The Ornament Of Beauty, Shakespeare Wrote, Is

Patrick Kenzie Asking A Bemused Waitress For A Newspaper In Smalltown Usa. 'it's Like A Homepage Without A Scroll Button?'

It Had Occurred To Sean Once - On A Bender About Ten Years Before With Some Buddies, Sean And A Bloodstream Full Of Bourbon Turning Philosophical - That Maybe They Had Gotten In That Car. All Three Of Them. And What They Now Thought Of As Their Life Was Just A Dream State. That All Three Of Them Were, In Reality, Still Eleven-year-old Boys Trapped In Some Cellar, Imagining What They'd Become If They Ever Escaped And Grew Up.

And Often The Worst Thing Wasn't The Victims--they Were Dead, After All, And Beyond Any More Pain. The Worst Thing Was Those Who Loved Them And Survived Them. Often The Walking Dead From Now On, Shell-shocked, Hearts Ruptured, Stumbling Through The Remainder Of Their Lives Without Anything Left Inside Of Them But Blood And Organs, Impervious To Pain, Having Learned Nothing Except That The Worst Things Did, In Fact, Sometimes Happen. (mystic River)

I Love To Write, So It Rarely Seems Like Work - Even When It Gets Arduous.

Your First Family Is Your Blood Family And You Always Be True To That. That Means Something. But There's Another Family And That's The Kind You Go Out And Find. Maybe Even By Accident Sometimes. And They're As Much Blood As Your First Family. Maybe More So, Because They Don't Have To Look Out For You And They Don't Have To Love You. They Choose To.