The sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular.
In his dream she was sick and he cared for her. The dream bore the look of sacrifice but he thought differently. He did not take care of her and she died alone somewhere in the dark and there is no other dream nor other waking world and there is no other tale to tell.
That evening he passed through a children’s cemetery set in a bench of a hillside and forlorn save by weeds.
– Suttree - Cormac McCarthy
The desert upon which so many have been broken is vast and calls for largeness of heart but it is also ultimately empty.