Endless Roads

41/M 🔞 MDNI "The hour ends the day; the author ends his work."

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For a while it was love, then it was like love, then it was over.

— Stephen King, Nona

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"Your mind can be your best friend; it can keep you amused even when there's nothing to read, nothing to do. But it can turn on you when it's left with no input for too long. It can turn on you, which means that it turns on itself, savages itself, perhaps consumes itself in an unthinkable act of auto-cannibalism."

— Stephen King, The Jaunt

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"October is the time when men think mostly about far places and the roads which might get them there."

— Stephen King, Mrs. Todd's Shortcut

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Terror is the widening of perspective and perception.

— Stephen King, The Mist

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You know what talent is? The curse of expectation.

— Stephen King, The Mist

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The Day is Done

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is done, and the darkness

      Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward

      From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

      Gleam through the rain and the mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me

      That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,

      That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

      As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

      Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

      And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,

      Not from the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

      Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,

      Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life's endless toil and endeavor;

      And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

      Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

      Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,

      And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music

      Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

      The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

      That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

      The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

      The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,

      And the cares, that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

      And as silently steal away.

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"Here will I dwell, for heaven be in these lips."

— Christopher Marlowe, Doctor Faustus

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Where did the steed go? Where the young warrior? Where the treasure-giver? Where the seats of fellowship? Where the hall’s festivity?

— Anonymous, The Wanderer

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“I know it’s not the darkest month, and I know it’s not the coldest or the snowiest month, but February is gray in a way I can’t explain.”

― John Langan, The Fisherman

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"He sometimes believed that the compulsion to make fiction was no more than a bulwark against confusion, maybe even insanity. It was a desperate imposition of order by people able to find that precious stuff only in their minds . . . never in their hearts."

— Stephen King, The Dark Half

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"Time's a reach, too, you know, just like the one that lies between the islands and the mainland, but the only ferry that can cross it is memory, and that's like a ghost-ship—if you want it to disappear, after awhile it will."

— Stephen King, Dolores Claiborne