The ones you call skeet live deeper, more passionate lives than you think. Their wrecked, weekend-tweaked binge stretches into Tuesday and nobody tells a story like they do on Wednesday, cheque day, a day of impossible dreams made real again. And before you know it another hot minute expands out into the cheap air of some pizza shop or corner store, and another break up and curse words and sirens and rap lyrics on young flesh and beatings, jumpings, crying, broken bones. Angry actors replaying the speech for the thirtieth time that day.

I believe anyone who learns to be their own, however borrowed, absorbed, caught or struggling in the flux of, persona, is a human worth considering and respecting.