The sun was a molten coin burning a circle in the low-hanging overcast, surrounded by a fairy-ring of moisture.
Stephen KingHe was a clot looking for a place to happen, a splinter of bone hunting a soft organ to puncture, a lonely lunatic cell looking for a mate - they would set up housekeeping and raise themselves a cozy little malignant tumor.
Stephen KingEven at eleven, he had observed that things turned out right a ridiculous amount of the time.
Stephen King