All this time we spend telling stories about, and hoping to be, heroes, and it’s easy to lose sight of how powerful we are just being alive. How the bravest are not always knights, how often they don’t know who they are.

How sometimes, they’re an unemployed father with more testosterone than paternal instincts, or an intoxicated girl in a club teasing men for validation. They’re Ali and Stéphanie, and they’re not perfect. Sometimes, they're not even good. Sometimes, Ali…

I can't get it out of my head.

Since I've seen it last Friday I have given a dozen of my friends thirty-minute gushfest - the best being the very late, boozy ones - about The Master, much to their dismay, and have gotten violent when reading newspapers that dared criticize even the slightest aspect of the film (overacting? overreliance on the (mindblowing) score? I don't think so.). I doubt anything I could write now would be worth much or…