When your father begins to hammer, every stroke seems to go straight through my head.

He felt so good inside her and every stroke seemed to reach deeper as she clung to his broad, muscular shoulders.

Gentle strokes of ochre seemed to set fire to the pure white clouds that rose over the horizon.

His strokes sometimes seem to have been blown on by air and light.

The savage strokes of his sword seemed to ignite the air as he took on the other two swordsmen.

A second stroke did not seem to slow him, either.

Her calligraphic strokes seem to be applied with quick, sure swoops of the brush.

Each inward stroke seemed to be stronger and go deeper.

The bell went on for a long time, until the prolonged, deep strokes seemed to beat along with my heart.

I cried, as the stroke of the hammer seemed to recall me from a dream.