It

Your hair is winter fire,
January embers.
My heart burns there, too.[14]

No tenía amigos, pero sí libros y sueños; tenía sus modelos de automóviles, y un gigantesco equipo de piezas con el que construía todo tipo de cosas.

“Got to give you a whuppin,” he said. “sorry about that, babe.”
He had seen that mixture of fear and aggressiveness before, yes. Now for the first time ever it flashed out at him.
“Put that thing down,” she said. “I have to get out to O’Hare as fast as I can.”
Are you here, Tom? Are you?
He pushed the thought away. The strip of leather which had once been a belt

A veces no sé qué voy a hacer.
La tristeza de verano no tiene cura.

—Flotan —dijo—. Aquí abajo todos flotamos. Muy pronto, tu amigo también flotará.

—Se parece mucho a una ramera muerta con el culo lleno de gusanos —dijo Don Hagarty.

You see, politics always change. Stories never do.

You see, politics always change. Stories never do.

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“Who was it, Don?” Harold Gardener asked softly.

“It was Derry,”