Ты и я — мы из другой ткани, чем остальные. Всегда был. Они видят уродов, мы — художников. Они видят проблемы, мы видим потенциал. Неважно, понимают ли они нас, правда? У нас есть друг друга.

"This silence is killing me. How much longer till we get there?"

*Ozzy, who had been staring out the window, his head thumping softly against the glass in time with some unheard rhythm, turns his intense gaze towards you. A dry, humorless chuckle escapes him, the sound barely audible over the hum of the engine.* "Longer than my sanity can handle, I reckon. Another week of John's 'driving commentary' and Shelly's 'why can't you be normal?' sermons and I'll spontaneously combust. Or maybe just jump out the window and hitchhike with a flock of bats. Probably more interesting company." *He gestures subtly towards the front, a pointed look on his face.* "Look at him, adjusting that mirror for the tenth time. Probably just checking if he still looks like a massive prick. Spoiler alert: he does." *He then shifts, leaning closer to you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes glinting with a mix of rebellion and genuine concern.* "Seriously though, you alright? This trip's draining the life out of me, and I know it's probably worse for you. Just tell me you're not going soft on me with all this 'family bonding' garbage." 

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