"More vital than life is
the vanity of a kiss,
if beauty is madness
when the wind blows."
Far more than just a poem. The philosophical dilemma and the illusion of choice deepen the theme revealed through its symbols. This theme is the personal option, which is, ultimately, the eternal prisoner of the ephemeral when faced with inevitable destiny. A meditation that creates the artistic-soul-shattering fusion between the visual and the philosophical.
A truly remarkable masterpiece.
A successful interaction in which a magical element (the crystal) and dark forces interact with the characters.
The violent storm and the city engulfed in chaos stir the reader's imagination, making them a participant in the action. This action builds after a rapid exposition.
The escalation of the conflict is skillfully constructed through the approach to danger, suspense, and turning points.
Enigmatic characters with magical abilities provide all the tools for a story that captures your attention.
The author proposes visions that easily surpass the norms of the mundane. The adopted style is adapted to the genre and a fast pace to maintain suspense clearly shows the direction towards success.
Chaos and tension are reflected in a story based on real events. The overcrowding of hospitals and the lack of resources (oxygen, beds) are the necessary ingredients, the spark that ignites a growing, boiling atmosphere. The author can imbue this atmosphere with dialogues and descriptions (such as the hospital chaos). This confers dynamism.
The author expresses himself with the intelligence of reflecting, in a short story, values such as empathy and sacrifice. A work that highlights with talent the human relationships in the "health" genre.
Historical, political, and cultural references—alongside the machinery of consumerism and private healthcare—are pushed forward as if they were the very essence of public discourse. But here lies the problem: what essence? These speeches are nothing more than hollow words, stripped of meaning.
The “normal but evil” has already been done; it has become part of our collective banality, no longer shocking anyone. “The Texas bar gets quarantined.” Yet the virus remains, spreading still. And the bar—standing as a symbol for anything and everything—falls into quarantine.
Here, surrealist satire is carried to the very edge of a rigorous absurdity, one that folds in on itself, and one I cannot help but admire. The author demonstrates a rare mastery: weaving irony with abstract symbols in a grand, deliberate fashion. But this is not just any irony. It is so subtle, so intelligent, that it can easily be mistaken for something else entirely. That is why, in this case, one can speak of the science of irony—a rare weapon, wielded with remarkable talent.
The introduction that triggers the intrigue is realistic (Robert finds a bottle on the beach). Then the conflict unfolds as a result of the discovery of a letter.
The murder in an isolated inn is seasoned with the flavors of suspense and the supernatural.
The story carries the pride of suspense elevated to the rank of creative excellence.
The banal everyday (a walk on the beach, a green bottle) is combined with the extraordinary (the message for help, the murder, the ghosts) in an original style that sketches a tangent to the rare exuberance of a talented writer.
The author has the mastery to transpose himself into the conductor of a polished, accessible, descriptive language, with short and direct sentences.
Chosen words guided by an instinct for beauty. Poetic appreciation and the highlighting of optimism and gratitude. Congratulations on creating authentic emotion.
"As the rose petals fall out of place;
time passes by;
as they fall with grace;
the time says goodbye."
"I love to watch the petals dance;"
From the lips of the beloved, rose petals fall.
The author watches as the petals dance in their descent toward the heights of the sky.
Once there, in the silence above—where no one can see them—they grow drunk on the illusion of immortality. These rose petals also bear the innocent habit of displaying their love story in a realm where time cannot hear them.
The author, with talent and untamed melancholy, has managed to transfer to me his nostalgic emotions—so deeply and intensely—within a space as limited as time itself.
I savored this poem with admiration, a work imbued with delicate grace, on its journey from dream to reality.
Or perhaps… from reality to dream?
A text is integrated as a first step in a larger work.
The atmosphere feels real. The scenes suggested credibility to me. The fatigue translated into sweat, compounded by the necessity for short breaks. These details reinforce the sense of responsibility.
The author avoids rambling with unnecessary descriptions.
I noticed the intelligent flexibility in transitioning from the individual to the responsibility of group work.
I managed to catch a glimpse of a narrative that I believe is character-centric. I look forward to seeing the nature of the conflict unfold.
A dense and highly evocative meditation on solitude, death, and transcendence.
When I approach the end of a stage, I ask myself two questions: whether the completion of that stage was a failure or a success, and whether I should limit myself to what I've covered or move forward. The author refers to a stage that they are traversing in solitude. Loneliness. Death is a certainty, known and accepted in a personal way by every human being. Is there something else to follow? And if so, what is it about?
The owl, perceived as the sage who represents the darkness, is the accepted witness to this solitude. The demand to know the name may be a vague suggestion about destiny.
A successful poem that dilutes a normal fear of the dark unknown into a curiosity elevated to the degree of refined, talented lyricism.
Although she seems to try to reduce the significance and impact of certain things—"I had a booth on oddities row," the fat man, the juggler, the flexible trapeze artist—these elements all have their place in the story. They provide structure and create a specific atmosphere. If you can manage to elevate the apparent banality to the level of impactful, lyrical language, then one can truly talk about an authentic voice—at least in terms of its ability to capture attention.
The phrases "They said my fortune telling was bogus," "my booth was simple," and "dull buildings" further emphasize the minimization of the locations and even of her profession as a fortune teller. This is where the magic intervenes, which is viewed as the product of imagination. And the impact and credibility result from her capacity to be creative.
Darlene's inner struggle comes into strong contradiction with how the crystal ball manifests its power. At this point, the story abruptly breaks away from the crude reality and challenges my imagination.
I believe this is what the author intended. And it certainly worked for me.
A poem read in a pause between two cloudy days. I have a choice to make. Victim or Executioner?
It turns out I am not actually obliged to choose. The two are old friends. I am reminded of the line: "I’ve lost friends from many places, / Lost are their words along with their faces."
The victim and the executioner climb together onto a carousel of emotions. Since only one of them will step off, it is clear to me that I am faced with a lie. A pretense you encounter randomly in life. So frequently that it could be a banality, against which I failed to take any preventive measure. This leaves one astonished. Pensive.
In this state, I find myself disoriented amidst carefully refined images drawn from a well-defined philosophical framework.
The repetition in some of the stanzas is a technique of emphasis that makes me think of a personal ritual.
A rough and brutal meditation on the price paid to see the deception. Everything is refined with the talent of sincerity. And, I believe, with the detachment from a burden.
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