A Quote by Karen Chance

Fresh blood at midnight isn't red. It's a purplish black that easily blends into the shadows. — © Karen Chance
Fresh blood at midnight isn't red. It's a purplish black that easily blends into the shadows.
Red like blood White like bone Red like solitude White like silence Red like the beastly instinct White like a god's heart Red like thawing hatred White like a frozen, pained cry Red like the night's hungry shadows Like a sigh piercing the moon it shines white and shatters red
Did the poet use red to symbolize blood? Anger? Lust? Or is the wheelbarrow simply red because red sounded better than black?
Well Vin says that there's something behind all this, right? Some evil force of doom or whatever? Well, if I were said force of doom, then I certainly wouldn't have used my powers to turn the land black. It just lacks flair. Red. Now, that would be an interesting color. Think of the possibilities--if the ash were red, the rivers would run like blood. Black is so monotonous that you can forget about it, but red--you'd always be thinking, 'Why, look at that. That hill is red. That evil force of doom trying to destroy me certainly has style.
Fresh is better. But you've never drunk fresh blood. Have you?" Simon raised his eyebrow in response. "Well, aside from mine of course," Jace said. "And I'm pretty sure my blood is fan-tastic.
If your breath is very deep in the lungs, it will give you a good red blood. Good red blood, with the oxygen, is quite sufficiently empowered to take away impurities. When the lungs start clearing the blood, then the liver, spleen, and kidneys have much less work to do.
Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, and hair black as ebony.
Every red stripe in that flag represents the black man's blood that has been shed.
Now the Fates are here on the beach, three shadows blacker than black, walking through the dunes and looking for their own. Just shadows, lamb-white hands beneath black robes spun of tears, glide among the celebrants on this night wherein the spirits of Thebes have found a home, if serendipitously.
I would assign every lie a color: yellow when they were innocent, pale blue when they sailed over you like the sky, red because I knew they drew blood. And then there was the black lie. That's the worst of all. A black lie was when I told you the truth.
Red is one of the strongest colors, it's blood, it has a power with the eye. That's why traffic lights are red I guess, and stop signs as well... In fact I use red in all of my paintings.
Red is one of the strongest colors, it's blood, it has a power with the eye. That's why traffic lights are red I guess, and stop signs as well.... In fact I use red in all of my paintings.
Bright beads of red are rising through the ink, Hearts-blood bubbles smearing out into the black stream
I don't wear orange or yellow on the red carpet because my skin kind of blends in with them.
At first we raced through space, like shadows and light; her rants, my raves; her dark hair, my blonde; black dresses, white. She's a purple-black African-violet-dark butterfly and I a white moth. We were two wild ponies, Dawn and Midnight, the wind electrifying our manes and our hooves quaking the city; we were photo negatives of each other, together making the perfect image of a girl.
I was walking along a path with two friends - the sun was setting - suddenly the sky turned blood red - I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence - there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city - my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety - and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.
The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose.
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