Solitary, half mad, his eyes redrimmed as if locked in their cages with hot wires — Cormac McCarthy

Spanish: "People say the coyote is a witch. Most of the time, the witch is a coyote."

Where is yesterday? Where is Glanton and Brown and where is the priest? He leaned closer. Where is Shelby, whom you left to the mercies of Elias in the desert, and where is Tate whom you abandoned in the mountains? Where the ladies, ah the fair and tender ladies with whom you danced at the governor's ball when you were a hero anointed with the blood of the enemies of the republic you'd elected to defend? And where is the fiddler and where the dance?

This is a terrible place to die in.

Where’s a good one?