The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want for nothing. He makes me lie down in the green pastures. He greases up my head with oil. He gives me kung-f… - Stephen King

"Terry," Ralph said. He could see drops of sweat from his forehead falling onto Terry's face, where they mixed with the blood from the head wound. "Terry, you're going to die. Do you understand me? He got you, and he got you good. "You are going to die". "No!" Marcy shrieked. No, he can't! The girls need their daddy! He can't!" She was trying to get to him, and this time it was Alec Pelley- pale and grave- who held her back. Howie had gotten to his knees, but he did not attempt to interfere again, either. "Where... get me?" "Your chest, Terry. He got you in the heart, or just above it. You need to make a dying declaration, okay? You need to tell me you killed Frank Peterson. This is your chance to clear your conscience." Terry smiled, and a thin trickle of blood spilled from either side of his mouth. "But I didn't," he said. His voice was low, little more than a whisper, but perfectly audible. "I didn't, so tell me, Ralph... how are you going to clear yours?"

Come to the book as you would come to an unexplored land. Come without a map. Explore it and draw your own map.

I think that part of being a parent is trying to kill your kids...Because as soon as you have a kid, you know for sure that you're going to die. When you have a kid, you see your own gravestone.