Wisps and flashes of uncolored cloud flashed past the window. Above and below were a different story, but there was always something disappointing about clouds when you were inside them; they ceased to be clouds at all. It just got really foggy.
Helplessly enlightening. Damn funny. Very heartbreaking. So unfinished.
The Pale King is a rare, endangered-species kind of novel. Written around these unusual themes, about these strange but familiar people; THIS kind of extraordinary literature. Packed full with nobodies, whose future go nowhere, in constant ramble about some confusing and uninteresting subjects: accounting, taxes, and their lives.
Rest in peace, David.