Empty

I would like to write to you about so many things, but I sense the pointlessness of it.

Vincent Van Gogh.

Regret.

He almost felt regret, as there had been a comforting tenderness in her embrace.

Arthur Schnitzler.

Air.

The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream.

Jack Kerouac