Time was a face on the water, and like the great river before them, it did nothing but flow.

There seems to be no air in the air she breaths.

Roland had taught him that self-deception was nothing but pride in disguise, an indulgence to be denied.

Yet suppose further. Suppose that all worlds, all universes, met at a single nexus, a single pylon, a Tower. And within it, a stairway, perhaps rising to the Godhead itself. Would you dare climb to the top, gunslinger? Could it be that somewhere above all of endless reality, there exists a room?...' You dare not.' And in the gunslinger's mind, those words echoed: You dare not.

This is probably the single great subject of horror fiction: our need to cope with a mystery that can be understood only with the aid of a helpful imagination.

The only [working] ritual is making tea. I use the loose leaves and drink it by the gallon.

The water was glassy and calm, still candy-colored in the afterglow of sunset.