First of all: I am tired. I am true of heart! And also:You are tired.You are true of heart!

Matter of fact, the first three or four chapters are all some of you might want to bother with. That gets you to page 123 or so, which is a nice length, a nice novella sort of length.

‘Listen John—’ ‘Who’s John?’ ‘You’re John.’ ‘I’m John?’ ‘Yeah, I changed your name.’

I am sorry Chris is late this morning. I could make something up about an appointment or a sickness, but the fact is that we woke up late. Go figure Best, Brother of Toph.

Ooh, look at me, I’m Dave, I’m writing a book! With all my thoughts in it. La la la!

. . . I’ll raise my arms and give you my chest and throat and wait, and I’ve been so old for so long for you, for you, I want it fast and right through me— Oh do it, do it you motherfuckers do it you fuckers finally, finally, finally.

We cannot fathom why people would stand across the street, easily a hundred feet away, when they could be so close, near us. ‘Suckers.’ I tell Toph, thumbing toward those watching from so far away. It is important, I feel, that the boy knows what suckers look like.”

Toph does not know the words, and I know few of the words, but you cannot fucking stop us from singing

— Mr. Churchill you were given a mission. — Yes — I want to have been given your mission. I want your place in world events, the centrality of it. You were born in the cradle of a catapult! — You are wrong. I found my mission. — I disagree. — If you must. — Tell me: where is my mission? Where are my bunkers and trenches, my goddamn Gallipoli?