal questions.

Don't forget to breathe deep from your gut and attempt to see every day as the ultimate last one. Live in it like it's your last interactions, last experiences, your last time in the sun, and tomorrow comes.

Dios me creó para que yo lo imitara de noche. Él es el Sol, yo soy la Luna. Mi luz flota sobre todo lo que es fútil o ha terminado, fuego fatuo, márgenes de río, pantanos y sombras.