Sometimes when he was in the city he would sleep in a bay and wake in the night and go out and look at the stars and there were so many, and he knew they were there before him, and they would be there after him. That was sort of awful and sort of wonderful.
Sometimes when he was running, the wind would blow around him and flap his pants and he would grieve for something that was lost, like that French or Room 7. Sometimes he would look at the sky in the spring and see a bird, and it might make him happy, but just as often it felt like something inside him was getting small and ready to break.
It’s bad to feel like that, he would think, and if I do, I shouldn’t be watching no birds. But sometimes he would look up at the sky anyway.
Richard Bachman