Thomas Wake: "Look at ye, handsome lad, with eyes bright as a lady. Come to this rock playin’ the tough, ye make me laugh with yer false grum. Ye pretended to some mystery in yer quietudes, but there ain’t no mystery, yer an open book. A picture, says I. A painted actress screaming in the footlights, a bitch what wants to be coveted for nothin’ but being born, cryin’ bout the silver spoon what should’ve been yers. Now look at ye cryin’."

Ephraim Winslow: Okay, boomer.

Inter-generational conflict, writ wet.