“As the riders came up through the mesquite and pyracantha single file in a light clank of arms and chink of bitrings the sun climbed and the moon set and the horses and the dewsoaked mules commenced to steam in flesh and in shadow.”

“They did not noon nor did they siesta and the cotton eye of the moon squatted at broad day in the throat of the mountains to the east and they were still riding when it overtook them at its midnight meridian, sketching on the plain below a blue cameo of such dread pilgrims clanking north.”

Cormac McCarthy | Blood Meridian

Prose so rich, intricate, and evocative that I throw up my hands in wonder, awe, and disgust.

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