The sun is setting, the sky is a tumult of oranges, reds and violets.

Sixty three sunsets I saw revolve on that perpendicular hill – mad raging sunsets pouring in sea foams of cloud through unimaginable crags like the crags you grayly drew in pencil as a child, with every rose-tint of hope beyond, making you feel just like them, brilliant and bleak beyond words. –

And so I try to turn toward that scattered light, belly out, and I tell myself; This doesn't look like a picture. And it doesn't look like a god. It is a sunset, and it is beautiful, and this whole thing you've been doing where nothing gets five stars because nothing is perfect? That's bullshit. So much is perfect. Starting with this. I give sunsets five stars.

The setting sun had turned the blue sky a brilliant orange, then soft pink merging to pearl; the plum velvet of night had come out of the east, spangled with stars.

Raw Living: Picking blackberries, beneath late afternoon sun; a sunset reminiscent of watermelon sangria, as the scent of honeysuckle accosts me and the ducks waddle into the lake. Thanking Mama Nature for her abundance. Loving this candied-sweet southern life.

Eternity to the godly is a day that has no sunset; eternity to the wicked is a night that has no sunrise.

A girl in love with sunsets. A man hell-bent on being her sunrise.

The thrush called strangeness into the sunset.

When the sun goes down, the moon becomes the king of the sky.

Because I can count on my fingers the number of sunsets I have left, and I don't want to miss any of them.