The true colour of life is the colour of the body, the colour of the covered red, the implicit and not explicit red of the living heart and the pulses. It is the modest colour of the unpublished blood.
(Alice Meynell (1847-1922), British poet, essayist. "The True Colour of Life," Essays (1914).)
We had not gone far before I was startled by seeing what I thought was an Indian encampment, covered with a red flag, on the bank, and exclaimed, "Camp!" to my comrades. I was slow to discover that it was a red maple changed by the frost.
(Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), U.S. philosopher, author, naturalist. "Chesuncook" (1858) in The Maine Woods (1864), in The Writings of Henry David Thoreau, vol. 3, p. 107, Houghton Mifflin (1906).)
“Eurydice sits alone on a red bed. She has flaming red hair, so flaming that you cant see anything else of her, much less anything else around her.
She takes up too much space. Also shes mad. Which has nothing to do with anything. She lives in her own world because she makes the whole world hers.”
If such are you to be as I am peregrinating along the boulevard en route to success, I grease your elbow with a 'well-done.' The voyage so far has been lethargic and hectic, but source of vigor it is to me eying others mark completion of the journey. Abstain from ecstasy and euphoria when you mark this completion prior to mine. You might have been so predestined to roll me a red carpet.
A little birdie flew overhead a traffic light of green and red. From her diagonal point of view she saw both crimson and lime hue. Obey traffic rules? Birdies need not. Masters listen only to the inner voice of God.