The fire had burned to coals and he lay looking up at the stars in their places and the hot belt of matter that ran the chord of the dark vault overhead and he put his hands on the ground at either side of him and pressed them against the earth and in that old burning canopy of black he slowly turned dead center to the world, all of it taut and trembling and moving enormous and alive under his hands.

- Cormac McCarthy, All the 

    Pretty Horses


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