You say true, I say thankya.

What do you really want to know? Am I sorry for what I did? There's not a day goes by I don't feel regret. Not because I'm in here, but because you think I should be. I look back on the way I was. A young, stupid kid that committed that terrible crime. I want to talk to him. I want to try to talk some sense to him. Tell him the way things are. But I can't. That kid's long gone, and this old man is all that's left.

The poets continually and sometimes wilfully mistake love. Love is the old slaughterer.

And will I tell you that these three lived happily ever after? I will not, for no one ever does. But there was happiness. And they did live.

But who can foresee such things? None of us can predict the final outcomes of our actions, and few of us even try; most of us just do what we do to prolong a moment's pleasure or to stop the pain. And even when we act for the noblest reasons, the last link of the chain all too often drips with someone's blood.

Absence may or may not make the heart grow fonder, but it certainly freshens the eye.

We are going to fight. We are going to be hurt. And in the end, we will stand.