I Can't Keep Up With Stephen King's

When We Are Weary, We Speak Lovingly Of Dreams As If They Embodied Our True Deisres-what We Would Have When That Which We Do Have So Sorely Disappoints Us

I Was At A Loss Suddenly; But Conscious All The While Of How Armand Listened; That He Listened In The Way That We Dream Of Others Listening, His Face Seeming To Reflect On Every Thing Said. He Did Not Start Forward To Seize On My Slightest Pause, To Assert An Understanding Of Something Before The Thought Was Finished, Or To Argue With A Swift, Irresistible Impulse -- The Things Which Often Make Dialogue Impossible. And After A Long Interval He Said, 'i Want You. I Want You More Than Anything In The World.

But The Sky Was Never Quite The Same Shade Of Blue Again.

I Am Afraid Of Death. I Believe Nothing, And Therefore Like Many Who Believe Nothing I Must Make Something, And That Something Is The Meaning Which I Give My Life.

Don't You See? I'm Not The Spirit Of Any Age. I'm At Odds With Everything And Always Have Been! I Have Never Belonged Anywhere With Anyone At Any Time!