It is hard to find a friend,' I said. 'It is the hardest thing in this world,' he agreed.

I lay in the dark thinking about the difficulties of family, how crazy and crooked the stories of a bloodline can be.

...but I could not sleep without proper covering and spent the rest of the night rewriting lost arguments from my past, altering history so that I emerged victorious.

Returning his pen to its holder, he told us, 'I will have him gutted with that scythe. I will hang him by his own intestines.' At this piece of dramatic exposition, I could not hep but roll my eyes. A length of intestines would not carry the weight of a child, much less a full grown man.

It is hard to find a friend,' I said. 'It is the hardest thing in this world,' he agreed.

He only wished to fight and cultivate an anger toward me, thus alleviating his guilt, but I would not abet him in this.

Most people are chained to their own fear and stupidity and haven’t the sense to level a cold eye at just what is wrong with their lives. Most people will continue on, dissatisfied but never attempting to understand why, or how they might change things for the better, and they die with nothing in their hearts but dirt and old, thin blood - weak blood, diluted - and their memories aren’t worth a goddamned thing.