Her long narrow eyes darkened with whatever it was they were beginning to see.

He was wearing an old black and red lumber-jacket and old grey corduroy pants. His heavy shoes were scuffed; and he smelled of fatigue.

‘Man, I know what you’re saying. And I appreciate it. But you don’t know – the worst thing, man, the worst thing – is that they can make you so fucking scared. Scared, man. Scared.’

It is absolutely hideous, so loud, so blatant, so impervious and cruel, that facing it causes mere vulgarity to seem an irrecoverable state of grace.

She is confronting the age of sorrow. She is confronting torment.