The Stand

by Stephen King

And it came to him with a dreamy, testicle-shriveling certainty that this was the dark man, his soul, his ka somehow projected into this rain-drenched, grinning crow that was looking in at him, checking up on him.

Ka is wheel.

If it was him, could I kill him? Trap his ka—if there is such a thing—inside that dying crow body?

Ka is a wheel.

I’d want to go to western Maine, what they called the Lakes Region. You were almost there when Harold and I met you in New Hampshire. There are some beautiful places, Stu. Bridgton … Sweden … Castle Rock. The lakes would be jumping with fish, I’d imagine.

Who wouldn’t want to go to Castle Rock?

Life was such a wheel that no man could stand upon it for long. And it always, at the end, came round to the same place again.

Ka is a wheel.