I uncapped the blade, flung open the door, and found myself face-to-face with a black pegasus. Its voice spoke in my mind as it clopped away from the sword blade.
There are black zones of shadow close to our daily paths, and now and then some evil soul breaks a passage through. When that happens, the man who knows must strike before reckoning the consequences.
She was neither white nor black, Fyre nor Aquanite; she was a dame of the White King, and it was up to her, and her alone, to choose what path her life would take.
On occasion we stumble upon what seems to be a truth. Compared to the surrounding blackness, it sparkles and dazzles our eyes. But are these actually truths? Are our eyes really feasting upon light? Or just patches of grey?
Trudging alone along that black road, sometimes in the teeth of wind and rain, and watching the white distant gleam of convolvulus through the park railings, gave me an exhilarating sensation of adventure.
Senator John Stennis: The civil rights movement did more to free the white man that the black man. ... It freed my soul.
O how can wicked men seem so steady and untouched with such black hearts, while poor innocents stand like malefactors before them!
Has he written to you?' 'He writes frequently.' 'Shew me his letters this instant, I order you'; and M. de Renal added six feet to his stature.
The ordinary procedure of the nineteenth century is that when a powerful and noble personage encounters a man of feeling, he kills, exiles, imprisons or so humiliates him that the other, like a fool, dies of grief.
An English traveller relates how he lived upon intimate terms with a tiger; he had reared it and used to play with it, but always kept a loaded pistol on the table.
If I were in a band, people at my shows would fight for tickets—that’s how much I believe in love. I’d call my band “The Black-eyed Peasants.
It was amazing what an hour with her sketchpad could do for her mood. She was sure that the lines she drew with her black marker were going to save her years of worry lines in the future.
Night—it’s the only thing that will cover up one of my black moods. Good thing my depression isn’t an every day kind of thing. It’s an after day thing.
Drifting on the black, rippling surface were fingers. Thumbs. Dozens of them. Hundreds, floating like dead fish in a dynamited pond. I saw part of an ear. The lights went out.
Through the fog Orafoura said, “Those people are black.” “I know,” I said, “they’ll match the lemonade.” I make love like an Arnold Palmer, but not like Arnold Palmer.
Love is a roundness, like a hole—a black hole. If what she wants is space, I’ll give her space—enough to fill an auditorium that has ample seating for a lecture by Stephen Hawking.
Lying down gazing at the cerulean blue-black sky, she slid her hands down to intertwine her fingers with his. "I love you," she whispers.
With its leaves so rich and heavy with elation and its crimson face made brighter with visions of divinity the shadow of a certain rose looks just like an angel eating light.
I place my fingers upon these keys typing 2,000 dreams per minute and naked of spirit dance forth my cosmic vortex upon this crucifix called language.
In my head this cruel unspeakable truth: that we battled and we cursed and we spilled each other’s blood, we relished our taste of hell and strangled heaven’s love.
He just wanted to get through his uninteresting day, so he could cross over into the night, and find his way to the red headed light that brightened the black sky.
