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[The line wavers: for that first second, he's absolutely going to hit him, and keep hitting until someone stops him or he can't hit any more. But then, just as quickly, the rage is gone, or at least turned elsewhere, and his arms are just skinny arms again, and he's just a guy standing on the ceiling who doesn't know how to take the view.
He cries more than most guys do, he knows, and it's something he's sometimes embarrassed about, but he can't even muster up the shame this time. He's not Hoffman: he's not going to kill anyone else. And he's not Jesse Pinkman anymore, not really; not the guy who would have bought every gram of crystal meth and heroin he could find and drugged himself to death -- who tried that a year ago. He's not crazy enough to laugh about it, so all he can do is cry, in huge, soul-wrenching sobs, his legs sagging under him.]
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