When the entire world is built on death and horror, when existence is a constant state of panic, it's hard to get worked up about any one thing. Specific fears have become irrelevant. We've replace them with a smothering blanket far worse.

Is this muteness a real physical handicap? One of the many symptoms of being Dead?Or do we just have nothing left to say?

We are where we are, however we got here. What matters is where we go next.

Even in my bravest moment, I am a coward.

I wonder how well she sleeps at night, and what kind of dreams she has. I wish I could step into them like she steps into mine.

I want life and in all its stupid sticky rawness.

Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting?