Yer a good lad, Atticus, mowin’ me lawn and killin’ what Brits come around.

When he said to give him the sword, I don’t think he meant for you to stick it in his guts.

The mourning of a loved one never ends with a funeral. It comes back every so often, like a stage performer eager for a curtain call and expects you to be loud about it.

...I gave it all the lung capacity I had.

But in doing so—moving forward, in Greta’s mind—he’s still dealing with the past. It’s always strung out behind us, innit, attached to our arses like a roll of toilet paper we trail out of the bathroom, pointing the way to the giant shite we just took. It doesn’t matter if we flushed it down: Everyone still knows what we did there.

I yawned and stretched luxuriously in the morning. I make noises when I stretch because it feels ten times better than stretching silently.

[I don't get it. You guys look down on chimps for flinging their own poo but you think it's fine to fling other kinds of poo around? I mean, you get opposable thumbs and this is what you do with them?]