Sunsets are so beautiful that they almost seem as if we were looking through the gates of Heaven.

The whole value of solitude depends upon oneself; it may be a sanctuary or a prison, a haven of repose or a place of punishment, a heaven or a hell, as we ourselves make it.

I don't know what you could say about a day in which you have seen four beautiful sunsets.

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

The sun dropped beneath the horizon and then detonated, torching the racks of clouds stacked up above the downtown skyline. Wyatt had forgotten how quickly, in the vast empty sky of the southern plains, the ordinary could turn so flamboyant.

We were almost frantically looking for what we were going to do.