The howling mob was singing his tune.

The mourning dove's cry was in tune with her mindset that morning.

He was the banker of choice for burglars, gangsters, pickpockets and pimps, but preferred the company of gentler souls.

The storm rattled the shelter's steel doors and muffled the screams of the people outside.

Billy drank and caroused in the hopes of improving his songwriting.

She awoke that day and felt that a veil of cobwebs had been lifted from her eyes and she saw, as if for the first time, her fat, drunken husband, the cheap furniture and the cracks in the walls.

He left the house, got in the truck, kept driving until the gas ran out and then just walked, walked, walked.