Stephen King: The Long Walk

The dead are orphans. No company but the silence like a moth`s wing.

There`s a surfeit even of death.

Memories were like a line drawn in the dirt. The further back you went the scuffier and harder to see that line got. Until finally there was nothing but smooth sand and the black hole of nothingness that you came out of.

In the words of the great rock and roll poet, I gave her my heart, she tore it apart, and who gives a fart.