After people have gone, you forget their faults, and you recall the ideal more than the person.

With my partner beside me, I fear nothing, not even death.

I admired Stalkers style. He was incredibly fast using two small blades strapped to the backs of his hands. Slash slash slash. Fighting him you wouldn’t die of one great wound but instead bleed out slowly surprised to find yourself weak and dying after a thousand cuts.

I shake my head, but I can’t change this. I can only bear the scars, as I have always done, as I ever do.

You don’t know what it’s like to be alone until you’ve had someone inside your head.

My heart should be breaking, too, but there comes a point when you’re so inured to loss that you no longer feel the lash.

We find heroes, not on battlefields, but in hospitals that tend the injured. Sometimes I think it’s easier to fight than it is to heal.