You take six decks of cards, build a base with them, stack them in delicate intricate spirals, up and up with striating miasmas in defiance of gravity, from a two of clubs to the king and queen of hearts, until a construct taller than you are takes marvelous shape. Then some guy walks in, a drunk, says "make a wish" and blows his stinking breath on it like it's a birthday cake.
Stephen King's builder was unhappy of course, yet I couldn't help but think about the path of life itself, the way setbacks shape the shelf.