Here's a little tip for you. If you don't like being called a murderer, don't kill people.

You don't have to like your family, you don't even have to spend time with them, to know them right down to the bone.

What I am telling you, before you begin my story, is this -- two things: I crave truth. And I lie.

That kind of friendship doesn't just materialize at the end of the rainbow one morning in a soft-focus Hollywood haze. For it to last this long, and at such close quarters, some serious work had gone into it. Ask any ice-skater or ballet dancer or show jumper, anyone who lives by beautiful moving things: nothing takes as much work as effortlessness.

Time works so hard for us, if only we can let it.

Over time, the ghosts of things that happened start to turn distant; once they've cut you a couple of million times, their edges blunt on your scar tissue, they wear thin. The ones that slice like razors forever are the ghosts of things that never got the chance to happen.

Here's a little tip for you. If you don't like being called a murderer, don't kill people.