but it's our land. We measured it and broke it up. We were born on it, and we got killed on it, died on it. Even if it's no good, it's still ours. That's what makes it ours- being born on it, working it, dying on it. That makes ownership, not a paper with numbers on it.

Each of us needs something - food, liquor, pot, whatever - to help us survive. Dracula needs blood.

Any cunt withoot the virus could git run ower the morn. That’s the wey ye huv tae look at it. Cannae jist cancel the gig. The show must go oan.

A woman, no matter the age, is always learning, always becoming. But a man . . . stops learning at fourteen or so.

Written By Edward P. Jones

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