Dying isn’t like living; it requires no effort at all.

I never belonged anywhere until I met you.

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.

He is not the same person as when we met, but . . . neither am I. Time has refined us, but instead of pushing us apart, we’re closer than ever.

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

We're broken in complementary ways, thus rendering our damage comprehensible to each other.

Here in the enclave, one didn't prosper by demonstrating too much independent thought.