The fire threw strange shadows as the devil-grass burned its slow way down into new patterns – not ideograms but a straightforward crisscross vaguely frightening in its own no-nonsense surety. He had laid his fuel in a pattern that was not artful but only workable. It spoke of blacks and whites. It spoke of a man who might straighten bad pictures in strange hotel rooms. The fire burned its steady, slow flame, and phantoms danced in its incandescent core.
“
| — | Stephen King. “The Dark Tower I: The Gunslinger”. (via fuckyeah-unclesteve) |
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