We each owe a death, there are no exceptions, I know that, but sometimes, oh God, the Green Mile is so long.

Sometimes loving eyes don't see what they don't want to see.

And she sees that the moonlight is losing its orange glow. It has become buttery, and will soon turn to silver.

I simply think that there are things in this world that are relics. We have unsettling remnants of Atlantis. They have found things off Bermuda, great walls and things of that sort. This seems to indicate that there were races and cultures that went before us. And to me, that's an unsettling idea.

Thin clouds form, and the shadows lengthen out. They have no breadth, as summer shadows have; there are no leaves on the trees or fat clouds in the sky to make them thick. They are gaunt, mean shadows that bite the ground like teeth. As the sun nears the horizon, its benevolent yellow begins to deepen, to become infected, until it glares an angry inflamed orange. It throws a variegated glow over the horizon.

Pray for rain all you like, but dig a well as you do it.

Life was such a wheel that no man could stand upon it for long. And it always, at the end, came round to the same place again.