Or In Other Words, It's

Asking Me To Describe My Son Is Like Asking Me To Hold The Ocean In A Paper Cup

Nobody Wants To Admit To This, But Bad Things Will Keep On Happening. Maybe That's Beause It's All A Chain, And A Long Time Ago Someone Did The First Bad Thing, And That Led Someone Else To Do Another Bad Thing, And So On. You Know, Like That Game Where You Whisper A Sentence Into Someone's Ear, And That Person Whispers It To Someone Else, And It All Comes Out Wrong In The End. But Then Again, Maybe Bad Things Happen Because It's The Only Way We Can Keep Remembering What Good Is Supposed To Look Like.

Sometimes I Think There's A Beast That Lives Inside Me, In The Cavern That's Where My Heart Should Be, And Every Now And Then It Fills Every Last Inch Of My Skin, So That I Can't Help But Do Something Inappropriate. Its Breath Is Full Of Lies; It Smells Of Spite.

The Lord Turned Water Into Wine. All I'm Suggesting Is A Trip To The Grocery Store.

He Began To Trace A Pattern On The Table With The Nail Of His Thumb. "she Kept Saying She Wanted To Keep Things Exactly The Way They Were, And That She Wished She Could Stop Everything From Changing. She Got Really Nervous, Like, Talking About The Future. She Once Told Me That She Could See Herself Now, And She Could Also See The Kind Of Life She Wanted To Have - Kids, Husband, Suburbs, You Know - But She Couldn't Figure Out How To Get From Point A To Point B.