Life had sickened her often enough, but it could still offer breathtaking moments. Now and again, something transcended the misery, like that lone red rose in the graveyard in the ruined abbey. Its smell, its texture. So infinitely beautiful. Was that rose really one of the Devil’s snares, one of his tricks for keeping souls imprisoned in this world?
― Mike Hockney,
The Armageddon Conspiracy
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