It was the tower. The Dark Tower. It stood on the horizon of a vast plain the color of blood in the violent setting of a dying sun. He couldn't see the stairs which spiraled up and up and up within its brick shell, but he could see the windows which spiraled up along that staircase's way, and saw the ghosts of all the people he had ever known pass through them. Up and up they marched, and an arid wind brought him the sound of voices calling his name. Roland . . . Come . . . Roland . . . come . . . come . . . come . . .come . .

In a book, all would have gone according to plan.... but life was so fucking untidy - what could you say for an existence where some of your most crucial conve…

'No matter what.' Eddie looked at him with love and hate and all the aching dearness of one man's dying hopeless helpless reach for another man's mind and will…

The reason authors almost always put a dedication on a book, Annie, is because their selfishness even horrifies themselves in the end.

The Spirit does not accept volunteers.

'Andabamos sin buscarnos pero sabiendo que andabamos para encontrarnos.'

Chorus: O suitably attired in leather boots Head of a traveller, wherefore seeking whom Whence by what way how purposed art thou come To this well-nightingaled…