Must stop. This ink is amazing, it really doesn't smear, even when you cry on it

But a part of me lies buried in lace and roses on a riverbank in France-a part of me is broken off forever. A part of me will be unflyable, stuck in the climb.

It is so hard trying to say what you mean.

He just put his hand through the bulkhead, exactly as she'd done, and squeezed my shoulder. He has very strong fingers. And he kept his hand there the whole way home, even when he was reading the map and giving me headings. So I am not flying alone now after all.

But I have told the truth. Isn't that ironic? They sent me because I am so good at telling lies. But I have told the truth.

I think as readers we put ourselves in the protagonist's place because we want to be like that person. That's why sometimes we don't like protagonists who aren't all that nice; we want to relate to the protagonist.

Please come back soon. The window is always open.