Here's the thing about luck...you don't know if it's good or bad until you have some perspective.

There was the blue sky above her and all those many roses, the ones that gave off the scent of cloves in the rain and the ones that left a trace of lemon on your fingers, the ones that were the color of blood, and those that were as white as clouds. Each one was sweeter than the next and as red as gemstones.

Only her death could prove her innocence; a circle of impossible, deathly judgement.

I feel as if when you love a book it becomes a part of you whether you have it on your shelves or not.

Do what you want, do what you will, do what you have to, do what you think you cannot.

Margaret thought of all she knew for certain, that day would always follow night that love was never wasted nor was it lost.

I just finished Colson Whitehead's "The Underground Railroad," which I think is a work of genius.