I suppose that’s an inevitable part of human existence, but in the bosom of a close family it can, at least, be endured. For the homeless, there is no relief. Without family or friends there’s only the pain.

But you know how it is with fathers and sons. We can’t say what we want to say. We think a nod is a paragraph and a sentence is a book, and, in the end, all that’s important is left unspoken.

Only solitude means never having to say you’re sorry.

Crime doesn’t take a holiday. It changes costume for the season, and Christmas is the season for domestic violence. Too much pressure to deliver the perfect gift, and not enough money. Too little to say, and too much alcohol encouraging confessions. Never enough love or imagination to deliver the dream.