Thomas Kinkade Boston painting

Thomas Kinkade Boston paintingPeter Paul Rubens Rape of the Daughters of Leucippus painting
Try this one,” said Jack, “and I’ll say it just one time. Tell you what, we could a had a good life together, a f*ckin real . You wouldn’t do it, Ennis, so what we got now is Brokeback Mountain. Everthing built on that. It’s all we got, boy, f*ckin all, so I hope you know that if you don’t never know the rest. Count the damn few times we been together in twenty years. Measure the f*ckin short leash you keep me on, then ask me about Mexico and then tell me you’ll kill me for needin it and not hardly never gettin it. You got no f*ckin idea how bad it gets. I’m not you. I can’t make it on a couple a high-altitude f*cks once or twice a year. You’re too much for me, Ennis, you son of a whoreson bitch. I wish I knew how to quit you.” Like vast clouds of steam from thermal springs in winter the years of things unsaid and now unsayable—admissions, declarations, shames, guilts, fears—rose around them. Ennis stood as if heartshot, face grey and deep-lined, grimacing, eyes screwed shut, fists clenched, legs caving, hit the ground on his knees. “Jesus,”