Everyone Sees Different Things.

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 Normally Can't Stand Vice-free People. They Conflate A Narcissistic Instinct For Self-preservation With Moral Superiority. Plus, They Suck The Life Right Out Of A Party.

The Brain Controls Pain. It Controls Fear. Sleep. Empathy. Hunger. Everything We Associate With The Heart Or The Soul Or The Nervous System Is Actually Controlled By The Brain. Everything. What If You Could Control It?

The World Does Not Have Tidy Endings. The World Does Not Have Neat Connections. It Is Not Filled With Epiphanies That Work Perfectly At The Moment That You Need Them.

Chuck Said, “hey. How Many Surrealists Does It Take To Screw In A Lightbulb?” Cawley Looked Over At Him. “i’ll Bite. How Many?” “fish,” Chuck Said And Let Loose A Bright Bark Of A Laugh.