“The air is all softness.”
“I exist. It is soft, so soft, so slow. And light: it seems as though it suspends in the air. It moves.”
“When you walk into a room,” he said softly, “the air changes.”
“Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, Those soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one way.”
“The air between them began to settle into a silence. Awkward, yet softly exciting. Like an unexpected snow day.”
“Humid the air! Leafless, yet soft as spring. The tender purple spray on copse and briers! And that sweet city with her dreaming spires, she needs not June for beauty's heightening. Lovely all the time she lies...”