There's something about seeing another person cry that destroys me.
Somehow, I believe that everyone is better equipped to deal with things than I am. If they're upset enough that it breaks out, then the world is well and truly ending.
I can't fix it either, even though I want to very much. Naught I can do.

I watched American History X twice in the past few days. It is magnificent and it is killing me.

There's one scene where the main character is tucking in his little sister and something about his hands kind of stabbed me. He had killed two guys earlier, and then, while he was pulling up the blanket around this kid, I saw how good and comforting his hands looked. How does that much love and that much hate fit inside the same person?

"Everybody has at least two, if not twenty-two, sides to him."

Robertson Davies would cheer me up, if I had him here. Pierre will make me sad again, but a different kind.
Good enough.

Growing up some more.