I think Stephen King should be read in the form of verse, see for example „The Stand“, beginning of chapter forty-six:

It was late evening,
July
twenty-seven.
They were camped on what the sign,
now half-
demolished by summer storms,
proclaimed to be
the Kunkle Fairgrounds.

Kunkle itself,
Kunkle, Ohio was south of them.
There had been some sort
of fire there, and
most of Kunkle was gone.

Stu said it had
probably been lightning.
Harold had of course disputed that.

These days if Stu Red-
man said a firetruck was red, Harold
Lauder would produce facts
and figures proving that
most of them these days
were green.

She sighed and
rolled over. Couldn’t sleep.
She was afraid
of the dream.

To her left
the five motorcycles
stood in a row. Heeled over
on their kickstands, moonlight twinkling
along their chromed exhaust pipes
and fittings. As if

a band of Hells Angels
had picked this particular spot
to crash for the night.

Not that the Angels
ever would have ridden such
a pussycat bunch of bikes as
those Hondas
and Yamahas, she supposed.

They had driven ‚hogs‘ …
or was that just something she
had picked up from the old American-
International bike epics
she’s seen on TV.

The wild Angles.
The devil’s Angles.
Hell’s Angels on Wheels.
The bike pictures

had been very big
when she had been in high school,
Wells Drive-In,
Sandford Drive-In,
South-Portland Twin,

you pays your money and
you takes your choice. Now kaput,

all the drive-ins were kaput, not
to mention the Hell’s Angles
and good old American-
International Pictures.

Put it in your diary,
Frannie, she
told herself and rolled over
on her other side.
Not tonight. Tonight
she was going to sleep, dreams,
or no dreams. twenty paces
from where she was lying,

she could see the others zonked out
in their sleeping bags like Hell’s
Angels after a big beer party, the one
where everybody in the picture got laid except for Peter Fonda and
Nancy Sinatra. Harold, Stu,
Glen Bateman, Mark Braddock,
Perion McCarthy. Take Sominex
tonight and sleep …

Reclined laterally,
left, she rests,
with right and left legs flexed,
the index finger and
thumb of the right hand resting
on the bridge of the nose. She rests,
she has travelled with Sinbad the Sailor
and Tinbad the Tailor
and Jinbad the Jailer
and Whinbad the Whaler
and Ninbad the Nailer
and Finbad the Failer
and Binbad the Bailer
and Pinbad the Pailer
and Minbad the Mailer
and Hinbad the Hailer
and Rinbad the Railer
and Dinbad the Kailer
and Vinbad the Quailer
and Linbad the Yailer
and Xinbad the Phthailer.
Going to dark dream there was
a square round Sinbad the Sailor roc’s
auk’s egg in the night of the bed of
all the auks of the rocs of
Darkinbad the Brightdayler.

Okok, I took the last verse from Joyce’s famous end of Ulysses‘ Ithaca chapter, couldn’t resist, sorry.