Love is a capricious creature which desires everything and can be contented with almost nothing

Pale, with dark hair, the one who is coming is melancholy, romantic. And I am arch and fluent and capricious; for he is melancholy, he is romantic. He is here.

It's just not that much of an anomaly. Weather can be very capricious.

It's almost equivalent to doing nothing.

Love...who needed love? As long as she had her books and her friends and an occasional hookup, she was perfectly content.

In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.