1922

by Stephen King

And is there Hell, or do we make our own on earth?

You might understand that all the joy has gone out of the world for you, that what you did has put all you hoped to gain out of your reach, you might wish you were the one who was dead—but you go on. You realize that you are in a hell of your own making, but you go on nevertheless. Because there is nothing else to do.

In the end we are all caught in devices of our own making. I believe that. In the end we are all caught.