"My darling," he said, "I think we've lost our way. Take my hand, you're getting cold."
"I'm drunk and you're sad. Who's going to lead us home?"

The bottles been polished clean and his lips are still shaking. He said he likes to forget but can't, it hurts too much, and he has to sleep with the radio on. Daddy taught him how to shoot, showed him *******.

"I don't like death," he'd say, walking past the cemetery. "Why must we be so morbid?"
"Death validates life," I'd say, "And morbidity justifies the bruises on your bones."

He sighs."My dear, I fear you may have forgotten, we don't have a home."