walt and ray's friendship is something that can be so personal
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Ray looks up at all the constellations that light up the sky, and he thinks about the largeness of the universe, and how insignificant everyone is, in the grand scheme of things. That used to scare him when he was a kid, like nothing really mattered because they might as well be specks of dust in the cosmic order of things. But now Ray thinks, maybe it matters more, because of the huge unlikeliness of even existing in the first place. How many things had to go right in the chaos of all these different realms for him to end up right here, on this beach, with his fucked up arm and his best friend’s dog, on this beautiful, awful planet which keeps tearing itself apart?
Time heals almost all wounds. Ray has time, plus a pink plaster cast on his arm.
Or: Ray Person's spectacular Californian winter living on Walt Hasser's futon.