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.

Smells of dirt and wet and long-gone vegetables would merge into one unmistakable ineluctable smell, the smell of the monster, the apotheosis of all monsters. It was the smell of something for which he had no name: the smell of It, crouched and lurking and ready to spring.

Bill was good at seeing.

In Derry such forgetting of tragedy and disaster was almost an art

Kids, fiction is the truth inside the lie, and the truth of this fiction is simple enough: the magic exists.