There is no word, not even "No", in his screams at the end. He [Roland] howls like a gutted animal, his hands… — Stephen King
There is no word, not even "No", in his screams at the end. He [Roland] howls like a gutted animal, his hands fused to the ball...Alain cannot pry his hands away from the ball, so instead he lays his hand on his cheek, touching him that way. Except there's nothing left to touch. Nothing left...and the thing that rides West with Cuthbert and Alain...will not be Roland, or even the Ghost of Roland. Like the moon at the end of its cycle, Roland is gone."
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ROLAND! I LOVE THEE!
I have no opinion. No, none at all. Opinion is politics, and politics is an evil which has caused many a fellow to be hung while he's still young and pretty.
True love, like any other strong and addicting drug, is boring—once the tale of encounter and discovery is told, kisses quickly grow stale and caresses tiresome... except, of course, to those who share the kisses, who give and take the caresses while every sound and color of the world seems to deepen and brighten around them. As with any other strong drug, true first love is really only interesting to those who have become its prisoners.
