The One Thing You Share With Every

As They Die, The Ones We Love, We Lose Our Witnesses, Our Watchers, Those Who Know And Understand The Tiny Little Meaningless Patterns, Those Words Drawn In Water With A Stick. And There Is Nothing Left But The Endless Flow.

The Only Power That Exists Is Inside Ourselves.

I Felt Ravaged, And With Both Hands In A Fantasy I Reached Out For Her Figure As We Ran Together Through The Meadow Which Belonged Only To Us And To Which These Others Could Never Be Admitted."oh, Inocent Love," She Said Even As She Drank From Me, "oh, Innocent Innocent Love."

Perhaps This Is The Only Real Evil Left.

I Can't Keep Up With Stephen King's Output.