The ruins smelled of damp stone and decay. A tall, wiry creature crept through the shadows, its pale, elongated form gliding with a grace that hinted at both speed and precision. Its sharp, angular face was framed by short, unkempt white hair that added to its ethereal, otherworldly presence.

Virginia Woolf on rhythm in writing

The ringing in my ears kept perfect rhythm with the pounding of my head. The sun peaks through the cracks in my visor. The numbness in my hands told me I have been hanging like this for a while.

Looking up at my feet I can see the parachute tangled in the branches. The perfect time to have to pee.