You're no messiah. You're a movie of the week. You're a fucking t-shirt, at best.
Detective. Detective. DETECTIVE! You're looking for me.
On the day of my judgment, when I stand before God, and He asks me why did I kill one of his true miracles, what am I gonna say? That it was my job? My job?
This guy's methodical, exacting, and worst of all, patient.
I'm tired, boss. Tired of bein' on the road, lonely as a sparrow in the rain. Tired of not ever having me a buddy to be with, or tell me where we's coming from or going to, or why. Mostly I'm tired of people being ugly to each other. I'm tired of all the pain I feel and hear in the world everyday.
Ernest Hemingway once wrote, "The world is a fine place and worth fighting for." I agree with the second part.
What’s in the box? What’s in the fucking box?
People hurt the ones they love. That's how it is all around the world.
Wanting people to listen, you can't just tap them on the shoulder anymore. You have to hit them with a sledgehammer, and then you'll notice you've got their strict attention.