/lit/ - Literature

Anons, I remember finding a word bank of sorts that had a bunch of different character expressions.
>He furrowed his brow
>He blinked
>He tapped his foot
etc. I can't find it and was wondering if anyone knew of something like this that they could link. It would be much appreciated.

>>22172234
It was a moonlit evening, as I sat comfortably in my study, surrounded by the ethereal presence of books that adorned the shelves like silent sentinels. Among them, Haruki Murakami's works occupied a special place, their enigmatic allure beckoning to be explored. "1Q84" had enchanted me with its surrealistic charm, and now, as I delved into "Killing Commendatore," I found myself once again captivated by the author's peculiar prose.

Murakami, a writer whose words had the power to transport me to parallel dimensions, was indeed a fascinating enigma. His tales were a labyrinthine journey, a curious blend of reality and the ethereal. Some found his stories to be an acquired taste, but for me, they struck a resonant chord. There was a unique magnetism in his narrative, drawing me into his dreamlike worlds, where mysteries lingered in the shadows and characters danced on the delicate precipice between the ordinary and the extraordinary.

Yet, even for an ardent admirer like myself, there existed an exception, a book that had eluded my grasp despite countless attempts. "Kafka on the Shore" lay dormant by my bedside, its presence a constant reminder of my unrequited engagement. Oh, how I yearned to unlock its secrets, to decipher the enigma within those pages. But try as I might, something seemed amiss, as if the universe conspired to withhold its charms from me.

Time passed, stretching like an elastic thread, and still, "Kafka on the Shore" remained untouched, its allure both captivating and elusive. I would approach it with fervor, feeling the weight of anticipation, only to falter and retreat. Thirty times I danced on the precipice, teetering between fascination and bewilderment, unable to bridge the gap between its essence and my own.

Was it a fault within myself, a disconnection that prevented me from unraveling its enigmatic tapestry? Or did the book, in its infinite wisdom, sense a hesitancy within me, an unreadiness to traverse its intricate corridors? Perhaps there existed an intangible bond between reader and story, an unspoken harmony that needed to be struck, for it is said that books choose their readers as much as readers choose their books.

As the night wore on, the moon casting its gentle glow upon my solitude, I realized that "Kafka on the Shore" would forever remain a mystery—a fleeting enigma nestled within the depths of my literary realm. Murakami's work, a universe unto itself, had the power to both enthrall and elude, leaving me suspended in a liminal space between longing and acceptance. And so, I would honor its presence, knowing that some books, like ethereal phantoms, were destined to remain tantalizingly out of reach.